The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

I. Silver Blaze

I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go,” said Holmes, as we

sat down together to our breakfast one morning.

“Go! Where to?”

“To Dartmoor; to King’s Pyland.”

I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not

already been mixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the

one topic of conversation through the length and breadth of

England. For a whole day my companion had rambled about the room

with his chin upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and

recharging his pipe with the strongest black tobacco, and

absolutely deaf to any of my questions or remarks. Fresh editions

of every paper had been sent up by our news agent, only to be

glanced over and tossed down into a corner. Yet, silent as he

was, I knew perfectly well what it was over which he was

brooding. There was but one problem before the public which could

challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the singular

disappearance of the favourite for the Wessex Cup, and the tragic

murder of its trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly announced his

intention of setting out for the scene of the drama it was only

what I had both expected and hoped for.

“I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in

the way,” said I.

“My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by

coming. And I think that your time will not be misspent, for

there are points about the case which promise to make it an

absolutely unique one. We have, I think, just time to catch our

train at Paddington, and I will go further into the matter upon

our journey. You would oblige me by bringing with you your very

excellent field-glass.”

And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the

corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for

Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed

in his ear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle

of fresh papers which he had procured at Paddington. We had left

Reading far behind us before he thrust the last one of them under

the seat, and offered me his cigar-case.

“We are going well,” said he, looking out the window and glancing

at his watch. “Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half

miles an hour.”

“I have not observed the quarter-mile posts,” said I.

“Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty

yards apart, and the calculation is a simple one. I presume that

you have looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker

and the disappearance of Silver Blaze?”

“I have seen what the _Telegraph_ and the _Chronicle_ have to

say.”

“It is one of those cases where the art of the reasoner should be

used rather for the sifting of details than for the acquiring of

fresh evidence. The tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and

of such personal importance to so many people, that we are

suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis.

The difficulty is to detach the framework of fact—of absolute

undeniable fact—from the embellishments of theorists and

reporters. Then, having established ourselves upon this sound

basis, it is our duty to see what inferences may be drawn and

what are the special points upon which the whole mystery turns.

On Tuesday evening I received telegrams from both Colonel Ross,

the owner of the horse, and from Inspector Gregory, who is

looking after the case, inviting my co-operation.”

“Tuesday evening!” I exclaimed. “And this is Thursday morning.

Why didn’t you go down yesterday?”

“Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson—which is, I am afraid,

a more common occurrence than any one would think who only knew

me through your memoirs. The fact is that I could not believe it

possible that the most remarkable horse in England could long

remain concealed, especially in so sparsely inhabited a place as

the north of Dartmoor. From hour to hour yesterday I expected to

hear that he had been found, and that his abductor was the

murderer of John Straker. When, however, another morning had

come, and I found that beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson

nothing had been done, I felt that it was time for me to take

action. Yet in some ways I feel that yesterday has not been

wasted.”

“You have formed a theory, then?”

“At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case. I

shall enumerate them to you, for nothing clears up a case so much

as stating it to another person, and I can hardly expect your

co-operation if I do not show you the position from which we

start.”

I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while

Holmes, leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking

off the points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch

of the events which had led to our journey.

“Silver Blaze,” said he, “is from the Isonomy stock, and holds as

brilliant a record as his famous ancestor. He is now in his fifth

year, and has brought in turn each of the prizes of the turf to

Colonel Ross, his fortunate owner. Up to the time of the

catastrophe he was the first favourite for the Wessex Cup, the

betting being three to one on him. He has always, however, been a

prime favourite with the racing public, and has never yet

disappointed them, so that even at those odds enormous sums of

money have been laid upon him. It is obvious, therefore, that

there were many people who had the strongest interest in

preventing Silver Blaze from being there at the fall of the flag

next Tuesday.

“The fact was, of course, appreciated at King’s Pyland, where the

Colonel’s training-stable is situated. Every precaution was taken

to guard the favourite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired

jockey who rode in Colonel Ross’s colours before he became too

heavy for the weighing-chair. He has served the Colonel for five

years as jockey and for seven as trainer, and has always shown

himself to be a zealous and honest servant. Under him were three

lads; for the establishment was a small one, containing only four

horses in all. One of these lads sat up each night in the stable,

while the others slept in the loft. All three bore excellent

characters. John Straker, who is a married man, lived in a small

villa about two hundred yards from the stables. He has no

children, keeps one maid-servant, and is comfortably off. The

country round is very lonely, but about half a mile to the north

there is a small cluster of villas which have been built by a

Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and others who may

wish to enjoy the pure Dartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies two

miles to the west, while across the moor, also about two miles

distant, is the larger training establishment of Mapleton, which

belongs to Lord Backwater, and is managed by Silas Brown. In

every other direction the moor is a complete wilderness,

inhabited only by a few roaming gypsies. Such was the general

situation last Monday night when the catastrophe occurred.

“On that evening the horses had been exercised and watered as

usual, and the stables were locked up at nine o’clock. Two of the

lads walked up to the trainer’s house, where they had supper in

the kitchen, while the third, Ned Hunter, remained on guard. At a

few minutes after nine the maid, Edith Baxter, carried down to

the stables his supper, which consisted of a dish of curried

mutton. She took no liquid, as there was a water-tap in the

stables, and it was the rule that the lad on duty should drink

nothing else. The maid carried a lantern with her, as it was very

dark and the path ran across the open moor.

“Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables, when a man

appeared out of the darkness and called to her to stop. As he

stepped into the circle of yellow light thrown by the lantern she

saw that he was a person of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a

grey suit of tweeds, with a cloth cap. He wore gaiters, and

carried a heavy stick with a knob to it. She was most impressed,

however, by the extreme pallor of his face and by the nervousness

of his manner. His age, she thought, would be rather over thirty

than under it.

“‘Can you tell me where I am?’ he asked. ‘I had almost made up my

mind to sleep on the moor, when I saw the light of your lantern.’

“‘You are close to the King’s Pyland training-stables,’ said she.

“‘Oh, indeed! What a stroke of luck!’ he cried. ‘I understand

that a stable-boy sleeps there alone every night. Perhaps that is

his supper which you are carrying to him. Now I am sure that you

would not be too proud to earn the price of a new dress, would

you?’ He took a piece of white paper folded up out of his

waistcoat pocket. ‘See that the boy has this to-night, and you

shall have the prettiest frock that money can buy.’

“She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner, and ran

past him to the window through which she was accustomed to hand

the meals. It was already opened, and Hunter was seated at the

small table inside. She had begun to tell him of what had

happened, when the stranger came up again.

“‘Good-evening,’ said he, looking through the window. ‘I wanted

to have a word with you.’ The girl has sworn that as he spoke she

noticed the corner of the little paper packet protruding from his

closed hand.

“‘What business have you here?’ asked the lad.

“‘It’s business that may put something into your pocket,’ said

the other. ‘You’ve two horses in for the Wessex Cup—Silver Blaze

and Bayard. Let me have the straight tip and you won’t be a

loser. Is it a fact that at the weights Bayard could give the

other a hundred yards in five furlongs, and that the stable have

put their money on him?’

“‘So, you’re one of those damned touts!’ cried the lad. ‘I’ll

show you how we serve them in King’s Pyland.’ He sprang up and

rushed across the stable to unloose the dog. The girl fled away

to the house, but as she ran she looked back and saw that the

stranger was leaning through the window. A minute later, however,

when Hunter rushed out with the hound he was gone, and though he

ran all round the buildings he failed to find any trace of him.”

“One moment,” I asked. “Did the stable-boy, when he ran out with

the dog, leave the door unlocked behind him?”

“Excellent, Watson, excellent!” murmured my companion. “The

importance of the point struck me so forcibly that I sent a

special wire to Dartmoor yesterday to clear the matter up. The

boy locked the door before he left it. The window, I may add, was

not large enough for a man to get through.

“Hunter waited until his fellow-grooms had returned, when he sent

a message to the trainer and told him what had occurred. Straker

was excited at hearing the account, although he does not seem to

have quite realized its true significance. It left him, however,

vaguely uneasy, and Mrs. Straker, waking at one in the morning,

found that he was dressing. In reply to her inquiries, he said

that he could not sleep on account of his anxiety about the

horses, and that he intended to walk down to the stables to see

that all was well. She begged him to remain at home, as she could

hear the rain pattering against the window, but in spite of her

entreaties he pulled on his large mackintosh and left the house.

“Mrs. Straker awoke at seven in the morning, to find that her

husband had not yet returned. She dressed herself hastily, called

the maid, and set off for the stables. The door was open; inside,

huddled together upon a chair, Hunter was sunk in a state of

absolute stupor, the favourite’s stall was empty, and there were

no signs of his trainer.

“The two lads who slept in the chaff-cutting loft above the

harness-room were quickly aroused. They had heard nothing during

the night, for they are both sound sleepers. Hunter was obviously

under the influence of some powerful drug, and as no sense could

be got out of him, he was left to sleep it off while the two lads

and the two women ran out in search of the absentees. They still

had hopes that the trainer had for some reason taken out the

horse for early exercise, but on ascending the knoll near the

house, from which all the neighbouring moors were visible, they

not only could see no signs of the missing favourite, but they

perceived something which warned them that they were in the

presence of a tragedy.

“About a quarter of a mile from the stables John Straker’s

overcoat was flapping from a furze-bush. Immediately beyond there

was a bowl-shaped depression in the moor, and at the bottom of

this was found the dead body of the unfortunate trainer. His head

had been shattered by a savage blow from some heavy weapon, and

he was wounded on the thigh, where there was a long, clean cut,

inflicted evidently by some very sharp instrument. It was clear,

however, that Straker had defended himself vigorously against his

assailants, for in his right hand he held a small knife, which

was clotted with blood up to the handle, while in his left he

clasped a red and black silk cravat, which was recognised by the

maid as having been worn on the preceding evening by the stranger

who had visited the stables.

“Hunter, on recovering from his stupor, was also quite positive

as to the ownership of the cravat. He was equally certain that

the same stranger had, while standing at the window, drugged his

curried mutton, and so deprived the stables of their watchman.

“As to the missing horse, there were abundant proofs in the mud

which lay at the bottom of the fatal hollow that he had been

there at the time of the struggle. But from that morning he has

disappeared, and although a large reward has been offered, and

all the gypsies of Dartmoor are on the alert, no news has come of

him. Finally, an analysis has shown that the remains of his

supper left by the stable-lad contain an appreciable quantity of

powdered opium, while the people at the house partook of the same

dish on the same night without any ill effect.

“Those are the main facts of the case, stripped of all surmise,

and stated as baldly as possible. I shall now recapitulate what

the police have done in the matter.

“Inspector Gregory, to whom the case has been committed, is an

extremely competent officer. Were he but gifted with imagination

he might rise to great heights in his profession. On his arrival

he promptly found and arrested the man upon whom suspicion

naturally rested. There was little difficulty in finding him, for

he inhabited one of those villas which I have mentioned. His

name, it appears, was Fitzroy Simpson. He was a man of excellent

birth and education, who had squandered a fortune upon the turf,

and who lived now by doing a little quiet and genteel book-making

in the sporting clubs of London. An examination of his

betting-book shows that bets to the amount of five thousand

pounds had been registered by him against the favourite.

“On being arrested he volunteered the statement that he had come

down to Dartmoor in the hope of getting some information about

the King’s Pyland horses, and also about Desborough, the second

favourite, which was in charge of Silas Brown at the Mapleton

stables. He did not attempt to deny that he had acted as

described upon the evening before, but declared that he had no

sinister designs, and had simply wished to obtain first-hand

information. When confronted with his cravat, he turned very

pale, and was utterly unable to account for its presence in the

hand of the murdered man. His wet clothing showed that he had

been out in the storm of the night before, and his stick, which

was a Penang-lawyer weighted with lead, was just such a weapon as

might, by repeated blows, have inflicted the terrible injuries to

which the trainer had succumbed.

“On the other hand, there was no wound upon his person, while the

state of Straker’s knife would show that one at least of his

assailants must bear his mark upon him. There you have it all in

a nutshell, Watson, and if you can give me any light I shall be

infinitely obliged to you.”

I had listened with the greatest interest to the statement which

Holmes, with characteristic clearness, had laid before me. Though

most of the facts were familiar to me, I had not sufficiently

appreciated their relative importance, nor their connection to

each other.

“Is it not possible,” I suggested, “that the incised wound upon

Straker may have been caused by his own knife in the convulsive

struggles which follow any brain injury?”

“It is more than possible; it is probable,” said Holmes. “In that

case one of the main points in favour of the accused disappears.”

“And yet,” said I, “even now I fail to understand what the theory

of the police can be.”

“I am afraid that whatever theory we state has very grave

objections to it,” returned my companion. “The police imagine, I

take it, that this Fitzroy Simpson, having drugged the lad, and

having in some way obtained a duplicate key, opened the stable

door and took out the horse, with the intention, apparently, of

kidnapping him altogether. His bridle is missing, so that Simpson

must have put this on. Then, having left the door open behind

him, he was leading the horse away over the moor, when he was

either met or overtaken by the trainer. A row naturally ensued.

Simpson beat out the trainer’s brains with his heavy stick

without receiving any injury from the small knife which Straker

used in self-defence, and then the thief either led the horse on

to some secret hiding-place, or else it may have bolted during

the struggle, and be now wandering out on the moors. That is the

case as it appears to the police, and improbable as it is, all

other explanations are more improbable still. However, I shall

very quickly test the matter when I am once upon the spot, and

until then I cannot really see how we can get much further than

our present position.”

It was evening before we reached the little town of Tavistock,

which lies, like the boss of a shield, in the middle of the huge

circle of Dartmoor. Two gentlemen were awaiting us in the

station—the one a tall, fair man with lion-like hair and beard

and curiously penetrating light blue eyes; the other a small,

alert person, very neat and dapper, in a frock-coat and gaiters,

with trim little side-whiskers and an eye-glass. The latter was

Colonel Ross, the well-known sportsman; the other, Inspector

Gregory, a man who was rapidly making his name in the English

detective service.

“I am delighted that you have come down, Mr. Holmes,” said the

Colonel. “The Inspector here has done all that could possibly be

suggested, but I wish to leave no stone unturned in trying to

avenge poor Straker and in recovering my horse.”

“Have there been any fresh developments?” asked Holmes.

“I am sorry to say that we have made very little progress,” said

the Inspector. “We have an open carriage outside, and as you

would no doubt like to see the place before the light fails, we

might talk it over as we drive.”

A minute later we were all seated in a comfortable landau, and

were rattling through the quaint old Devonshire city. Inspector

Gregory was full of his case, and poured out a stream of remarks,

while Holmes threw in an occasional question or interjection.

Colonel Ross leaned back with his arms folded and his hat tilted

over his eyes, while I listened with interest to the dialogue of

the two detectives. Gregory was formulating his theory, which was

almost exactly what Holmes had foretold in the train.

“The net is drawn pretty close round Fitzroy Simpson,” he

remarked, “and I believe myself that he is our man. At the same

time I recognise that the evidence is purely circumstantial, and

that some new development may upset it.”

“How about Straker’s knife?”

“We have quite come to the conclusion that he wounded himself in

his fall.”

“My friend Dr. Watson made that suggestion to me as we came down.

If so, it would tell against this man Simpson.”

“Undoubtedly. He has neither a knife nor any sign of a wound. The

evidence against him is certainly very strong. He had a great

interest in the disappearance of the favourite. He lies under

suspicion of having poisoned the stable-boy, he was undoubtedly

out in the storm, he was armed with a heavy stick, and his cravat

was found in the dead man’s hand. I really think we have enough

to go before a jury.”

Holmes shook his head. “A clever counsel would tear it all to

rags,” said he. “Why should he take the horse out of the stable?

If he wished to injure it why could he not do it there? Has a

duplicate key been found in his possession? What chemist sold him

the powdered opium? Above all, where could he, a stranger to the

district, hide a horse, and such a horse as this? What is his own

explanation as to the paper which he wished the maid to give to

the stable-boy?”

“He says that it was a ten-pound note. One was found in his

purse. But your other difficulties are not so formidable as they

seem. He is not a stranger to the district. He has twice lodged

at Tavistock in the summer. The opium was probably brought from

London. The key, having served its purpose, would be hurled away.

The horse may be at the bottom of one of the pits or old mines

upon the moor.”

“What does he say about the cravat?”

“He acknowledges that it is his, and declares that he had lost

it. But a new element has been introduced into the case which may

account for his leading the horse from the stable.”

Holmes pricked up his ears.

“We have found traces which show that a party of gypsies encamped

on Monday night within a mile of the spot where the murder took

place. On Tuesday they were gone. Now, presuming that there was

some understanding between Simpson and these gypsies, might he

not have been leading the horse to them when he was overtaken,

and may they not have him now?”

“It is certainly possible.”

“The moor is being scoured for these gypsies. I have also

examined every stable and out-house in Tavistock, and for a

radius of ten miles.”

“There is another training-stable quite close, I understand?”

“Yes, and that is a factor which we must certainly not neglect.

As Desborough, their horse, was second in the betting, they had

an interest in the disappearance of the favourite. Silas Brown,

the trainer, is known to have had large bets upon the event, and

he was no friend to poor Straker. We have, however, examined the

stables, and there is nothing to connect him with the affair.”

“And nothing to connect this man Simpson with the interests of

the Mapleton stables?”

“Nothing at all.”

Holmes leaned back in the carriage, and the conversation ceased.

A few minutes later our driver pulled up at a neat little

red-brick villa with overhanging eaves which stood by the road.

Some distance off, across a paddock, lay a long grey-tiled

out-building. In every other direction the low curves of the

moor, bronze-coloured from the fading ferns, stretched away to

the sky-line, broken only by the steeples of Tavistock, and by a

cluster of houses away to the westward which marked the Mapleton

stables. We all sprang out with the exception of Holmes, who

continued to lean back with his eyes fixed upon the sky in front

of him, entirely absorbed in his own thoughts. It was only when I

touched his arm that he roused himself with a violent start and

stepped out of the carriage.

“Excuse me,” said he, turning to Colonel Ross, who had looked at

him in some surprise. “I was day-dreaming.” There was a gleam in

his eyes and a suppressed excitement in his manner which

convinced me, used as I was to his ways, that his hand was upon a

clue, though I could not imagine where he had found it.

“Perhaps you would prefer at once to go on to the scene of the

crime, Mr. Holmes?” said Gregory.

“I think that I should prefer to stay here a little and go into

one or two questions of detail. Straker was brought back here, I

presume?”

“Yes; he lies upstairs. The inquest is to-morrow.”

“He has been in your service some years, Colonel Ross?”

“I have always found him an excellent servant.”

“I presume that you made an inventory of what he had in his

pockets at the time of his death, Inspector?”

“I have the things themselves in the sitting-room, if you would

care to see them.”

“I should be very glad.” We all filed into the front room and sat

round the central table while the Inspector unlocked a square tin

box and laid a small heap of things before us. There was a box of

vestas, two inches of tallow candle, an A.D.P. briar-root pipe, a

pouch of seal-skin with half an ounce of long-cut Cavendish, a

silver watch with a gold chain, five sovereigns in gold, an

aluminium pencil-case, a few papers, and an ivory-handled knife

with a very delicate, inflexible blade marked Weiss & Co.,

London.

“This is a very singular knife,” said Holmes, lifting it up and

examining it minutely. “I presume, as I see blood-stains upon it,

that it is the one which was found in the dead man’s grasp.

Watson, this knife is surely in your line?”

“It is what we call a cataract knife,” said I.

“I thought so. A very delicate blade devised for very delicate

work. A strange thing for a man to carry with him upon a rough

expedition, especially as it would not shut in his pocket.”

“The tip was guarded by a disk of cork which we found beside his

body,” said the Inspector. “His wife tells us that the knife had

lain upon the dressing-table, and that he had picked it up as he

left the room. It was a poor weapon, but perhaps the best that he

could lay his hands on at the moment.”

“Very possible. How about these papers?”

“Three of them are receipted hay-dealers’ accounts. One of them

is a letter of instructions from Colonel Ross. This other is a

milliner’s account for thirty-seven pounds fifteen made out by

Madame Lesurier, of Bond Street, to William Derbyshire. Mrs.

Straker tells us that Derbyshire was a friend of her husband’s

and that occasionally his letters were addressed here.”

“Madam Derbyshire had somewhat expensive tastes,” remarked

Holmes, glancing down the account. “Twenty-two guineas is rather

heavy for a single costume. However there appears to be nothing

more to learn, and we may now go down to the scene of the crime.”

As we emerged from the sitting-room a woman, who had been waiting

in the passage, took a step forward and laid her hand upon the

Inspector’s sleeve. Her face was haggard and thin and eager,

stamped with the print of a recent horror.

“Have you got them? Have you found them?” she panted.

“No, Mrs. Straker. But Mr. Holmes here has come from London to

help us, and we shall do all that is possible.”

“Surely I met you in Plymouth at a garden-party some little time

ago, Mrs. Straker?” said Holmes.

“No, sir; you are mistaken.”

“Dear me! Why, I could have sworn to it. You wore a costume of

dove-coloured silk with ostrich-feather trimming.”

“I never had such a dress, sir,” answered the lady.

“Ah, that quite settles it,” said Holmes. And with an apology he

followed the Inspector outside. A short walk across the moor took

us to the hollow in which the body had been found. At the brink

of it was the furze-bush upon which the coat had been hung.

“There was no wind that night, I understand,” said Holmes.

“None; but very heavy rain.”

“In that case the overcoat was not blown against the furze-bush,

but placed there.”

“Yes, it was laid across the bush.”

“You fill me with interest, I perceive that the ground has been

trampled up a good deal. No doubt many feet have been here since

Monday night.”

“A piece of matting has been laid here at the side, and we have

all stood upon that.”

“Excellent.”

“In this bag I have one of the boots which Straker wore, one of

Fitzroy Simpson’s shoes, and a cast horseshoe of Silver Blaze.”

“My dear Inspector, you surpass yourself!” Holmes took the bag,

and, descending into the hollow, he pushed the matting into a

more central position. Then stretching himself upon his face and

leaning his chin upon his hands, he made a careful study of the

trampled mud in front of him. “Hullo!” said he, suddenly. “What’s

this?” It was a wax vesta half burned, which was so coated with

mud that it looked at first like a little chip of wood.

“I cannot think how I came to overlook it,” said the Inspector,

with an expression of annoyance.

“It was invisible, buried in the mud. I only saw it because I was

looking for it.”

“What! You expected to find it?”

“I thought it not unlikely.”

He took the boots from the bag, and compared the impressions of

each of them with marks upon the ground. Then he clambered up to

the rim of the hollow, and crawled about among the ferns and

bushes.

“I am afraid that there are no more tracks,” said the Inspector.

“I have examined the ground very carefully for a hundred yards in

each direction.”

“Indeed!” said Holmes, rising. “I should not have the

impertinence to do it again after what you say. But I should like

to take a little walk over the moor before it grows dark, that I

may know my ground to-morrow, and I think that I shall put this

horseshoe into my pocket for luck.”

Colonel Ross, who had shown some signs of impatience at my

companion’s quiet and systematic method of work, glanced at his

watch. “I wish you would come back with me, Inspector,” said he.

“There are several points on which I should like your advice, and

especially as to whether we do not owe it to the public to remove

our horse’s name from the entries for the Cup.”

“Certainly not,” cried Holmes, with decision. “I should let the

name stand.”

The Colonel bowed. “I am very glad to have had your opinion,

sir,” said he. “You will find us at poor Straker’s house when you

have finished your walk, and we can drive together into

Tavistock.”

He turned back with the Inspector, while Holmes and I walked

slowly across the moor. The sun was beginning to sink behind the

stables of Mapleton, and the long, sloping plain in front of us

was tinged with gold, deepening into rich, ruddy browns where the

faded ferns and brambles caught the evening light. But the

glories of the landscape were all wasted upon my companion, who

was sunk in the deepest thought.

“It’s this way, Watson,” said he at last. “We may leave the

question of who killed John Straker for the instant, and confine

ourselves to finding out what has become of the horse. Now,

supposing that he broke away during or after the tragedy, where

could he have gone to? The horse is a very gregarious creature.

If left to himself his instincts would have been either to return

to King’s Pyland or go over to Mapleton. Why should he run wild

upon the moor? He would surely have been seen by now. And why

should gypsies kidnap him? These people always clear out when

they hear of trouble, for they do not wish to be pestered by the

police. They could not hope to sell such a horse. They would run

a great risk and gain nothing by taking him. Surely that is

clear.”

“Where is he, then?”

“I have already said that he must have gone to King’s Pyland or

to Mapleton. He is not at King’s Pyland. Therefore he is at

Mapleton. Let us take that as a working hypothesis and see what

it leads us to. This part of the moor, as the Inspector remarked,

is very hard and dry. But it falls away towards Mapleton, and you

can see from here that there is a long hollow over yonder, which

must have been very wet on Monday night. If our supposition is

correct, then the horse must have crossed that, and there is the

point where we should look for his tracks.”

We had been walking briskly during this conversation, and a few

more minutes brought us to the hollow in question. At Holmes’

request I walked down the bank to the right, and he to the left,

but I had not taken fifty paces before I heard him give a shout,

and saw him waving his hand to me. The track of a horse was

plainly outlined in the soft earth in front of him, and the shoe

which he took from his pocket exactly fitted the impression.

“See the value of imagination,” said Holmes. “It is the one

quality which Gregory lacks. We imagined what might have

happened, acted upon the supposition, and find ourselves

justified. Let us proceed.”

We crossed the marshy bottom and passed over a quarter of a mile

of dry, hard turf. Again the ground sloped, and again we came on

the tracks. Then we lost them for half a mile, but only to pick

them up once more quite close to Mapleton. It was Holmes who saw

them first, and he stood pointing with a look of triumph upon his

face. A man’s track was visible beside the horse’s.

“The horse was alone before,” I cried.

“Quite so. It was alone before. Hullo, what is this?”

The double track turned sharp off and took the direction of

King’s Pyland. Holmes whistled, and we both followed along after

it. His eyes were on the trail, but I happened to look a little

to one side, and saw to my surprise the same tracks coming back

again in the opposite direction.

“One for you, Watson,” said Holmes, when I pointed it out. “You

have saved us a long walk, which would have brought us back on

our own traces. Let us follow the return track.”

We had not to go far. It ended at the paving of asphalt which led

up to the gates of the Mapleton stables. As we approached, a

groom ran out from them.

“We don’t want any loiterers about here,” said he.

“I only wished to ask a question,” said Holmes, with his finger

and thumb in his waistcoat pocket. “Should I be too early to see

your master, Mr. Silas Brown, if I were to call at five o’clock

to-morrow morning?”

“Bless you, sir, if any one is about he will be, for he is always

the first stirring. But here he is, sir, to answer your questions

for himself. No, sir, no; it is as much as my place is worth to

let him see me touch your money. Afterwards, if you like.”

As Sherlock Holmes replaced the half-crown which he had drawn

from his pocket, a fierce-looking elderly man strode out from the

gate with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand.

“What’s this, Dawson!” he cried. “No gossiping! Go about your

business! And you, what the devil do you want here?”

“Ten minutes’ talk with you, my good sir,” said Holmes in the

sweetest of voices.

“I’ve no time to talk to every gadabout. We want no strangers

here. Be off, or you may find a dog at your heels.”

Holmes leaned forward and whispered something in the trainer’s

ear. He started violently and flushed to the temples.

“It’s a lie!” he shouted, “an infernal lie!”

“Very good. Shall we argue about it here in public or talk it

over in your parlour?”

“Oh, come in if you wish to.”

Holmes smiled. “I shall not keep you more than a few minutes,

Watson,” said he. “Now, Mr. Brown, I am quite at your disposal.”

It was twenty minutes, and the reds had all faded into greys

before Holmes and the trainer reappeared. Never have I seen such

a change as had been brought about in Silas Brown in that short

time. His face was ashy pale, beads of perspiration shone upon

his brow, and his hands shook until the hunting-crop wagged like

a branch in the wind. His bullying, overbearing manner was all

gone too, and he cringed along at my companion’s side like a dog

with its master.

“Your instructions will be done. It shall all be done,” said he.

“There must be no mistake,” said Holmes, looking round at him.

The other winced as he read the menace in his eyes.

“Oh no, there shall be no mistake. It shall be there. Should I

change it first or not?”

Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing. “No, don’t,”

said he; “I shall write to you about it. No tricks, now, or—”

“Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!”

“Yes, I think I can. Well, you shall hear from me to-morrow.” He

turned upon his heel, disregarding the trembling hand which the

other held out to him, and we set off for King’s Pyland.

“A more perfect compound of the bully, coward, and sneak than

Master Silas Brown I have seldom met with,” remarked Holmes as we

trudged along together.

“He has the horse, then?”

“He tried to bluster out of it, but I described to him so exactly

what his actions had been upon that morning that he is convinced

that I was watching him. Of course you observed the peculiarly

square toes in the impressions, and that his own boots exactly

corresponded to them. Again, of course no subordinate would have

dared to do such a thing. I described to him how, when according

to his custom he was the first down, he perceived a strange horse

wandering over the moor. How he went out to it, and his

astonishment at recognising, from the white forehead which has

given the favourite its name, that chance had put in his power

the only horse which could beat the one upon which he had put his

money. Then I described how his first impulse had been to lead

him back to King’s Pyland, and how the devil had shown him how he

could hide the horse until the race was over, and how he had led

it back and concealed it at Mapleton. When I told him every

detail he gave it up and thought only of saving his own skin.”

“But his stables had been searched?”

“Oh, an old horse-faker like him has many a dodge.”

“But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his power now,

since he has every interest in injuring it?”

“My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his eye. He

knows that his only hope of mercy is to produce it safe.”

“Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be likely to

show much mercy in any case.”

“The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross. I follow my own

methods, and tell as much or as little as I choose. That is the

advantage of being unofficial. I don’t know whether you observed

it, Watson, but the Colonel’s manner has been just a trifle

cavalier to me. I am inclined now to have a little amusement at

his expense. Say nothing to him about the horse.”

“Certainly not without your permission.”

“And of course this is all quite a minor point compared to the

question of who killed John Straker.”

“And you will devote yourself to that?”

“On the contrary, we both go back to London by the night train.”

I was thunderstruck by my friend’s words. We had only been a few

hours in Devonshire, and that he should give up an investigation

which he had begun so brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to

me. Not a word more could I draw from him until we were back at

the trainer’s house. The Colonel and the Inspector were awaiting

us in the parlour.

“My friend and I return to town by the night-express,” said

Holmes. “We have had a charming little breath of your beautiful

Dartmoor air.”

The Inspector opened his eyes, and the Colonel’s lip curled in a

sneer.

“So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor Straker,” said

he.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “There are certainly grave

difficulties in the way,” said he. “I have every hope, however,

that your horse will start upon Tuesday, and I beg that you will

have your jockey in readiness. Might I ask for a photograph of

Mr. John Straker?”

The Inspector took one from an envelope and handed it to him.

“My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants. If I might ask you

to wait here for an instant, I have a question which I should

like to put to the maid.”

“I must say that I am rather disappointed in our London

consultant,” said Colonel Ross, bluntly, as my friend left the

room. “I do not see that we are any further than when he came.”

“At least you have his assurance that your horse will run,” said

I.

“Yes, I have his assurance,” said the Colonel, with a shrug of

his shoulders. “I should prefer to have the horse.”

I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend when he

entered the room again.

“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “I am quite ready for Tavistock.”

As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads held the

door open for us. A sudden idea seemed to occur to Holmes, for he

leaned forward and touched the lad upon the sleeve.

“You have a few sheep in the paddock,” he said. “Who attends to

them?”

“I do, sir.”

“Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?”

“Well, sir, not of much account; but three of them have gone

lame, sir.”

I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he chuckled

and rubbed his hands together.

“A long shot, Watson; a very long shot,” said he, pinching my

arm. “Gregory, let me recommend to your attention this singular

epidemic among the sheep. Drive on, coachman!”

Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the poor

opinion which he had formed of my companion’s ability, but I saw

by the Inspector’s face that his attention had been keenly

aroused.

“You consider that to be important?” he asked.

“Exceedingly so.”

“Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my

attention?”

“To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”

“The dog did nothing in the night-time.”

“That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.

Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train, bound for

Winchester to see the race for the Wessex Cup. Colonel Ross met

us by appointment outside the station, and we drove in his drag

to the course beyond the town. His face was grave, and his manner

was cold in the extreme.

“I have seen nothing of my horse,” said he.

“I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?” asked

Holmes.

The Colonel was very angry. “I have been on the turf for twenty

years, and never was asked such a question as that before,” said

he. “A child would know Silver Blaze, with his white forehead and

his mottled off-foreleg.”

“How is the betting?”

“Well, that is the curious part of it. You could have got fifteen

to one yesterday, but the price has become shorter and shorter,

until you can hardly get three to one now.”

“Hum!” said Holmes. “Somebody knows something, that is clear.”

As the drag drew up in the enclosure near the grand stand I

glanced at the card to see the entries. It ran:—

Wessex Plate. 50 sovs each h ft with 1000 sovs added for four and

five year olds. Second, £300. Third, £200. New course (one mile

and five furlongs).

1. Mr. Heath Newton’s The Negro (red cap, cinnamon jacket).

2. Colonel Wardlaw’s Pugilist (pink cap, blue and black jacket).

3. Lord Backwater’s Desborough (yellow cap and sleeves).

4. Colonel Ross’s Silver Blaze (black cap, red jacket).

5. Duke of Balmoral’s Iris (yellow and black stripes).

6. Lord Singleford’s Rasper (purple cap, black sleeves).

“We scratched our other one, and put all hopes on your word,”

said the Colonel. “Why, what is that? Silver Blaze favourite?”

“Five to four against Silver Blaze!” roared the ring. “Five to

four against Silver Blaze! Five to fifteen against Desborough!

Five to four on the field!”

“There are the numbers up,” I cried. “They are all six there.”

“All six there? Then my horse is running,” cried the Colonel in

great agitation. “But I don’t see him. My colours have not

passed.”

“Only five have passed. This must be he.”

As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the weighing

enclosure and cantered past us, bearing on its back the

well-known black and red of the Colonel.

“That’s not my horse,” cried the owner. “That beast has not a

white hair upon its body. What is this that you have done, Mr.

Holmes?”

“Well, well, let us see how he gets on,” said my friend,

imperturbably. For a few minutes he gazed through my field-glass.

“Capital! An excellent start!” he cried suddenly. “There they

are, coming round the curve!”

From our drag we had a superb view as they came up the straight.

The six horses were so close together that a carpet could have

covered them, but half way up the yellow of the Mapleton stable

showed to the front. Before they reached us, however,

Desborough’s bolt was shot, and the Colonel’s horse, coming away

with a rush, passed the post a good six lengths before its rival,

the Duke of Balmoral’s Iris making a bad third.

“It’s my race, anyhow,” gasped the Colonel, passing his hand over

his eyes. “I confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it.

Don’t you think that you have kept up your mystery long enough,

Mr. Holmes?”

“Certainly, Colonel, you shall know everything. Let us all go

round and have a look at the horse together. Here he is,” he

continued, as we made our way into the weighing enclosure, where

only owners and their friends find admittance. “You have only to

wash his face and his leg in spirits of wine, and you will find

that he is the same old Silver Blaze as ever.”

“You take my breath away!”

“I found him in the hands of a faker, and took the liberty of

running him just as he was sent over.”

“My dear sir, you have done wonders. The horse looks very fit and

well. It never went better in its life. I owe you a thousand

apologies for having doubted your ability. You have done me a

great service by recovering my horse. You would do me a greater

still if you could lay your hands on the murderer of John

Straker.”

“I have done so,” said Holmes quietly.

The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement. “You have got him!

Where is he, then?”

“He is here.”

“Here! Where?”

“In my company at the present moment.”

The Colonel flushed angrily. “I quite recognise that I am under

obligations to you, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but I must regard what

you have just said as either a very bad joke or an insult.”

Sherlock Holmes laughed. “I assure you that I have not associated

you with the crime, Colonel,” said he. “The real murderer is

standing immediately behind you.” He stepped past and laid his

hand upon the glossy neck of the thoroughbred.

“The horse!” cried both the Colonel and myself.

“Yes, the horse. And it may lessen his guilt if I say that it was

done in self-defence, and that John Straker was a man who was

entirely unworthy of your confidence. But there goes the bell,

and as I stand to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a

lengthy explanation until a more fitting time.”

We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that evening as

we whirled back to London, and I fancy that the journey was a

short one to Colonel Ross as well as to myself, as we listened to

our companion’s narrative of the events which had occurred at the

Dartmoor training-stables upon the Monday night, and the means by

which he had unravelled them.

“I confess,” said he, “that any theories which I had formed from

the newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. And yet there were

indications there, had they not been overlaid by other details

which concealed their true import. I went to Devonshire with the

conviction that Fitzroy Simpson was the true culprit, although,

of course, I saw that the evidence against him was by no means

complete. It was while I was in the carriage, just as we reached

the trainer’s house, that the immense significance of the curried

mutton occurred to me. You may remember that I was distrait, and

remained sitting after you had all alighted. I was marvelling in

my own mind how I could possibly have overlooked so obvious a

clue.”

“I confess,” said the Colonel, “that even now I cannot see how it

helps us.”

“It was the first link in my chain of reasoning. Powdered opium

is by no means tasteless. The flavour is not disagreeable, but it

is perceptible. Were it mixed with any ordinary dish the eater

would undoubtedly detect it, and would probably eat no more. A

curry was exactly the medium which would disguise this taste. By

no possible supposition could this stranger, Fitzroy Simpson,

have caused curry to be served in the trainer’s family that

night, and it is surely too monstrous a coincidence to suppose

that he happened to come along with powdered opium upon the very

night when a dish happened to be served which would disguise the

flavour. That is unthinkable. Therefore Simpson becomes

eliminated from the case, and our attention centres upon Straker

and his wife, the only two people who could have chosen curried

mutton for supper that night. The opium was added after the dish

was set aside for the stable-boy, for the others had the same for

supper with no ill effects. Which of them, then, had access to

that dish without the maid seeing them?

“Before deciding that question I had grasped the significance of

the silence of the dog, for one true inference invariably

suggests others. The Simpson incident had shown me that a dog was

kept in the stables, and yet, though some one had been in and had

fetched out a horse, he had not barked enough to arouse the two

lads in the loft. Obviously the midnight visitor was some one

whom the dog knew well.

“I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that John Straker

went down to the stables in the dead of the night and took out

Silver Blaze. For what purpose? For a dishonest one, obviously,

or why should he drug his own stable-boy? And yet I was at a loss

to know why. There have been cases before now where trainers have

made sure of great sums of money by laying against their own

horses, through agents, and then preventing them from winning by

fraud. Sometimes it is a pulling jockey. Sometimes it is some

surer and subtler means. What was it here? I hoped that the

contents of his pockets might help me to form a conclusion.

“And they did so. You cannot have forgotten the singular knife

which was found in the dead man’s hand, a knife which certainly

no sane man would choose for a weapon. It was, as Dr. Watson told

us, a form of knife which is used for the most delicate

operations known in surgery. And it was to be used for a delicate

operation that night. You must know, with your wide experience of

turf matters, Colonel Ross, that it is possible to make a slight

nick upon the tendons of a horse’s ham, and to do it

subcutaneously, so as to leave absolutely no trace. A horse so

treated would develop a slight lameness, which would be put down

to a strain in exercise or a touch of rheumatism, but never to

foul play.”

“Villain! Scoundrel!” cried the Colonel.

“We have here the explanation of why John Straker wished to take

the horse out on to the moor. So spirited a creature would have

certainly roused the soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick

of the knife. It was absolutely necessary to do it in the open

air.”

“I have been blind!” cried the Colonel. “Of course that was why

he needed the candle, and struck the match.”

“Undoubtedly. But in examining his belongings I was fortunate

enough to discover not only the method of the crime, but even its

motives. As a man of the world, Colonel, you know that men do not

carry other people’s bills about in their pockets. We have most

of us quite enough to do to settle our own. I at once concluded

that Straker was leading a double life, and keeping a second

establishment. The nature of the bill showed that there was a

lady in the case, and one who had expensive tastes. Liberal as

you are with your servants, one can hardly expect that they can

buy twenty-guinea walking dresses for their ladies. I questioned

Mrs. Straker as to the dress without her knowing it, and having

satisfied myself that it had never reached her, I made a note of

the milliner’s address, and felt that by calling there with

Straker’s photograph I could easily dispose of the mythical

Derbyshire.

“From that time on all was plain. Straker had led out the horse

to a hollow where his light would be invisible. Simpson in his

flight had dropped his cravat, and Straker had picked it up—with

some idea, perhaps, that he might use it in securing the horse’s

leg. Once in the hollow, he had got behind the horse and had

struck a light; but the creature frightened at the sudden glare,

and with the strange instinct of animals feeling that some

mischief was intended, had lashed out, and the steel shoe had

struck Straker full on the forehead. He had already, in spite of

the rain, taken off his overcoat in order to do his delicate

task, and so, as he fell, his knife gashed his thigh. Do I make

it clear?”

“Wonderful!” cried the Colonel. “Wonderful! You might have been

there!”

“My final shot was, I confess a very long one. It struck me that

so astute a man as Straker would not undertake this delicate

tendon-nicking without a little practice. What could he practice

on? My eyes fell upon the sheep, and I asked a question which,

rather to my surprise, showed that my surmise was correct.

“When I returned to London I called upon the milliner, who had

recognised Straker as an excellent customer of the name of

Derbyshire, who had a very dashing wife, with a strong partiality

for expensive dresses. I have no doubt that this woman had

plunged him over head and ears in debt, and so led him into this

miserable plot.”

“You have explained all but one thing,” cried the Colonel. “Where

was the horse?”

“Ah, it bolted, and was cared for by one of your neighbours. We

must have an amnesty in that direction, I think. This is Clapham

Junction, if I am not mistaken, and we shall be in Victoria in

less than ten minutes. If you care to smoke a cigar in our rooms,

Colonel, I shall be happy to give you any other details which

might interest you.”

II. The Adventure of the Cardboard Box

In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable

mental qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have

endeavoured, as far as possible, to select those which presented

the minimum of sensationalism, while offering a fair field for

his talents. It is, however, unfortunately impossible entirely to

separate the sensational from the criminal, and a chronicler is

left in the dilemma that he must either sacrifice details which

are essential to his statement and so give a false impression of

the problem, or he must use matter which chance, and not choice,

has provided him with. With this short preface I shall turn to my

notes of what proved to be a strange, though a peculiarly

terrible, chain of events.

It was a blazing hot day in August. Baker Street was like an

oven, and the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of

the house across the road was painful to the eye. It was hard to

believe that these were the same walls which loomed so gloomily

through the fogs of winter. Our blinds were half-drawn, and

Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and re-reading a letter

which he had received by the morning post. For myself, my term of

service in India had trained me to stand heat better than cold,

and a thermometer at ninety was no hardship. But the morning

paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen. Everybody was out

of town, and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the

shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank account had caused me to

postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country

nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved

to lie in the very centre of five millions of people, with his

filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to

every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation

of nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only

change was when he turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town

to track down his brother of the country.

Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation I had

tossed aside the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair I

fell into a brown study. Suddenly my companion’s voice broke in

upon my thoughts:

“You are right, Watson,” said he. “It does seem a most

preposterous way of settling a dispute.”

“Most preposterous!” I exclaimed, and then suddenly realizing how

he had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair

and stared at him in blank amazement.

“What is this, Holmes?” I cried. “This is beyond anything which I

could have imagined.”

He laughed heartily at my perplexity.

“You remember,” he said, “that some little time ago when I read

you the passage in one of Poe’s sketches in which a close

reasoner follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were

inclined to treat the matter as a mere _tour-de-force_ of the

author. On my remarking that I was constantly in the habit of

doing the same thing you expressed incredulity.”

“Oh, no!”

“Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with

your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter

upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity

of reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof

that I had been in rapport with you.”

But I was still far from satisfied. “In the example which you

read to me,” said I, “the reasoner drew his conclusions from the

actions of the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he

stumbled over a heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so

on. But I have been seated quietly in my chair, and what clues

can I have given you?”

“You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as

the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are

faithful servants.”

“Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my

features?”

“Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot

yourself recall how your reverie commenced?”

“No, I cannot.”

“Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was

the action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a

minute with a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves

upon your newly framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by

the alteration in your face that a train of thought had been

started. But it did not lead very far. Your eyes flashed across

to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which stands upon

the top of your books. Then you glanced up at the wall, and of

course your meaning was obvious. You were thinking that if the

portrait were framed it would just cover that bare space and

correspond with Gordon’s picture over there.”

“You have followed me wonderfully!” I exclaimed.

“So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts

went back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were

studying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to

pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face was

thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of Beecher’s career.

I was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of

the mission which he undertook on behalf of the North at the time

of the Civil War, for I remember your expressing your passionate

indignation at the way in which he was received by the more

turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly about it that I

knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of that

also. When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the

picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil

War, and when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled,

and your hands clenched I was positive that you were indeed

thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sides in that

desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew sadder; you

shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror

and useless waste of life. Your hand stole towards your own old

wound and a smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the

ridiculous side of this method of settling international

questions had forced itself upon your mind. At this point I

agreed with you that it was preposterous and was glad to find

that all my deductions had been correct.”

“Absolutely!” said I. “And now that you have explained it, I

confess that I am as amazed as before.”

“It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should

not have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some

incredulity the other day. But I have in my hands here a little

problem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than my

small essay in thought reading. Have you observed in the paper a

short paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet

sent through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?”

“No, I saw nothing.”

“Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me.

Here it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good

enough to read it aloud.”

I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the

paragraph indicated. It was headed, “A Gruesome Packet.”

“Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been

made the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly

revolting practical joke unless some more sinister meaning should

prove to be attached to the incident. At two o’clock yesterday

afternoon a small packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in

by the postman. A cardboard box was inside, which was filled with

coarse salt. On emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to find

two human ears, apparently quite freshly severed. The box had

been sent by parcel post from Belfast upon the morning before.

There is no indication as to the sender, and the matter is the

more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who is a maiden lady of fifty,

has led a most retired life, and has so few acquaintances or

correspondents that it is a rare event for her to receive

anything through the post. Some years ago, however, when she

resided at Penge, she let apartments in her house to three young

medical students, whom she was obliged to get rid of on account

of their noisy and irregular habits. The police are of opinion

that this outrage may have been perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by

these youths, who owed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her

by sending her these relics of the dissecting-rooms. Some

probability is lent to the theory by the fact that one of these

students came from the north of Ireland, and, to the best of Miss

Cushing’s belief, from Belfast. In the meantime, the matter is

being actively investigated, Mr. Lestrade, one of the very

smartest of our detective officers, being in charge of the case.”

“So much for the _Daily Chronicle_,” said Holmes as I finished

reading. “Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this

morning, in which he says: ‘I think that this case is very much

in your line. We have every hope of clearing the matter up, but

we find a little difficulty in getting anything to work upon. We

have, of course, wired to the Belfast post-office, but a large

number of parcels were handed in upon that day, and they have no

means of identifying this particular one, or of remembering the

sender. The box is a half-pound box of honeydew tobacco and does

not help us in any way. The medical student theory still appears

to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a few hours

to spare I should be very happy to see you out here. I shall be

either at the house or in the police-station all day.’ What say

you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run down to

Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?”

“I was longing for something to do.”

“You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to

order a cab. I’ll be back in a moment when I have changed my

dressing-gown and filled my cigar-case.”

A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat

was far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent

on a wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as

ferret-like as ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of

five minutes took us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.

It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and

prim, with whitened stone steps and little groups of aproned

women gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and

tapped at a door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss

Cushing was sitting in the front room, into which we were

ushered. She was a placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes,

and grizzled hair curving down over her temples on each side. A

worked antimacassar lay upon her lap and a basket of coloured

silks stood upon a stool beside her.

“They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things,” said she as

Lestrade entered. “I wish that you would take them away

altogether.”

“So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my friend,

Mr. Holmes, should have seen them in your presence.”

“Why in my presence, sir?”

“In case he wished to ask any questions.”

“What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know

nothing whatever about it?”

“Quite so, madam,” said Holmes in his soothing way. “I have no

doubt that you have been annoyed more than enough already over

this business.”

“Indeed, I have, sir. I am a quiet woman and live a retired life.

It is something new for me to see my name in the papers and to

find the police in my house. I won’t have those things in here,

Mr. Lestrade. If you wish to see them you must go to the

outhouse.”

It was a small shed in the narrow garden which ran behind the

house. Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box,

with a piece of brown paper and some string. There was a bench at

the end of the path, and we all sat down while Holmes examined,

one by one, the articles which Lestrade had handed to him.

“The string is exceedingly interesting,” he remarked, holding it

up to the light and sniffing at it. “What do you make of this

string, Lestrade?”

“It has been tarred.”

“Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine. You have also, no

doubt, remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with a

scissors, as can be seen by the double fray on each side. This is

of importance.”

“I cannot see the importance,” said Lestrade.

“The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact,

and that this knot is of a peculiar character.”

“It is very neatly tied. I had already made a note to that

effect,” said Lestrade complacently.

“So much for the string, then,” said Holmes, smiling, “now for

the box wrapper. Brown paper, with a distinct smell of coffee.

What, did you not observe it? I think there can be no doubt of

it. Address printed in rather straggling characters: ‘Miss S.

Cushing, Cross Street, Croydon.’ Done with a broad-pointed pen,

probably a J, and with very inferior ink. The word ‘Croydon’ has

been originally spelled with an ‘i,’ which has been changed to

‘y.’ The parcel was directed, then, by a man—the printing is

distinctly masculine—of limited education and unacquainted with

the town of Croydon. So far, so good! The box is a yellow

half-pound honeydew box, with nothing distinctive save two thumb

marks at the left bottom corner. It is filled with rough salt of

the quality used for preserving hides and other of the coarser

commercial purposes. And embedded in it are these very singular

enclosures.”

He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board across

his knee he examined them minutely, while Lestrade and I, bending

forward on each side of him, glanced alternately at these

dreadful relics and at the thoughtful, eager face of our

companion. Finally he returned them to the box once more and sat

for a while in deep meditation.

“You have observed, of course,” said he at last, “that the ears

are not a pair.”

“Yes, I have noticed that. But if this were the practical joke of

some students from the dissecting-rooms, it would be as easy for

them to send two odd ears as a pair.”

“Precisely. But this is not a practical joke.”

“You are sure of it?”

“The presumption is strongly against it. Bodies in the

dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. These ears

bear no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have been cut

off with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a

student had done it. Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would

be the preservatives which would suggest themselves to the

medical mind, certainly not rough salt. I repeat that there is no

practical joke here, but that we are investigating a serious

crime.”

A vague thrill ran through me as I listened to my companion’s

words and saw the stern gravity which had hardened his features.

This brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange and

inexplicable horror in the background. Lestrade, however, shook

his head like a man who is only half convinced.

“There are objections to the joke theory, no doubt,” said he,

“but there are much stronger reasons against the other. We know

that this woman has led a most quiet and respectable life at

Penge and here for the last twenty years. She has hardly been

away from her home for a day during that time. Why on earth,

then, should any criminal send her the proofs of his guilt,

especially as, unless she is a most consummate actress, she

understands quite as little of the matter as we do?”

“That is the problem which we have to solve,” Holmes answered,

“and for my part I shall set about it by presuming that my

reasoning is correct, and that a double murder has been

committed. One of these ears is a woman’s, small, finely formed,

and pierced for an earring. The other is a man’s, sun-burned,

discoloured, and also pierced for an earring. These two people

are presumably dead, or we should have heard their story before

now. To-day is Friday. The packet was posted on Thursday morning.

The tragedy, then, occurred on Wednesday or Tuesday or earlier.

If the two people were murdered, who but their murderer would

have sent this sign of his work to Miss Cushing? We may take it

that the sender of the packet is the man whom we want. But he

must have some strong reason for sending Miss Cushing this

packet. What reason then? It must have been to tell her that the

deed was done! or to pain her, perhaps. But in that case she

knows who it is. Does she know? I doubt it. If she knew, why

should she call the police in? She might have buried the ears,

and no one would have been the wiser. That is what she would have

done if she had wished to shield the criminal. But if she does

not wish to shield him she would give his name. There is a tangle

here which needs straightening out.” He had been talking in a

high, quick voice, staring blankly up over the garden fence, but

now he sprang briskly to his feet and walked towards the house.

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

“In that case I may leave you here,” said Lestrade, “for I have

another small business on hand. I think that I have nothing

further to learn from Miss Cushing. You will find me at the

police-station.”

“We shall look in on our way to the train,” answered Holmes. A

moment later he and I were back in the front room, where the

impassive lady was still quietly working away at her

antimacassar. She put it down on her lap as we entered and looked

at us with her frank, searching blue eyes.

“I am convinced, sir,” she said, “that this matter is a mistake,

and that the parcel was never meant for me at all. I have said

this several times to the gentleman from Scotland Yard, but he

simply laughs at me. I have not an enemy in the world, as far as

I know, so why should anyone play me such a trick?”

“I am coming to be of the same opinion, Miss Cushing,” said

Holmes, taking a seat beside her. “I think that it is more than

probable——” he paused, and I was surprised, on glancing round to

see that he was staring with singular intentness at the lady’s

profile. Surprise and satisfaction were both for an instant to be

read upon his eager face, though when she glanced round to find

out the cause of his silence he had become as demure as ever. I

stared hard myself at her flat, grizzled hair, her trim cap, her

little gilt earrings, her placid features; but I could see

nothing which could account for my companion’s evident

excitement.

“There were one or two questions——”

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

“You have two sisters, I believe.”

“How could you know that?”

“I observed the very instant that I entered the room that you

have a portrait group of three ladies upon the mantelpiece, one

of whom is undoubtedly yourself, while the others are so

exceedingly like you that there could be no doubt of the

relationship.”

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

“And here at my elbow is another portrait, taken at Liverpool, of

your younger sister, in the company of a man who appears to be a

steward by his uniform. I observe that she was unmarried at the

time.”

“You are very quick at observing.”

“That is my trade.”

“Well, you are quite right. But she was married to Mr. Browner a

few days afterwards. He was on the South American line when that

was taken, but he was so fond of her that he couldn’t abide to

leave her for so long, and he got into the Liverpool and London

boats.”

“Ah, the _Conqueror_, perhaps?”

“No, the _May Day_, when last I heard. Jim came down here to see

me once. That was before he broke the pledge; but afterwards he

would always take drink when he was ashore, and a little drink

would send him stark, staring mad. Ah! it was a bad day that ever

he took a glass in his hand again. First he dropped me, then he

quarrelled with Sarah, and now that Mary has stopped writing we

don’t know how things are going with them.”

It was evident that Miss Cushing had come upon a subject on which

she felt very deeply. Like most people who lead a lonely life,

she was shy at first, but ended by becoming extremely

communicative. She told us many details about her brother-in-law

the steward, and then wandering off on the subject of her former

lodgers, the medical students, she gave us a long account of

their delinquencies, with their names and those of their

hospitals. Holmes listened attentively to everything, throwing in

a question from time to time.

“About your second sister, Sarah,” said he. “I wonder, since you

are both maiden ladies, that you do not keep house together.”

“Ah! you don’t know Sarah’s temper or you would wonder no more. I

tried it when I came to Croydon, and we kept on until about two

months ago, when we had to part. I don’t want to say a word

against my own sister, but she was always meddlesome and hard to

please, was Sarah.”

“You say that she quarrelled with your Liverpool relations.”

“Yes, and they were the best of friends at one time. Why, she

went up there to live in order to be near them. And now she has

no word hard enough for Jim Browner. The last six months that she

was here she would speak of nothing but his drinking and his

ways. He had caught her meddling, I suspect, and given her a bit

of his mind, and that was the start of it.”

“Thank you, Miss Cushing,” said Holmes, rising and bowing. “Your

sister Sarah lives, I think you said, at New Street Wallington?

Good-bye, and I am very sorry that you should have been troubled

over a case with which, as you say, you have nothing whatever to

do.”

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

“How far to Wallington?” he asked.

“Only about a mile, sir.”

“Very good. Jump in, Watson. We must strike while the iron is

hot. Simple as the case is, there have been one or two very

instructive details in connection with it. Just pull up at a

telegraph office as you pass, cabby.”

Holmes sent off a short wire and for the rest of the drive lay

back in the cab, with his hat tilted over his nose to keep the

sun from his face. Our driver pulled up at a house which was not

unlike the one which we had just quitted. My companion ordered

him to wait, and had his hand upon the knocker, when the door

opened and a grave young gentleman in black, with a very shiny

hat, appeared on the step.

“Is Miss Cushing at home?” asked Holmes.

“Miss Sarah Cushing is extremely ill,” said he. “She has been

suffering since yesterday from brain symptoms of great severity.

As her medical adviser, I cannot possibly take the responsibility

of allowing anyone to see her. I should recommend you to call

again in ten days.” He drew on his gloves, closed the door, and

marched off down the street.

“Well, if we can’t we can’t,” said Holmes, cheerfully.

“Perhaps she could not or would not have told you much.”

“I did not wish her to tell me anything. I only wanted to look at

her. However, I think that I have got all that I want. Drive us

to some decent hotel, cabby, where we may have some lunch, and

afterwards we shall drop down upon friend Lestrade at the

police-station.”

We had a pleasant little meal together, during which Holmes would

talk about nothing but violins, narrating with great exultation

how he had purchased his own Stradivarius, which was worth at

least five hundred guineas, at a Jew broker’s in Tottenham Court

Road for fifty-five shillings. This led him to Paganini, and we

sat for an hour over a bottle of claret while he told me anecdote

after anecdote of that extraordinary man. The afternoon was far

advanced and the hot glare had softened into a mellow glow before

we found ourselves at the police-station. Lestrade was waiting

for us at the door.

“A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes,” said he.

“Ha! It is the answer!” He tore it open, glanced his eyes over

it, and crumpled it into his pocket. “That’s all right,” said he.

“Have you found out anything?”

“I have found out everything!”

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

“I was never more serious in my life. A shocking crime has been

committed, and I think I have now laid bare every detail of it.”

“And the criminal?”

Holmes scribbled a few words upon the back of one of his visiting

cards and threw it over to Lestrade.

“That is the name,” he said. “You cannot effect an arrest until

to-morrow night at the earliest. I should prefer that you do not

mention my name at all in connection with the case, as I choose

to be only associated with those crimes which present some

difficulty in their solution. Come on, Watson.” We strode off

together to the station, leaving Lestrade still staring with a

delighted face at the card which Holmes had thrown him.

“The case,” said Sherlock Holmes as we chatted over our cigars

that night in our rooms at Baker Street, “is one where, as in the

investigations which you have chronicled under the names of ‘A

Study in Scarlet’ and of ‘The Sign of Four,’ we have been

compelled to reason backward from effects to causes. I have

written to Lestrade asking him to supply us with the details

which are now wanting, and which he will only get after he has

secured his man. That he may be safely trusted to do, for

although he is absolutely devoid of reason, he is as tenacious as

a bulldog when he once understands what he has to do, and,

indeed, it is just this tenacity which has brought him to the top

at Scotland Yard.”

“Your case is not complete, then?” I asked.

“It is fairly complete in essentials. We know who the author of

the revolting business is, although one of the victims still

escapes us. Of course, you have formed your own conclusions.”

“I presume that this Jim Browner, the steward of a Liverpool

boat, is the man whom you suspect?”

“Oh! it is more than a suspicion.”

“And yet I cannot see anything save very vague indications.”

“On the contrary, to my mind nothing could be more clear. Let me

run over the principal steps. We approached the case, you

remember, with an absolutely blank mind, which is always an

advantage. We had formed no theories. We were simply there to

observe and to draw inferences from our observations. What did we

see first? A very placid and respectable lady, who seemed quite

innocent of any secret, and a portrait which showed me that she

had two younger sisters. It instantly flashed across my mind that

the box might have been meant for one of these. I set the idea

aside as one which could be disproved or confirmed at our

leisure. Then we went to the garden, as you remember, and we saw

the very singular contents of the little yellow box.

“The string was of the quality which is used by sailmakers aboard

ship, and at once a whiff of the sea was perceptible in our

investigation. When I observed that the knot was one which is

popular with sailors, that the parcel had been posted at a port,

and that the male ear was pierced for an earring which is so much

more common among sailors than landsmen, I was quite certain that

all the actors in the tragedy were to be found among our

seafaring classes.

“When I came to examine the address of the packet I observed that

it was to Miss S. Cushing. Now, the oldest sister would, of

course, be Miss Cushing, and although her initial was ‘S’ it

might belong to one of the others as well. In that case we should

have to commence our investigation from a fresh basis altogether.

I therefore went into the house with the intention of clearing up

this point. I was about to assure Miss Cushing that I was

convinced that a mistake had been made when you may remember that

I came suddenly to a stop. The fact was that I had just seen

something which filled me with surprise and at the same time

narrowed the field of our inquiry immensely.

“As a medical man, you are aware, Watson, that there is no part

of the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as

a rule quite distinctive and differs from all other ones. In last

year’s _Anthropological Journal_ you will find two short

monographs from my pen upon the subject. I had, therefore,

examined the ears in the box with the eyes of an expert and had

carefully noted their anatomical peculiarities. Imagine my

surprise, then, when on looking at Miss Cushing I perceived that

her ear corresponded exactly with the female ear which I had just

inspected. The matter was entirely beyond coincidence. There was

the same shortening of the pinna, the same broad curve of the

upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner cartilage. In all

essentials it was the same ear.

“Of course I at once saw the enormous importance of the

observation. It was evident that the victim was a blood relation

and probably a very close one. I began to talk to her about her

family, and you remember that she at once gave us some

exceedingly valuable details.

“In the first place, her sister’s name was Sarah, and her address

had until recently been the same, so that it was quite obvious

how the mistake had occurred and for whom the packet was meant.

Then we heard of this steward, married to the third sister, and

learned that he had at one time been so intimate with Miss Sarah

that she had actually gone up to Liverpool to be near the

Browners, but a quarrel had afterwards divided them. This quarrel

had put a stop to all communications for some months, so that if

Browner had occasion to address a packet to Miss Sarah, he would

undoubtedly have done so to her old address.

“And now the matter had begun to straighten itself out

wonderfully. We had learned of the existence of this steward, an

impulsive man, of strong passions—you remember that he threw up

what must have been a very superior berth in order to be nearer

to his wife—subject, too, to occasional fits of hard drinking. We

had reason to believe that his wife had been murdered, and that a

man—presumably a seafaring man—had been murdered at the same

time. Jealousy, of course, at once suggests itself as the motive

for the crime. And why should these proofs of the deed be sent to

Miss Sarah Cushing? Probably because during her residence in

Liverpool she had some hand in bringing about the events which

led to the tragedy. You will observe that this line of boats

calls at Belfast, Dublin, and Waterford; so that, presuming that

Browner had committed the deed and had embarked at once upon his

steamer, the _May Day_, Belfast would be the first place at which

he could post his terrible packet.

“A second solution was at this stage obviously possible, and

although I thought it exceedingly unlikely, I was determined to

elucidate it before going further. An unsuccessful lover might

have killed Mr. and Mrs. Browner, and the male ear might have

belonged to the husband. There were many grave objections to this

theory, but it was conceivable. I therefore sent off a telegram

to my friend Algar, of the Liverpool force, and asked him to find

out if Mrs. Browner were at home, and if Browner had departed in

the _May Day_. Then we went on to Wallington to visit Miss Sarah.

“I was curious, in the first place, to see how far the family ear

had been reproduced in her. Then, of course, she might give us

very important information, but I was not sanguine that she

would. She must have heard of the business the day before, since

all Croydon was ringing with it, and she alone could have

understood for whom the packet was meant. If she had been willing

to help justice she would probably have communicated with the

police already. However, it was clearly our duty to see her, so

we went. We found that the news of the arrival of the packet—for

her illness dated from that time—had such an effect upon her as

to bring on brain fever. It was clearer than ever that she

understood its full significance, but equally clear that we

should have to wait some time for any assistance from her.

“However, we were really independent of her help. Our answers

were waiting for us at the police-station, where I had directed

Algar to send them. Nothing could be more conclusive. Mrs.

Browner’s house had been closed for more than three days, and the

neighbours were of opinion that she had gone south to see her

relatives. It had been ascertained at the shipping offices that

Browner had left aboard of the _May Day_, and I calculate that

she is due in the Thames to-morrow night. When he arrives he will

be met by the obtuse but resolute Lestrade, and I have no doubt

that we shall have all our details filled in.”

Sherlock Holmes was not disappointed in his expectations. Two

days later he received a bulky envelope, which contained a short

note from the detective, and a typewritten document, which

covered several pages of foolscap.

“Lestrade has got him all right,” said Holmes, glancing up at me.

“Perhaps it would interest you to hear what he says.

“My dear Mr. Holmes,—In accordance with the scheme which we had

formed in order to test our theories”—“the ‘we’ is rather fine,

Watson, is it not?”—“I went down to the Albert Dock yesterday at

6 P.M., and boarded the S.S. _May Day_, belonging to the

Liverpool, Dublin, and London Steam Packet Company. On inquiry, I

found that there was a steward on board of the name of James

Browner and that he had acted during the voyage in such an

extraordinary manner that the captain had been compelled to

relieve him of his duties. On descending to his berth, I found

him seated upon a chest with his head sunk upon his hands,

rocking himself to and fro. He is a big, powerful chap,

clean-shaven, and very swarthy— something like Aldridge, who

helped us in the bogus laundry affair. He jumped up when he heard

my business, and I had my whistle to my lips to call a couple of

river police, who were round the corner, but he seemed to have no

heart in him, and he held out his hands quietly enough for the

darbies. We brought him along to the cells, and his box as well,

for we thought there might be something incriminating; but, bar a

big sharp knife such as most sailors have, we got nothing for our

trouble. However, we find that we shall want no more evidence,

for on being brought before the inspector at the station he asked

leave to make a statement, which was, of course, taken down, just

as he made it, by our shorthand man. We had three copies

typewritten, one of which I enclose. The affair proves, as I

always thought it would, to be an extremely simple one, but I am

obliged to you for assisting me in my investigation. With kind

regards, yours very truly,—G. Lestrade.”

“Hum! The investigation really was a very simple one,” remarked

Holmes, “but I don’t think it struck him in that light when he

first called us in. However, let us see what Jim Browner has to

say for himself. This is his statement as made before Inspector

Montgomery at the Shadwell Police Station, and it has the

advantage of being verbatim.”

“Have I anything to say? Yes, I have a deal to say. I have to

make a clean breast of it all. You can hang me, or you can leave

me alone. I don’t care a plug which you do. I tell you I’ve not

shut an eye in sleep since I did it, and I don’t believe I ever

will again until I get past all waking. Sometimes it’s his face,

but most generally it’s hers. I’m never without one or the other

before me. He looks frowning and black-like, but she has a kind

o’ surprise upon her face. Ay, the white lamb, she might well be

surprised when she read death on a face that had seldom looked

anything but love upon her before.

“But it was Sarah’s fault, and may the curse of a broken man put

a blight on her and set the blood rotting in her veins! It’s not

that I want to clear myself. I know that I went back to drink,

like the beast that I was. But she would have forgiven me; she

would have stuck as close to me as a rope to a block if that

woman had never darkened our door. For Sarah Cushing loved

me—that’s the root of the business—she loved me until all her

love turned to poisonous hate when she knew that I thought more

of my wife’s footmark in the mud than I did of her whole body and

soul.

“There were three sisters altogether. The old one was just a good

woman, the second was a devil, and the third was an angel. Sarah

was thirty-three, and Mary was twenty-nine when I married. We

were just as happy as the day was long when we set up house

together, and in all Liverpool there was no better woman than my

Mary. And then we asked Sarah up for a week, and the week grew

into a month, and one thing led to another, until she was just

one of ourselves.

“I was blue ribbon at that time, and we were putting a little

money by, and all was as bright as a new dollar. My God, whoever

would have thought that it could have come to this? Whoever would

have dreamed it?

“I used to be home for the week-ends very often, and sometimes if

the ship were held back for cargo I would have a whole week at a

time, and in this way I saw a deal of my sister-in-law, Sarah.

She was a fine tall woman, black and quick and fierce, with a

proud way of carrying her head, and a glint from her eye like a

spark from a flint. But when little Mary was there I had never a

thought of her, and that I swear as I hope for God’s mercy.

“It had seemed to me sometimes that she liked to be alone with

me, or to coax me out for a walk with her, but I had never

thought anything of that. But one evening my eyes were opened. I

had come up from the ship and found my wife out, but Sarah at

home. ‘Where’s Mary?’ I asked. ‘Oh, she has gone to pay some

accounts.’ I was impatient and paced up and down the room. ‘Can’t

you be happy for five minutes without Mary, Jim?’ says she. ‘It’s

a bad compliment to me that you can’t be contented with my

society for so short a time.’ ‘That’s all right, my lass,’ said

I, putting out my hand towards her in a kindly way, but she had

it in both hers in an instant, and they burned as if they were in

a fever. I looked into her eyes and I read it all there. There

was no need for her to speak, nor for me either. I frowned and

drew my hand away. Then she stood by my side in silence for a

bit, and then put up her hand and patted me on the shoulder.

‘Steady old Jim!’ said she, and with a kind o’ mocking laugh, she

ran out of the room.

“Well, from that time Sarah hated me with her whole heart and

soul, and she is a woman who can hate, too. I was a fool to let

her go on biding with us—a besotted fool—but I never said a word

to Mary, for I knew it would grieve her. Things went on much as

before, but after a time I began to find that there was a bit of

a change in Mary herself. She had always been so trusting and so

innocent, but now she became queer and suspicious, wanting to

know where I had been and what I had been doing, and whom my

letters were from, and what I had in my pockets, and a thousand

such follies. Day by day she grew queerer and more irritable, and

we had ceaseless rows about nothing. I was fairly puzzled by it

all. Sarah avoided me now, but she and Mary were just

inseparable. I can see now how she was plotting and scheming and

poisoning my wife’s mind against me, but I was such a blind

beetle that I could not understand it at the time. Then I broke

my blue ribbon and began to drink again, but I think I should not

have done it if Mary had been the same as ever. She had some

reason to be disgusted with me now, and the gap between us began

to be wider and wider. And then this Alec Fairbairn chipped in,

and things became a thousand times blacker.

“It was to see Sarah that he came to my house first, but soon it

was to see us, for he was a man with winning ways, and he made

friends wherever he went. He was a dashing, swaggering chap,

smart and curled, who had seen half the world and could talk of

what he had seen. He was good company, I won’t deny it, and he

had wonderful polite ways with him for a sailor man, so that I

think there must have been a time when he knew more of the poop

than the forecastle. For a month he was in and out of my house,

and never once did it cross my mind that harm might come of his

soft, tricky ways. And then at last something made me suspect,

and from that day my peace was gone forever.

“It was only a little thing, too. I had come into the parlour

unexpected, and as I walked in at the door I saw a light of

welcome on my wife’s face. But as she saw who it was it faded

again, and she turned away with a look of disappointment. That

was enough for me. There was no one but Alec Fairbairn whose step

she could have mistaken for mine. If I could have seen him then I

should have killed him, for I have always been like a madman when

my temper gets loose. Mary saw the devil’s light in my eyes, and

she ran forward with her hands on my sleeve. ‘Don’t, Jim, don’t!’

says she. ‘Where’s Sarah?’ I asked. ‘In the kitchen,’ says she.

‘Sarah,’ says I as I went in, ‘this man Fairbairn is never to

darken my door again.’ ‘Why not?’ says she. ‘Because I order it.’

‘Oh!’ says she, ‘if my friends are not good enough for this

house, then I am not good enough for it either.’ ‘You can do what

you like,’ says I, ‘but if Fairbairn shows his face here again

I’ll send you one of his ears for a keepsake.’ She was frightened

by my face, I think, for she never answered a word, and the same

evening she left my house.

“Well, I don’t know now whether it was pure devilry on the part

of this woman, or whether she thought that she could turn me

against my wife by encouraging her to misbehave. Anyway, she took

a house just two streets off and let lodgings to sailors.

Fairbairn used to stay there, and Mary would go round to have tea

with her sister and him. How often she went I don’t know, but I

followed her one day, and as I broke in at the door Fairbairn got

away over the back garden wall, like the cowardly skunk that he

was. I swore to my wife that I would kill her if I found her in

his company again, and I led her back with me, sobbing and

trembling, and as white as a piece of paper. There was no trace

of love between us any longer. I could see that she hated me and

feared me, and when the thought of it drove me to drink, then she

despised me as well.

“Well, Sarah found that she could not make a living in Liverpool,

so she went back, as I understand, to live with her sister in

Croydon, and things jogged on much the same as ever at home. And

then came this last week and all the misery and ruin.

“It was in this way. We had gone on the _May Day_ for a round

voyage of seven days, but a hogshead got loose and started one of

our plates, so that we had to put back into port for twelve

hours. I left the ship and came home, thinking what a surprise it

would be for my wife, and hoping that maybe she would be glad to

see me so soon. The thought was in my head as I turned into my

own street, and at that moment a cab passed me, and there she

was, sitting by the side of Fairbairn, the two chatting and

laughing, with never a thought for me as I stood watching them

from the footpath.

“I tell you, and I give you my word for it, that from that moment

I was not my own master, and it is all like a dim dream when I

look back on it. I had been drinking hard of late, and the two

things together fairly turned my brain. There’s something

throbbing in my head now, like a docker’s hammer, but that

morning I seemed to have all Niagara whizzing and buzzing in my

ears.

“Well, I took to my heels, and I ran after the cab. I had a heavy

oak stick in my hand, and I tell you I saw red from the first;

but as I ran I got cunning, too, and hung back a little to see

them without being seen. They pulled up soon at the railway

station. There was a good crowd round the booking-office, so I

got quite close to them without being seen. They took tickets for

New Brighton. So did I, but I got in three carriages behind them.

When we reached it they walked along the Parade, and I was never

more than a hundred yards from them. At last I saw them hire a

boat and start for a row, for it was a very hot day, and they

thought, no doubt, that it would be cooler on the water.

“It was just as if they had been given into my hands. There was a

bit of a haze, and you could not see more than a few hundred

yards. I hired a boat for myself, and I pulled after them. I

could see the blur of their craft, but they were going nearly as

fast as I, and they must have been a long mile from the shore

before I caught them up. The haze was like a curtain all round

us, and there were we three in the middle of it. My God, shall I

ever forget their faces when they saw who was in the boat that

was closing in upon them? She screamed out. He swore like a

madman and jabbed at me with an oar, for he must have seen death

in my eyes. I got past it and got one in with my stick that

crushed his head like an egg. I would have spared her, perhaps,

for all my madness, but she threw her arms round him, crying out

to him, and calling him ‘Alec.’ I struck again, and she lay

stretched beside him. I was like a wild beast then that had

tasted blood. If Sarah had been there, by the Lord, she should

have joined them. I pulled out my knife, and—well, there! I’ve

said enough. It gave me a kind of savage joy when I thought how

Sarah would feel when she had such signs as these of what her

meddling had brought about. Then I tied the bodies into the boat,

stove a plank, and stood by until they had sunk. I knew very well

that the owner would think that they had lost their bearings in

the haze, and had drifted off out to sea. I cleaned myself up,

got back to land, and joined my ship without a soul having a

suspicion of what had passed. That night I made up the packet for

Sarah Cushing, and next day I sent it from Belfast.

“There you have the whole truth of it. You can hang me, or do

what you like with me, but you cannot punish me as I have been

punished already. I cannot shut my eyes but I see those two faces

staring at me—staring at me as they stared when my boat broke

through the haze. I killed them quick, but they are killing me

slow; and if I have another night of it I shall be either mad or

dead before morning. You won’t put me alone into a cell, sir? For

pity’s sake don’t, and may you be treated in your day of agony as

you treat me now.’

“What is the meaning of it, Watson?” said Holmes solemnly as he

laid down the paper. “What object is served by this circle of

misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else

our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what

end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human

reason is as far from an answer as ever.”

III. The Yellow Face

In publishing these short sketches based upon the numerous cases

in which my companion’s singular gifts have made us the listeners

to, and eventually the actors in, some strange drama, it is only

natural that I should dwell rather upon his successes than upon

his failures. And this not so much for the sake of his

reputation—for, indeed, it was when he was at his wits’ end that

his energy and his versatility were most admirable—but because

where he failed it happened too often that no one else succeeded,

and that the tale was left forever without a conclusion. Now and

again, however, it chanced that even when he erred, the truth was

still discovered. I have noted of some half-dozen cases of the

kind, of which the Affair of the Second Stain and that which I am

now about to recount are the two which present the strongest

features of interest.

Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise’s

sake. Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was

undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have

ever seen; but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste

of energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save when there was

some professional object to be served. Then he was absolutely

untiring and indefatigable. That he should have kept himself in

training under such circumstances is remarkable, but his diet was

usually of the sparest, and his habits were simple to the verge

of austerity. Save for the occasional use of cocaine, he had no

vices, and he only turned to the drug as a protest against the

monotony of existence when cases were scanty and the papers

uninteresting.

One day in early spring he had so far relaxed as to go for a walk

with me in the Park, where the first faint shoots of green were

breaking out upon the elms, and the sticky spear-heads of the

chestnuts were just beginning to burst into their five-fold

leaves. For two hours we rambled about together, in silence for

the most part, as befits two men who know each other intimately.

It was nearly five before we were back in Baker Street once more.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said our page-boy, as he opened the door.

“There’s been a gentleman here asking for you, sir.”

Holmes glanced reproachfully at me. “So much for afternoon

walks!” said he. “Has this gentleman gone, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Didn’t you ask him in?”

“Yes, sir; he came in.”

“How long did he wait?”

“Half an hour, sir. He was a very restless gentleman, sir,

a-walkin’ and a-stampin’ all the time he was here. I was waitin’

outside the door, sir, and I could hear him. At last he outs into

the passage, and he cries, ‘Is that man never goin’ to come?’

Those were his very words, sir. ‘You’ll only need to wait a

little longer,’ says I. ‘Then I’ll wait in the open air, for I

feel half choked,’ says he. ‘I’ll be back before long.’ And with

that he ups and he outs, and all I could say wouldn’t hold him

back.”

“Well, well, you did your best,” said Holmes, as we walked into

our room. “It’s very annoying, though, Watson. I was badly in

need of a case, and this looks, from the man’s impatience, as if

it were of importance. Halloa! That’s not your pipe on the table.

He must have left his behind him. A nice old briar with a good

long stem of what the tobacconists call amber. I wonder how many

real amber mouthpieces there are in London. Some people think

that a fly in it is a sign. Well, he must have been disturbed in

his mind to leave a pipe behind him which he evidently values

highly.”

“How do you know that he values it highly?” I asked.

“Well, I should put the original cost of the pipe at seven and

sixpence. Now it has, you see, been twice mended, once in the

wooden stem and once in the amber. Each of these mends, done, as

you observe, with silver bands, must have cost more than the pipe

did originally. The man must value the pipe highly when he

prefers to patch it up rather than buy a new one with the same

money.”

“Anything else?” I asked, for Holmes was turning the pipe about

in his hand, and staring at it in his peculiar pensive way.

He held it up and tapped on it with his long, thin fore-finger,

as a professor might who was lecturing on a bone.

“Pipes are occasionally of extraordinary interest,” said he.

“Nothing has more individuality, save perhaps watches and

bootlaces. The indications here, however, are neither very marked

nor very important. The owner is obviously a muscular man,

left-handed, with an excellent set of teeth, careless in his

habits, and with no need to practise economy.”

My friend threw out the information in a very offhand way, but I

saw that he cocked his eye at me to see if I had followed his

reasoning.

“You think a man must be well-to-do if he smokes a seven-shilling

pipe,” said I.

“This is Grosvenor mixture at eightpence an ounce,” Holmes

answered, knocking a little out on his palm. “As he might get an

excellent smoke for half the price, he has no need to practise

economy.”

“And the other points?”

“He has been in the habit of lighting his pipe at lamps and

gas-jets. You can see that it is quite charred all down one side.

Of course a match could not have done that. Why should a man hold

a match to the side of his pipe? But you cannot light it at a

lamp without getting the bowl charred. And it is all on the right

side of the pipe. From that I gather that he is a left-handed

man. You hold your own pipe to the lamp, and see how naturally

you, being right-handed, hold the left side to the flame. You

might do it once the other way, but not as a constancy. This has

always been held so. Then he has bitten through his amber. It

takes a muscular, energetic fellow, and one with a good set of

teeth, to do that. But if I am not mistaken I hear him upon the

stair, so we shall have something more interesting than his pipe

to study.”

An instant later our door opened, and a tall young man entered

the room. He was well but quietly dressed in a dark-grey suit,

and carried a brown wide-awake in his hand. I should have put him

at about thirty, though he was really some years older.

“I beg your pardon,” said he, with some embarrassment; “I suppose

I should have knocked. Yes, of course I should have knocked. The

fact is that I am a little upset, and you must put it all down to

that.” He passed his hand over his forehead like a man who is

half dazed, and then fell rather than sat down upon a chair.

“I can see that you have not slept for a night or two,” said

Holmes, in his easy, genial way. “That tries a man’s nerves more

than work, and more even than pleasure. May I ask how I can help

you?”

“I wanted your advice, sir. I don’t know what to do and my whole

life seems to have gone to pieces.”

“You wish to employ me as a consulting detective?”

“Not that only. I want your opinion as a judicious man—as a man

of the world. I want to know what I ought to do next. I hope to

God you’ll be able to tell me.”

He spoke in little, sharp, jerky outbursts, and it seemed to me

that to speak at all was very painful to him, and that his will

all through was overriding his inclinations.

“It’s a very delicate thing,” said he. “One does not like to

speak of one’s domestic affairs to strangers. It seems dreadful

to discuss the conduct of one’s wife with two men whom I have

never seen before. It’s horrible to have to do it. But I’ve got

to the end of my tether, and I must have advice.”

“My dear Mr. Grant Munro—” began Holmes.

Our visitor sprang from his chair. “What!” he cried, “you know my

name?”

“If you wish to preserve your _incognito_,” said Holmes, smiling,

“I would suggest that you cease to write your name upon the

lining of your hat, or else that you turn the crown towards the

person whom you are addressing. I was about to say that my friend

and I have listened to a good many strange secrets in this room,

and that we have had the good fortune to bring peace to many

troubled souls. I trust that we may do as much for you. Might I

beg you, as time may prove to be of importance, to furnish me

with the facts of your case without further delay?”

Our visitor again passed his hand over his forehead, as if he

found it bitterly hard. From every gesture and expression I could

see that he was a reserved, self-contained man, with a dash of

pride in his nature, more likely to hide his wounds than to

expose them. Then suddenly, with a fierce gesture of his closed

hand, like one who throws reserve to the winds, he began.

“The facts are these, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “I am a married man,

and have been so for three years. During that time my wife and I

have loved each other as fondly and lived as happily as any two

that ever were joined. We have not had a difference, not one, in

thought or word or deed. And now, since last Monday, there has

suddenly sprung up a barrier between us, and I find that there is

something in her life and in her thought of which I know as

little as if she were the woman who brushes by me in the street.

We are estranged, and I want to know why.

“Now there is one thing that I want to impress upon you before I

go any further, Mr. Holmes. Effie loves me. Don’t let there be

any mistake about that. She loves me with her whole heart and

soul, and never more than now. I know it. I feel it. I don’t want

to argue about that. A man can tell easily enough when a woman

loves him. But there’s this secret between us, and we can never

be the same until it is cleared.”

“Kindly let me have the facts, Mr. Munro,” said Holmes, with some

impatience.

“I’ll tell you what I know about Effie’s history. She was a widow

when I met her first, though quite young—only twenty-five. Her

name then was Mrs. Hebron. She went out to America when she was

young, and lived in the town of Atlanta, where she married this

Hebron, who was a lawyer with a good practice. They had one

child, but the yellow fever broke out badly in the place, and

both husband and child died of it. I have seen his death

certificate. This sickened her of America, and she came back to

live with a maiden aunt at Pinner, in Middlesex. I may mention

that her husband had left her comfortably off, and that she had a

capital of about four thousand five hundred pounds, which had

been so well invested by him that it returned an average of seven

per cent. She had only been six months at Pinner when I met her;

we fell in love with each other, and we married a few weeks

afterwards.

“I am a hop merchant myself, and as I have an income of seven or

eight hundred, we found ourselves comfortably off, and took a

nice eighty-pound-a-year villa at Norbury. Our little place was

very countrified, considering that it is so close to town. We had

an inn and two houses a little above us, and a single cottage at

the other side of the field which faces us, and except those

there were no houses until you got half way to the station. My

business took me into town at certain seasons, but in summer I

had less to do, and then in our country home my wife and I were

just as happy as could be wished. I tell you that there never was

a shadow between us until this accursed affair began.

“There’s one thing I ought to tell you before I go further. When

we married, my wife made over all her property to me—rather

against my will, for I saw how awkward it would be if my business

affairs went wrong. However, she would have it so, and it was

done. Well, about six weeks ago she came to me.

“‘Jack,’ said she, ‘when you took my money you said that if ever

I wanted any I was to ask you for it.’

“‘Certainly,’ said I. ‘It’s all your own.’

“‘Well,’ said she, ‘I want a hundred pounds.’

“I was a bit staggered at this, for I had imagined it was simply

a new dress or something of the kind that she was after.

“‘What on earth for?’ I asked.

“‘Oh,’ said she, in her playful way, ‘you said that you were only

my banker, and bankers never ask questions, you know.’

“‘If you really mean it, of course you shall have the money,’

said I.

“‘Oh, yes, I really mean it.’

“‘And you won’t tell me what you want it for?’

“‘Some day, perhaps, but not just at present, Jack.’

“So I had to be content with that, though it was the first time

that there had ever been any secret between us. I gave her a

check, and I never thought any more of the matter. It may have

nothing to do with what came afterwards, but I thought it only

right to mention it.

“Well, I told you just now that there is a cottage not far from

our house. There is just a field between us, but to reach it you

have to go along the road and then turn down a lane. Just beyond

it is a nice little grove of Scotch firs, and I used to be very

fond of strolling down there, for trees are always a neighbourly

kind of things. The cottage had been standing empty this eight

months, and it was a pity, for it was a pretty two-storied place,

with an old-fashioned porch and honeysuckle about it. I have

stood many a time and thought what a neat little homestead it

would make.

“Well, last Monday evening I was taking a stroll down that way,

when I met an empty van coming up the lane, and saw a pile of

carpets and things lying about on the grass-plot beside the

porch. It was clear that the cottage had at last been let. I

walked past it, and wondered what sort of folk they were who had

come to live so near us. And as I looked I suddenly became aware

that a face was watching me out of one of the upper windows.

“I don’t know what there was about that face, Mr. Holmes, but it

seemed to send a chill right down my back. I was some little way

off, so that I could not make out the features, but there was

something unnatural and inhuman about the face. That was the

impression that I had, and I moved quickly forwards to get a

nearer view of the person who was watching me. But as I did so

the face suddenly disappeared, so suddenly that it seemed to have

been plucked away into the darkness of the room. I stood for five

minutes thinking the business over, and trying to analyze my

impressions. I could not tell if the face were that of a man or a

woman. It had been too far from me for that. But its colour was

what had impressed me most. It was of a livid chalky white, and

with something set and rigid about it which was shockingly

unnatural. So disturbed was I that I determined to see a little

more of the new inmates of the cottage. I approached and knocked

at the door, which was instantly opened by a tall, gaunt woman

with a harsh, forbidding face.

“‘What may you be wantin’?’ she asked, in a Northern accent.

“‘I am your neighbour over yonder,’ said I, nodding towards my

house. ‘I see that you have only just moved in, so I thought that

if I could be of any help to you in any—’

“‘Ay, we’ll just ask ye when we want ye,’ said she, and shut the

door in my face. Annoyed at the churlish rebuff, I turned my back

and walked home. All evening, though I tried to think of other

things, my mind would still turn to the apparition at the window

and the rudeness of the woman. I determined to say nothing about

the former to my wife, for she is a nervous, highly strung woman,

and I had no wish that she would share the unpleasant impression

which had been produced upon myself. I remarked to her, however,

before I fell asleep, that the cottage was now occupied, to which

she returned no reply.

“I am usually an extremely sound sleeper. It has been a standing

jest in the family that nothing could ever wake me during the

night. And yet somehow on that particular night, whether it may

have been the slight excitement produced by my little adventure

or not I know not, but I slept much more lightly than usual. Half

in my dreams I was dimly conscious that something was going on in

the room, and gradually became aware that my wife had dressed

herself and was slipping on her mantle and her bonnet. My lips

were parted to murmur out some sleepy words of surprise or

remonstrance at this untimely preparation, when suddenly my

half-opened eyes fell upon her face, illuminated by the

candle-light, and astonishment held me dumb. She wore an

expression such as I had never seen before—such as I should have

thought her incapable of assuming. She was deadly pale and

breathing fast, glancing furtively towards the bed as she

fastened her mantle, to see if she had disturbed me. Then,

thinking that I was still asleep, she slipped noiselessly from

the room, and an instant later I heard a sharp creaking which

could only come from the hinges of the front door. I sat up in

bed and rapped my knuckles against the rail to make certain that

I was truly awake. Then I took my watch from under the pillow. It

was three in the morning. What on this earth could my wife be

doing out on the country road at three in the morning?

“I had sat for about twenty minutes turning the thing over in my

mind and trying to find some possible explanation. The more I

thought, the more extraordinary and inexplicable did it appear. I

was still puzzling over it when I heard the door gently close

again, and her footsteps coming up the stairs.

“‘Where in the world have you been, Effie?’ I asked as she

entered.

“She gave a violent start and a kind of gasping cry when I spoke,

and that cry and start troubled me more than all the rest, for

there was something indescribably guilty about them. My wife had

always been a woman of a frank, open nature, and it gave me a

chill to see her slinking into her own room, and crying out and

wincing when her own husband spoke to her.

“‘You awake, Jack!’ she cried, with a nervous laugh. ‘Why, I

thought that nothing could awake you.’

“‘Where have you been?’ I asked, more sternly.

“‘I don’t wonder that you are surprised,’ said she, and I could

see that her fingers were trembling as she undid the fastenings

of her mantle. ‘Why, I never remember having done such a thing in

my life before. The fact is that I felt as though I were choking,

and had a perfect longing for a breath of fresh air. I really

think that I should have fainted if I had not gone out. I stood

at the door for a few minutes, and now I am quite myself again.’

“All the time that she was telling me this story she never once

looked in my direction, and her voice was quite unlike her usual

tones. It was evident to me that she was saying what was false. I

said nothing in reply, but turned my face to the wall, sick at

heart, with my mind filled with a thousand venomous doubts and

suspicions. What was it that my wife was concealing from me?

Where had she been during that strange expedition? I felt that I

should have no peace until I knew, and yet I shrank from asking

her again after once she had told me what was false. All the rest

of the night I tossed and tumbled, framing theory after theory,

each more unlikely than the last.

“I should have gone to the City that day, but I was too disturbed

in my mind to be able to pay attention to business matters. My

wife seemed to be as upset as myself, and I could see from the

little questioning glances which she kept shooting at me that she

understood that I disbelieved her statement, and that she was at

her wits’ end what to do. We hardly exchanged a word during

breakfast, and immediately afterwards I went out for a walk, that

I might think the matter out in the fresh morning air.

“I went as far as the Crystal Palace, spent an hour in the

grounds, and was back in Norbury by one o’clock. It happened that

my way took me past the cottage, and I stopped for an instant to

look at the windows, and to see if I could catch a glimpse of the

strange face which had looked out at me on the day before. As I

stood there, imagine my surprise, Mr. Holmes, when the door

suddenly opened and my wife walked out.

“I was struck dumb with astonishment at the sight of her; but my

emotions were nothing to those which showed themselves upon her

face when our eyes met. She seemed for an instant to wish to

shrink back inside the house again; and then, seeing how useless

all concealment must be, she came forward, with a very white face

and frightened eyes which belied the smile upon her lips.

“‘Ah, Jack,’ she said, ‘I have just been in to see if I can be of

any assistance to our new neighbours. Why do you look at me like

that, Jack? You are not angry with me?’

“‘So,’ said I, ‘this is where you went during the night.’

“‘What do you mean?’ she cried.

“‘You came here. I am sure of it. Who are these people, that you

should visit them at such an hour?’

“‘I have not been here before.’

“‘How can you tell me what you know is false?’ I cried. ‘Your

very voice changes as you speak. When have I ever had a secret

from you? I shall enter that cottage, and I shall probe the

matter to the bottom.’

“‘No, no, Jack, for God’s sake!’ she gasped, in uncontrollable

emotion. Then, as I approached the door, she seized my sleeve and

pulled me back with convulsive strength.

“‘I implore you not to do this, Jack,’ she cried. ‘I swear that I

will tell you everything some day, but nothing but misery can

come of it if you enter that cottage.’ Then, as I tried to shake

her off, she clung to me in a frenzy of entreaty.

“‘Trust me, Jack!’ she cried. ‘Trust me only this once. You will

never have cause to regret it. You know that I would not have a

secret from you if it were not for your own sake. Our whole lives

are at stake in this. If you come home with me, all will be well.

If you force your way into that cottage, all is over between us.’

“There was such earnestness, such despair, in her manner that her

words arrested me, and I stood irresolute before the door.

“‘I will trust you on one condition, and on one condition only,’

said I at last. ‘It is that this mystery comes to an end from

now. You are at liberty to preserve your secret, but you must

promise me that there shall be no more nightly visits, no more

doings which are kept from my knowledge. I am willing to forget

those which are passed if you will promise that there shall be no

more in the future.’

“‘I was sure that you would trust me,’ she cried, with a great

sigh of relief. ‘It shall be just as you wish. Come away—oh, come

away up to the house.’

“Still pulling at my sleeve, she led me away from the cottage. As

we went I glanced back, and there was that yellow livid face

watching us out of the upper window. What link could there be

between that creature and my wife? Or how could the coarse, rough

woman whom I had seen the day before be connected with her? It

was a strange puzzle, and yet I knew that my mind could never

know ease again until I had solved it.

“For two days after this I stayed at home, and my wife appeared

to abide loyally by our engagement, for, as far as I know, she

never stirred out of the house. On the third day, however, I had

ample evidence that her solemn promise was not enough to hold her

back from this secret influence which drew her away from her

husband and her duty.

“I had gone into town on that day, but I returned by the 2.40

instead of the 3.36, which is my usual train. As I entered the

house the maid ran into the hall with a startled face.

“‘Where is your mistress?’ I asked.

“‘I think that she has gone out for a walk,’ she answered.

“My mind was instantly filled with suspicion. I rushed upstairs

to make sure that she was not in the house. As I did so I

happened to glance out of one of the upper windows, and saw the

maid with whom I had just been speaking running across the field

in the direction of the cottage. Then of course I saw exactly

what it all meant. My wife had gone over there, and had asked the

servant to call her if I should return. Tingling with anger, I

rushed down and hurried across, determined to end the matter once

and forever. I saw my wife and the maid hurrying back along the

lane, but I did not stop to speak with them. In the cottage lay

the secret which was casting a shadow over my life. I vowed that,

come what might, it should be a secret no longer. I did not even

knock when I reached it, but turned the handle and rushed into

the passage.

“It was all still and quiet upon the ground floor. In the kitchen

a kettle was singing on the fire, and a large black cat lay

coiled up in the basket; but there was no sign of the woman whom

I had seen before. I ran into the other room, but it was equally

deserted. Then I rushed up the stairs, only to find two other

rooms empty and deserted at the top. There was no one at all in

the whole house. The furniture and pictures were of the most

common and vulgar description, save in the one chamber at the

window of which I had seen the strange face. That was comfortable

and elegant, and all my suspicions rose into a fierce bitter

flame when I saw that on the mantelpiece stood a copy of a

full-length photograph of my wife, which had been taken at my

request only three months ago.

“I stayed long enough to make certain that the house was

absolutely empty. Then I left it, feeling a weight at my heart

such as I had never had before. My wife came out into the hall as

I entered my house; but I was too hurt and angry to speak with

her, and pushing past her, I made my way into my study. She

followed me, however, before I could close the door.

“‘I am sorry that I broke my promise, Jack,’ said she; ‘but if

you knew all the circumstances I am sure that you would forgive

me.’

“‘Tell me everything, then,’ said I.

“‘I cannot, Jack, I cannot,’ she cried.

“‘Until you tell me who it is that has been living in that

cottage, and who it is to whom you have given that photograph,

there can never be any confidence between us,’ said I, and

breaking away from her, I left the house. That was yesterday, Mr.

Holmes, and I have not seen her since, nor do I know anything

more about this strange business. It is the first shadow that has

come between us, and it has so shaken me that I do not know what

I should do for the best. Suddenly this morning it occurred to me

that you were the man to advise me, so I have hurried to you now,

and I place myself unreservedly in your hands. If there is any

point which I have not made clear, pray question me about it.

But, above all, tell me quickly what I am to do, for this misery

is more than I can bear.”

Holmes and I had listened with the utmost interest to this

extraordinary statement, which had been delivered in the jerky,

broken fashion of a man who is under the influence of extreme

emotions. My companion sat silent for some time, with his chin

upon his hand, lost in thought.

“Tell me,” said he at last, “could you swear that this was a

man’s face which you saw at the window?”

“Each time that I saw it I was some distance away from it, so

that it is impossible for me to say.”

“You appear, however, to have been disagreeably impressed by it.”

“It seemed to be of an unnatural colour, and to have a strange

rigidity about the features. When I approached, it vanished with

a jerk.”

“How long is it since your wife asked you for a hundred pounds?”

“Nearly two months.”

“Have you ever seen a photograph of her first husband?”

“No; there was a great fire at Atlanta very shortly after his

death, and all her papers were destroyed.”

“And yet she had a certificate of death. You say that you saw

it.”

“Yes; she got a duplicate after the fire.”

“Did you ever meet any one who knew her in America?”

“No.”

“Did she ever talk of revisiting the place?”

“No.”

“Or get letters from it?”

“No.”

“Thank you. I should like to think over the matter a little now.

If the cottage is now permanently deserted we may have some

difficulty. If, on the other hand, as I fancy is more likely, the

inmates were warned of your coming, and left before you entered

yesterday, then they may be back now, and we should clear it all

up easily. Let me advise you, then, to return to Norbury, and to

examine the windows of the cottage again. If you have reason to

believe that it is inhabited, do not force your way in, but send

a wire to my friend and me. We shall be with you within an hour

of receiving it, and we shall then very soon get to the bottom of

the business.”

“And if it is still empty?”

“In that case I shall come out to-morrow and talk it over with

you. Good-by; and, above all, do not fret until you know that you

really have a cause for it.”

“I am afraid that this is a bad business, Watson,” said my

companion, as he returned after accompanying Mr. Grant Munro to

the door. “What do you make of it?”

“It had an ugly sound,” I answered.

“Yes. There’s blackmail in it, or I am much mistaken.”

“And who is the blackmailer?”

“Well, it must be the creature who lives in the only comfortable

room in the place, and has her photograph above his fireplace.

Upon my word, Watson, there is something very attractive about

that livid face at the window, and I would not have missed the

case for worlds.”

“You have a theory?”

“Yes, a provisional one. But I shall be surprised if it does not

turn out to be correct. This woman’s first husband is in that

cottage.”

“Why do you think so?”

“How else can we explain her frenzied anxiety that her second one

should not enter it? The facts, as I read them, are something

like this: This woman was married in America. Her husband

developed some hateful qualities; or shall we say that he

contracted some loathsome disease, and became a leper or an

imbecile? She flies from him at last, returns to England, changes

her name, and starts her life, as she thinks, afresh. She has

been married three years, and believes that her position is quite

secure, having shown her husband the death certificate of some

man whose name she has assumed, when suddenly her whereabouts is

discovered by her first husband; or, we may suppose, by some

unscrupulous woman who has attached herself to the invalid. They

write to the wife, and threaten to come and expose her. She asks

for a hundred pounds, and endeavours to buy them off. They come

in spite of it, and when the husband mentions casually to the

wife that there are new-comers in the cottage, she knows in some

way that they are her pursuers. She waits until her husband is

asleep, and then she rushes down to endeavour to persuade them to

leave her in peace. Having no success, she goes again next

morning, and her husband meets her, as he has told us, as she

comes out. She promises him then not to go there again, but two

days afterwards the hope of getting rid of those dreadful

neighbours was too strong for her, and she made another attempt,

taking down with her the photograph which had probably been

demanded from her. In the midst of this interview the maid rushed

in to say that the master had come home, on which the wife,

knowing that he would come straight down to the cottage, hurried

the inmates out at the back door, into the grove of fir-trees,

probably, which was mentioned as standing near. In this way he

found the place deserted. I shall be very much surprised,

however, if it is still so when he reconnoitres it this evening.

What do you think of my theory?”

“It is all surmise.”

“But at least it covers all the facts. When new facts come to our

knowledge which cannot be covered by it, it will be time enough

to reconsider it. We can do nothing more until we have a message

from our friend at Norbury.”

But we had not a very long time to wait for that. It came just as

we had finished our tea. “The cottage is still tenanted,” it

said. “Have seen the face again at the window. Will meet the

seven o’clock train, and will take no steps until you arrive.”

He was waiting on the platform when we stepped out, and we could

see in the light of the station lamps that he was very pale, and

quivering with agitation.

“They are still there, Mr. Holmes,” said he, laying his hand hard

upon my friend’s sleeve. “I saw lights in the cottage as I came

down. We shall settle it now once and for all.”

“What is your plan, then?” asked Holmes, as he walked down the

dark tree-lined road.

“I am going to force my way in and see for myself who is in the

house. I wish you both to be there as witnesses.”

“You are quite determined to do this, in spite of your wife’s

warning that it is better that you should not solve the mystery?”

“Yes, I am determined.”

“Well, I think that you are in the right. Any truth is better

than indefinite doubt. We had better go up at once. Of course,

legally, we are putting ourselves hopelessly in the wrong; but I

think that it is worth it.”

It was a very dark night, and a thin rain began to fall as we

turned from the high road into a narrow lane, deeply rutted, with

hedges on either side. Mr. Grant Munro pushed impatiently

forward, however, and we stumbled after him as best we could.

“There are the lights of my house,” he murmured, pointing to a

glimmer among the trees. “And here is the cottage which I am

going to enter.”

We turned a corner in the lane as he spoke, and there was the

building close beside us. A yellow bar falling across the black

foreground showed that the door was not quite closed, and one

window in the upper story was brightly illuminated. As we looked,

we saw a dark blur moving across the blind.

“There is that creature!” cried Grant Munro. “You can see for

yourselves that some one is there. Now follow me, and we shall

soon know all.”

We approached the door; but suddenly a woman appeared out of the

shadow and stood in the golden track of the lamp-light. I could

not see her face in the darkness, but her arms were thrown out in

an attitude of entreaty.

“For God’s sake, don’t Jack!” she cried. “I had a presentiment

that you would come this evening. Think better of it, dear! Trust

me again, and you will never have cause to regret it.”

“I have trusted you too long, Effie,” he cried, sternly. “Leave

go of me! I must pass you. My friends and I are going to settle

this matter once and forever!” He pushed her to one side, and we

followed closely after him. As he threw the door open an old

woman ran out in front of him and tried to bar his passage, but

he thrust her back, and an instant afterwards we were all upon

the stairs. Grant Munro rushed into the lighted room at the top,

and we entered at his heels.

It was a cosey, well-furnished apartment, with two candles

burning upon the table and two upon the mantelpiece. In the

corner, stooping over a desk, there sat what appeared to be a

little girl. Her face was turned away as we entered, but we could

see that she was dressed in a red frock, and that she had long

white gloves on. As she whisked round to us, I gave a cry of

surprise and horror. The face which she turned towards us was of

the strangest livid tint, and the features were absolutely devoid

of any expression. An instant later the mystery was explained.

Holmes, with a laugh, passed his hand behind the child’s ear, a

mask peeled off from her countenance, and there was a little coal

black negress, with all her white teeth flashing in amusement at

our amazed faces. I burst out laughing, out of sympathy with her

merriment; but Grant Munro stood staring, with his hand clutching

his throat.

“My God!” he cried. “What can be the meaning of this?”

“I will tell you the meaning of it,” cried the lady, sweeping

into the room with a proud, set face. “You have forced me,

against my own judgment, to tell you, and now we must both make

the best of it. My husband died at Atlanta. My child survived.”

“Your child?”

She drew a large silver locket from her bosom. “You have never

seen this open.”

“I understood that it did not open.”

She touched a spring, and the front hinged back. There was a

portrait within of a man strikingly handsome and

intelligent-looking, but bearing unmistakable signs upon his

features of his African descent.

“That is John Hebron, of Atlanta,” said the lady, “and a nobler

man never walked the earth. I cut myself off from my race in

order to wed him, but never once while he lived did I for an

instant regret it. It was our misfortune that our only child took

after his people rather than mine. It is often so in such

matches, and little Lucy is darker far than ever her father was.

But dark or fair, she is my own dear little girlie, and her

mother’s pet.” The little creature ran across at the words and

nestled up against the lady’s dress. “When I left her in

America,” she continued, “it was only because her health was

weak, and the change might have done her harm. She was given to

the care of a faithful Scotch woman who had once been our

servant. Never for an instant did I dream of disowning her as my

child. But when chance threw you in my way, Jack, and I learned

to love you, I feared to tell you about my child. God forgive me,

I feared that I should lose you, and I had not the courage to

tell you. I had to choose between you, and in my weakness I

turned away from my own little girl. For three years I have kept

her existence a secret from you, but I heard from the nurse, and

I knew that all was well with her. At last, however, there came

an overwhelming desire to see the child once more. I struggled

against it, but in vain. Though I knew the danger, I determined

to have the child over, if it were but for a few weeks. I sent a

hundred pounds to the nurse, and I gave her instructions about

this cottage, so that she might come as a neighbour, without my

appearing to be in any way connected with her. I pushed my

precautions so far as to order her to keep the child in the house

during the daytime, and to cover up her little face and hands so

that even those who might see her at the window should not gossip

about there being a black child in the neighbourhood. If I had

been less cautious I might have been more wise, but I was half

crazy with fear that you should learn the truth.

“It was you who told me first that the cottage was occupied. I

should have waited for the morning, but I could not sleep for

excitement, and so at last I slipped out, knowing how difficult

it is to awake you. But you saw me go, and that was the beginning

of my troubles. Next day you had my secret at your mercy, but you

nobly refrained from pursuing your advantage. Three days later,

however, the nurse and child only just escaped from the back door

as you rushed in at the front one. And now to-night you at last

know all, and I ask you what is to become of us, my child and

me?” She clasped her hands and waited for an answer.

It was a long ten minutes before Grant Munro broke the silence,

and when his answer came it was one of which I love to think. He

lifted the little child, kissed her, and then, still carrying

her, he held his other hand out to his wife and turned towards

the door.

“We can talk it over more comfortably at home,” said he. “I am

not a very good man, Effie, but I think that I am a better one

than you have given me credit for being.”

Holmes and I followed them down the lane, and my friend plucked

at my sleeve as we came out.

“I think,” said he, “that we shall be of more use in London than

in Norbury.”

Not another word did he say of the case until late that night,

when he was turning away, with his lighted candle, for his

bedroom.

“Watson,” said he, “if it should ever strike you that I am

getting a little over-confident in my powers, or giving less

pains to a case than it deserves, kindly whisper ‘Norbury’ in my

ear, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you.”

IV. The Stockbroker’s Clerk

Shortly after my marriage I had bought a connection in the

Paddington district. Old Mr. Farquhar, from whom I purchased it,

had at one time an excellent general practice; but his age, and

an affliction of the nature of St. Vitus’s dance from which he

suffered, had very much thinned it. The public not unnaturally

goes on the principle that he who would heal others must himself

be whole, and looks askance at the curative powers of the man

whose own case is beyond the reach of his drugs. Thus as my

predecessor weakened his practice declined, until when I

purchased it from him it had sunk from twelve hundred to little

more than three hundred a year. I had confidence, however, in my

own youth and energy, and was convinced that in a very few years

the concern would be as flourishing as ever.

For three months after taking over the practice I was kept very

closely at work, and saw little of my friend Sherlock Holmes, for

I was too busy to visit Baker Street, and he seldom went anywhere

himself save upon professional business. I was surprised,

therefore, when, one morning in June, as I sat reading the

_British Medical Journal_ after breakfast, I heard a ring at the

bell, followed by the high, somewhat strident tones of my old

companion’s voice.

“Ah, my dear Watson,” said he, striding into the room, “I am very

delighted to see you! I trust that Mrs. Watson has entirely

recovered from all the little excitements connected with our

adventure of the Sign of Four.”

“Thank you, we are both very well,” said I, shaking him warmly by

the hand.

“And I hope, also,” he continued, sitting down in the

rocking-chair, “that the cares of medical practice have not

entirely obliterated the interest which you used to take in our

little deductive problems.”

“On the contrary,” I answered, “it was only last night that I was

looking over my old notes, and classifying some of our past

results.”

“I trust that you don’t consider your collection closed.”

“Not at all. I should wish nothing better than to have some more

of such experiences.”

“To-day, for example?”

“Yes, to-day, if you like.”

“And as far off as Birmingham?”

“Certainly, if you wish it.”

“And the practice?”

“I do my neighbour’s when he goes. He is always ready to work off

the debt.”

“Ha! Nothing could be better,” said Holmes, leaning back in his

chair and looking keenly at me from under his half closed lids.

“I perceive that you have been unwell lately. Summer colds are

always a little trying.”

“I was confined to the house by a severe chill for three days

last week. I thought, however, that I had cast off every trace of

it.”

“So you have. You look remarkably robust.”

“How, then, did you know of it?”

“My dear fellow, you know my methods.”

“You deduced it, then?”

“Certainly.”

“And from what?”

“From your slippers.”

I glanced down at the new patent leathers which I was wearing.

“How on earth—” I began, but Holmes answered my question before

it was asked.

“Your slippers are new,” he said. “You could not have had them

more than a few weeks. The soles which you are at this moment

presenting to me are slightly scorched. For a moment I thought

they might have got wet and been burned in the drying. But near

the instep there is a small circular wafer of paper with the

shopman’s hieroglyphics upon it. Damp would of course have

removed this. You had, then, been sitting with your feet

outstretched to the fire, which a man would hardly do even in so

wet a June as this if he were in his full health.”

Like all Holmes’s reasoning the thing seemed simplicity itself

when it was once explained. He read the thought upon my features,

and his smile had a tinge of bitterness.

“I am afraid that I rather give myself away when I explain,” said

he. “Results without causes are much more impressive. You are

ready to come to Birmingham, then?”

“Certainly. What is the case?”

“You shall hear it all in the train. My client is outside in a

four-wheeler. Can you come at once?”

“In an instant.” I scribbled a note to my neighbour, rushed

upstairs to explain the matter to my wife, and joined Holmes upon

the door-step.

“Your neighbour is a doctor,” said he, nodding at the brass

plate.

“Yes; he bought a practice as I did.”

“An old-established one?”

“Just the same as mine. Both have been ever since the houses were

built.”

“Ah! Then you got hold of the best of the two.”

“I think I did. But how do you know?”

“By the steps, my boy. Yours are worn three inches deeper than

his. But this gentleman in the cab is my client, Mr. Hall

Pycroft. Allow me to introduce you to him. Whip your horse up,

cabby, for we have only just time to catch our train.”

The man whom I found myself facing was a well-built,

fresh-complexioned young fellow, with a frank, honest face and a

slight, crisp, yellow moustache. He wore a very shiny top hat and

a neat suit of sober black, which made him look what he was—a

smart young City man, of the class who have been labeled

cockneys, but who give us our crack volunteer regiments, and who

turn out more fine athletes and sportsmen than any body of men in

these islands. His round, ruddy face was naturally full of

cheeriness, but the corners of his mouth seemed to me to be

pulled down in a half-comical distress. It was not, however,

until we were all in a first-class carriage and well started upon

our journey to Birmingham that I was able to learn what the

trouble was which had driven him to Sherlock Holmes.

“We have a clear run here of seventy minutes,” Holmes remarked.

“I want you, Mr. Hall Pycroft, to tell my friend your very

interesting experience exactly as you have told it to me, or with

more detail if possible. It will be of use to me to hear the

succession of events again. It is a case, Watson, which may prove

to have something in it, or may prove to have nothing, but which,

at least, presents those unusual and _outré_ features which are

as dear to you as they are to me. Now, Mr. Pycroft, I shall not

interrupt you again.”

Our young companion looked at me with a twinkle in his eye.

“The worst of the story is,” said he, “that I show myself up as

such a confounded fool. Of course it may work out all right, and

I don’t see that I could have done otherwise; but if I have lost

my crib and get nothing in exchange I shall feel what a soft

Johnnie I have been. I’m not very good at telling a story, Dr.

Watson, but it is like this with me:

“I used to have a billet at Coxon & Woodhouse, of Drapers’

Gardens, but they were let in early in the spring through the

Venezuelan loan, as no doubt you remember, and came a nasty

cropper. I had been with them five years, and old Coxon gave me a

ripping good testimonial when the smash came, but of course we

clerks were all turned adrift, the twenty-seven of us. I tried

here and tried there, but there were lots of other chaps on the

same lay as myself, and it was a perfect frost for a long time. I

had been taking three pounds a week at Coxon’s, and I had saved

about seventy of them, but I soon worked my way through that and

out at the other end. I was fairly at the end of my tether at

last, and could hardly find the stamps to answer the

advertisements or the envelopes to stick them to. I had worn out

my boots paddling up office stairs, and I seemed just as far from

getting a billet as ever.

“At last I saw a vacancy at Mawson & Williams’, the great

stockbroking firm in Lombard Street. I daresay E.C. is not much

in your line, but I can tell you that this is about the richest

house in London. The advertisement was to be answered by letter

only. I sent in my testimonial and application, but without the

least hope of getting it. Back came an answer by return, saying

that if I would appear next Monday I might take over my new

duties at once, provided that my appearance was satisfactory. No

one knows how these things are worked. Some people say that the

manager just plunges his hand into the heap and takes the first

that comes. Anyhow it was my innings that time, and I don’t ever

wish to feel better pleased. The screw was a pound a week rise,

and the duties just about the same as at Coxon’s.

“And now I come to the queer part of the business. I was in

diggings out Hampstead way—17, Potter’s Terrace. Well, I was

sitting doing a smoke that very evening after I had been promised

the appointment, when up came my landlady with a card which had

‘Arthur Pinner, Financial Agent,’ printed upon it. I had never

heard the name before and could not imagine what he wanted with

me; but, of course, I asked her to show him up. In he walked, a

middle-sized, dark-haired, dark-eyed, black-bearded man, with a

touch of the Sheeny about his nose. He had a brisk kind of way

with him and spoke sharply, like a man who knew the value of

time.”

“‘Mr. Hall Pycroft, I believe?’” said he.

“‘Yes, sir,’ I answered, pushing a chair towards him.

“‘Lately engaged at Coxon & Woodhouse’s?’

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘And now on the staff of Mawson’s.’

“‘Quite so.’

“‘Well,’ said he, ‘the fact is that I have heard some really

extraordinary stories about your financial ability. You remember

Parker, who used to be Coxon’s manager? He can never say enough

about it.’

“Of course I was pleased to hear this. I had always been pretty

sharp in the office, but I had never dreamed that I was talked

about in the City in this fashion.

“‘You have a good memory?’ said he.

“‘Pretty fair,’ I answered, modestly.

“‘Have you kept in touch with the market while you have been out

of work?’ he asked.

“‘Yes; I read the Stock Exchange List every morning.’

“‘Now that shows real application!’ he cried. ‘That is the way to

prosper! You won’t mind my testing you, will you? Let me see. How

are Ayrshires?’

“‘A hundred and six and a quarter to a hundred and five and

seven-eighths.’

“‘And New Zealand Consolidated?’

“‘A hundred and four.

“‘And British Broken Hills?’

“‘Seven to seven-and-six.’

“‘Wonderful!’ he cried, with his hands up. ‘This quite fits in

with all that I had heard. My boy, my boy, you are very much too

good to be a clerk at Mawson’s!’

“This outburst rather astonished me, as you can think. ‘Well,’

said I, ‘other people don’t think quite so much of me as you seem

to do, Mr. Pinner. I had a hard enough fight to get this berth,

and I am very glad to have it.’

“‘Pooh, man; you should soar above it. You are not in your true

sphere. Now, I’ll tell you how it stands with me. What I have to

offer is little enough when measured by your ability, but when

compared with Mawson’s, it’s light to dark. Let me see. When do

you go to Mawson’s?’

“‘On Monday.’

“‘Ha, ha! I think I would risk a little sporting flutter that you

don’t go there at all.’

“‘Not go to Mawson’s?’

“‘No, sir. By that day you will be the business manager of the

Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, with a hundred and

thirty-four branches in the towns and villages of France, not

counting one in Brussels and one in San Remo.’

“This took my breath away. ‘I never heard of it,’ said I.

“‘Very likely not. It has been kept very quiet, for the capital

was all privately subscribed, and it’s too good a thing to let

the public into. My brother, Harry Pinner, is promoter, and joins

the board after allotment as managing director. He knew I was in

the swim down here, and asked me to pick up a good man cheap. A

young, pushing man with plenty of snap about him. Parker spoke of

you, and that brought me here to-night. We can only offer you a

beggarly five hundred to start with.’

“‘Five hundred a year!’ I shouted.

“‘Only that at the beginning; but you are to have an overriding

commission of one per cent on all business done by your agents,

and you may take my word for it that this will come to more than

your salary.’

“‘But I know nothing about hardware.’

“‘Tut, my boy; you know about figures.’

“My head buzzed, and I could hardly sit still in my chair. But

suddenly a little chill of doubt came upon me.

“‘I must be frank with you,’ said I. ‘Mawson only gives me two

hundred, but Mawson is safe. Now, really, I know so little about

your company that—’

“‘Ah, smart, smart!’ he cried, in a kind of ecstasy of delight.

‘You are the very man for us. You are not to be talked over, and

quite right, too. Now, here’s a note for a hundred pounds, and if

you think that we can do business you may just slip it into your

pocket as an advance upon your salary.’

“‘That is very handsome,’ said I. ‘When should I take over my new

duties?’

“‘Be in Birmingham to-morrow at one,’ said he. ‘I have a note in

my pocket here which you will take to my brother. You will find

him at 126B, Corporation Street, where the temporary offices of

the company are situated. Of course he must confirm your

engagement, but between ourselves it will be all right.’

“‘Really, I hardly know how to express my gratitude, Mr. Pinner,’

said I.

“‘Not at all, my boy. You have only got your deserts. There are

one or two small things—mere formalities—which I must arrange

with you. You have a bit of paper beside you there. Kindly write

upon it “I am perfectly willing to act as business manager to the

Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, at a minimum salary of

£500.”’

“I did as he asked, and he put the paper in his pocket.

“‘There is one other detail,’ said he. ‘What do you intend to do

about Mawson’s?’

“I had forgotten all about Mawson’s in my joy. ‘I’ll write and

resign,’ said I.

“‘Precisely what I don’t want you to do. I had a row over you

with Mawson’s manager. I had gone up to ask him about you, and he

was very offensive; accused me of coaxing you away from the

service of the firm, and that sort of thing. At last I fairly

lost my temper. “If you want good men you should pay them a good

price,” said I.’

“‘He would rather have our small price than your big one,’ said

he.

“‘I’ll lay you a fiver,’ said I, ‘that when he has my offer

you’ll never so much as hear from him again.’

“‘Done!’ said he. ‘We picked him out of the gutter, and he won’t

leave us so easily.’ Those were his very words.”

“‘The impudent scoundrel!’ I cried. ‘I’ve never so much as seen

him in my life. Why should I consider him in any way? I shall

certainly not write if you would rather I didn’t.’

“‘Good! That’s a promise,’ said he, rising from his chair. ‘Well,

I’m delighted to have got so good a man for my brother. Here’s

your advance of a hundred pounds, and here is the letter. Make a

note of the address, 126B, Corporation Street, and remember that

one o’clock to-morrow is your appointment. Good-night; and may

you have all the fortune that you deserve!’

“That’s just about all that passed between us, as near as I can

remember. You can imagine, Dr. Watson, how pleased I was at such

an extraordinary bit of good fortune. I sat up half the night

hugging myself over it, and next day I was off to Birmingham in a

train that would take me in plenty time for my appointment. I

took my things to a hotel in New Street, and then I made my way

to the address which had been given me.

“It was a quarter of an hour before my time, but I thought that

would make no difference. 126B, was a passage between two large

shops, which led to a winding stone stair, from which there were

many flats, let as offices to companies or professional men. The

names of the occupants were painted at the bottom on the wall,

but there was no such name as the Franco-Midland Hardware

Company, Limited. I stood for a few minutes with my heart in my

boots, wondering whether the whole thing was an elaborate hoax or

not, when up came a man and addressed me. He was very like the

chap I had seen the night before, the same figure and voice, but

he was clean shaven and his hair was lighter.

“‘Are you Mr. Hall Pycroft?’ he asked.

“‘Yes,’ said I.

“‘Oh! I was expecting you, but you are a trifle before your time.

I had a note from my brother this morning in which he sang your

praises very loudly.’

“‘I was just looking for the offices when you came.’

“‘We have not got our name up yet, for we only secured these

temporary premises last week. Come up with me, and we will talk

the matter over.’

“I followed him to the top of a very lofty stair, and there,

right under the slates, were a couple of empty, dusty little

rooms, uncarpeted and uncurtained, into which he led me. I had

thought of a great office with shining tables and rows of clerks,

such as I was used to, and I daresay I stared rather straight at

the two deal chairs and one little table, which, with a ledger

and a waste paper basket, made up the whole furniture.

“‘Don’t be disheartened, Mr. Pycroft,’ said my new acquaintance,

seeing the length of my face. ‘Rome was not built in a day, and

we have lots of money at our backs, though we don’t cut much dash

yet in offices. Pray sit down, and let me have your letter.’

“I gave it to him, and he read it over very carefully.

“‘You seem to have made a vast impression upon my brother

Arthur,’ said he; ‘and I know that he is a pretty shrewd judge.

He swears by London, you know; and I by Birmingham; but this time

I shall follow his advice. Pray consider yourself definitely

engaged.’

“‘What are my duties?’ I asked.

“‘You will eventually manage the great depôt in Paris, which will

pour a flood of English crockery into the shops of a hundred and

thirty-four agents in France. The purchase will be completed in a

week, and meanwhile you will remain in Birmingham and make

yourself useful.’

“‘How?’

“For answer, he took a big red book out of a drawer.

“‘This is a directory of Paris,’ said he, ‘with the trades after

the names of the people. I want you to take it home with you, and

to mark off all the hardware sellers, with their addresses. It

would be of the greatest use to me to have them.’

“‘Surely there are classified lists?’ I suggested.

“‘Not reliable ones. Their system is different from ours. Stick

at it, and let me have the lists by Monday, at twelve. Good-day,

Mr. Pycroft. If you continue to show zeal and intelligence you

will find the company a good master.’

“I went back to the hotel with the big book under my arm, and

with very conflicting feelings in my breast. On the one hand, I

was definitely engaged and had a hundred pounds in my pocket; on

the other, the look of the offices, the absence of name on the

wall, and other of the points which would strike a business man

had left a bad impression as to the position of my employers.

However, come what might, I had my money, so I settled down to my

task. All Sunday I was kept hard at work, and yet by Monday I had

only got as far as H. I went round to my employer, found him in

the same dismantled kind of room, and was told to keep at it

until Wednesday, and then come again. On Wednesday it was still

unfinished, so I hammered away until Friday—that is, yesterday.

Then I brought it round to Mr. Harry Pinner.

“‘Thank you very much,’ said he; ‘I fear that I underrated the

difficulty of the task. This list will be of very material

assistance to me.’

“‘It took some time,’ said I.

“‘And now,’ said he, ‘I want you to make a list of the furniture

shops, for they all sell crockery.’

“‘Very good.’

“‘And you can come up to-morrow evening, at seven, and let me

know how you are getting on. Don’t overwork yourself. A couple of

hours at Day’s Music Hall in the evening would do you no harm

after your labours.’ He laughed as he spoke, and I saw with a

thrill that his second tooth upon the left-hand side had been

very badly stuffed with gold.”

Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands with delight, and I stared with

astonishment at our client.

“You may well look surprised, Dr. Watson; but it is this way,”

said he: “When I was speaking to the other chap in London, at the

time that he laughed at my not going to Mawson’s, I happened to

notice that his tooth was stuffed in this very identical fashion.

The glint of the gold in each case caught my eye, you see. When I

put that with the voice and figure being the same, and only those

things altered which might be changed by a razor or a wig, I

could not doubt that it was the same man. Of course you expect

two brothers to be alike, but not that they should have the same

tooth stuffed in the same way. He bowed me out, and I found

myself in the street, hardly knowing whether I was on my head or

my heels. Back I went to my hotel, put my head in a basin of cold

water, and tried to think it out. Why had he sent me from London

to Birmingham? Why had he got there before me? And why had he

written a letter from himself to himself? It was altogether too

much for me, and I could make no sense of it. And then suddenly

it struck me that what was dark to me might be very light to Mr.

Sherlock Holmes. I had just time to get up to town by the night

train to see him this morning, and to bring you both back with me

to Birmingham.”

There was a pause after the stockbroker’s clerk had concluded his

surprising experience. Then Sherlock Holmes cocked his eye at me,

leaning back on the cushions with a pleased and yet critical

face, like a connoisseur who has just taken his first sip of a

comet vintage.

“Rather fine, Watson, is it not?” said he. “There are points in

it which please me. I think that you will agree with me that an

interview with Mr. Arthur Harry Pinner in the temporary offices

of the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, would be a

rather interesting experience for both of us.”

“But how can we do it?” I asked.

“Oh, easily enough,” said Hall Pycroft, cheerily. “You are two

friends of mine who are in want of a billet, and what could be

more natural than that I should bring you both round to the

managing director?”

“Quite so, of course,” said Holmes. “I should like to have a look

at the gentleman, and see if I can make anything of his little

game. What qualities have you, my friend, which would make your

services so valuable? or is it possible that—” He began biting

his nails and staring blankly out of the window, and we hardly

drew another word from him until we were in New Street.

At seven o’clock that evening we were walking, the three of us,

down Corporation Street to the company’s offices.

“It is no use our being at all before our time,” said our client.

“He only comes there to see me, apparently, for the place is

deserted up to the very hour he names.”

“That is suggestive,” remarked Holmes.

“By Jove, I told you so!” cried the clerk. “That’s he walking

ahead of us there.”

He pointed to a smallish, dark, well-dressed man who was bustling

along the other side of the road. As we watched him he looked

across at a boy who was bawling out the latest edition of the

evening paper, and running over among the cabs and busses, he

bought one from him. Then, clutching it in his hand, he vanished

through a doorway.

“There he goes!” cried Hall Pycroft. “These are the company’s

offices into which he has gone. Come with me, and I’ll fix it up

as easily as possible.”

Following his lead, we ascended five stories, until we found

ourselves outside a half-opened door, at which our client tapped.

A voice within bade us enter, and we entered a bare, unfurnished

room such as Hall Pycroft had described. At the single table sat

the man whom we had seen in the street, with his evening paper

spread out in front of him, and as he looked up at us it seemed

to me that I had never looked upon a face which bore such marks

of grief, and of something beyond grief—of a horror such as comes

to few men in a lifetime. His brow glistened with perspiration,

his cheeks were of the dull, dead white of a fish’s belly, and

his eyes were wild and staring. He looked at his clerk as though

he failed to recognise him, and I could see by the astonishment

depicted upon our conductor’s face that this was by no means the

usual appearance of his employer.

“You look ill, Mr. Pinner!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, I am not very well,” answered the other, making obvious

efforts to pull himself together, and licking his dry lips before

he spoke. “Who are these gentlemen whom you have brought with

you?”

“One is Mr. Harris, of Bermondsey, and the other is Mr. Price, of

this town,” said our clerk, glibly. “They are friends of mine and

gentlemen of experience, but they have been out of a place for

some little time, and they hoped that perhaps you might find an

opening for them in the company’s employment.”

“Very possibly! Very possibly!” cried Mr. Pinner with a ghastly

smile. “Yes, I have no doubt that we shall be able to do

something for you. What is your particular line, Mr. Harris?”

“I am an accountant,” said Holmes.

“Ah yes, we shall want something of the sort. And you, Mr.

Price?”

“A clerk,” said I.

“I have every hope that the company may accommodate you. I will

let you know about it as soon as we come to any conclusion. And

now I beg that you will go. For God’s sake leave me to myself!”

These last words were shot out of him, as though the constraint

which he was evidently setting upon himself had suddenly and

utterly burst asunder. Holmes and I glanced at each other, and

Hall Pycroft took a step towards the table.

“You forget, Mr. Pinner, that I am here by appointment to receive

some directions from you,” said he.

“Certainly, Mr. Pycroft, certainly,” the other resumed in a

calmer tone. “You may wait here a moment; and there is no reason

why your friends should not wait with you. I will be entirely at

your service in three minutes, if I might trespass upon your

patience so far.” He rose with a very courteous air, and, bowing

to us, he passed out through a door at the farther end of the

room, which he closed behind him.

“What now?” whispered Holmes. “Is he giving us the slip?”

“Impossible,” answered Pycroft.

“Why so?”

“That door leads into an inner room.”

“There is no exit?”

“None.”

“Is it furnished?”

“It was empty yesterday.”

“Then what on earth can he be doing? There is something which I

don’t understand in this manner. If ever a man was three parts

mad with terror, that man’s name is Pinner. What can have put the

shivers on him?”

“He suspects that we are detectives,” I suggested.

“That’s it,” cried Pycroft.

Holmes shook his head. “He did not turn pale. He was pale when we

entered the room,” said he. “It is just possible that—”

His words were interrupted by a sharp rat-tat from the direction

of the inner door.

“What the deuce is he knocking at his own door for?” cried the

clerk.

Again and much louder came the rat-tat-tat. We all gazed

expectantly at the closed door. Glancing at Holmes, I saw his

face turn rigid, and he leaned forward in intense excitement.

Then suddenly came a low guggling, gargling sound, and a brisk

drumming upon woodwork. Holmes sprang frantically across the room

and pushed at the door. It was fastened on the inner side.

Following his example, we threw ourselves upon it with all our

weight. One hinge snapped, then the other, and down came the door

with a crash. Rushing over it, we found ourselves in the inner

room. It was empty.

But it was only for a moment that we were at fault. At one

corner, the corner nearest the room which we had left, there was

a second door. Holmes sprang to it and pulled it open. A coat and

waistcoat were lying on the floor, and from a hook behind the

door, with his own braces round his neck, was hanging the

managing director of the Franco-Midland Hardware Company. His

knees were drawn up, his head hung at a dreadful angle to his

body, and the clatter of his heels against the door made the

noise which had broken in upon our conversation. In an instant I

had caught him round the waist, and held him up while Holmes and

Pycroft untied the elastic bands which had disappeared between

the livid creases of skin. Then we carried him into the other

room, where he lay with a clay-coloured face, puffing his purple

lips in and out with every breath—a dreadful wreck of all that he

had been but five minutes before.

“What do you think of him, Watson?” asked Holmes.

I stooped over him and examined him. His pulse was feeble and

intermittent, but his breathing grew longer, and there was a

little shivering of his eyelids, which showed a thin white slit

of ball beneath.

“It has been touch and go with him,” said I, “but he’ll live now.

Just open that window, and hand me the water carafe.” I undid his

collar, poured the cold water over his face, and raised and sank

his arms until he drew a long, natural breath. “It’s only a

question of time now,” said I, as I turned away from him.

Holmes stood by the table, with his hands deep in his trouser’s

pockets and his chin upon his breast.

“I suppose we ought to call the police in now,” said he. “And yet

I confess that I’d like to give them a complete case when they

come.”

“It’s a blessed mystery to me,” cried Pycroft, scratching his

head. “Whatever they wanted to bring me all the way up here for,

and then—”

“Pooh! All that is clear enough,” said Holmes impatiently. “It is

this last sudden move.”

“You understand the rest, then?”

“I think that it is fairly obvious. What do you say, Watson?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I must confess that I am out of my

depths,” said I.

“Oh, surely if you consider the events at first they can only

point to one conclusion.”

“What do you make of them?”

“Well, the whole thing hinges upon two points. The first is the

making of Pycroft write a declaration by which he entered the

service of this preposterous company. Do you not see how very

suggestive that is?”

“I am afraid I miss the point.”

“Well, why did they want him to do it? Not as a business matter,

for these arrangements are usually verbal, and there was no

earthly business reason why this should be an exception. Don’t

you see, my young friend, that they were very anxious to obtain a

specimen of your handwriting, and had no other way of doing it?”

“And why?”

“Quite so. Why? When we answer that we have made some progress

with our little problem. Why? There can be only one adequate

reason. Some one wanted to learn to imitate your writing, and had

to procure a specimen of it first. And now if we pass on to the

second point we find that each throws light upon the other. That

point is the request made by Pinner that you should not resign

your place, but should leave the manager of this important

business in the full expectation that a Mr. Hall Pycroft, whom he

had never seen, was about to enter the office upon the Monday

morning.”

“My God!” cried our client, “what a blind beetle I have been!”

“Now you see the point about the handwriting. Suppose that some

one turned up in your place who wrote a completely different hand

from that in which you had applied for the vacancy, of course the

game would have been up. But in the interval the rogue had

learned to imitate you, and his position was therefore secure, as

I presume that nobody in the office had ever set eyes upon you.”

“Not a soul,” groaned Hall Pycroft.

“Very good. Of course it was of the utmost importance to prevent

you from thinking better of it, and also to keep you from coming

into contact with any one who might tell you that your double was

at work in Mawson’s office. Therefore they gave you a handsome

advance on your salary, and ran you off to the Midlands, where

they gave you enough work to do to prevent your going to London,

where you might have burst their little game up. That is all

plain enough.”

“But why should this man pretend to be his own brother?”

“Well, that is pretty clear also. There are evidently only two of

them in it. The other is impersonating you at the office. This

one acted as your engager, and then found that he could not find

you an employer without admitting a third person into his plot.

That he was most unwilling to do. He changed his appearance as

far as he could, and trusted that the likeness, which you could

not fail to observe, would be put down to a family resemblance.

But for the happy chance of the gold stuffing, your suspicions

would probably never have been aroused.”

Hall Pycroft shook his clinched hands in the air. “Good Lord!” he

cried, “while I have been fooled in this way, what has this other

Hall Pycroft been doing at Mawson’s? What should we do, Mr.

Holmes? Tell me what to do.”

“We must wire to Mawson’s.”

“They shut at twelve on Saturdays.”

“Never mind. There may be some door-keeper or attendant—”

“Ah yes, they keep a permanent guard there on account of the

value of the securities that they hold. I remember hearing it

talked of in the City.”

“Very good; we shall wire to him, and see if all is well, and if

a clerk of your name is working there. That is clear enough; but

what is not so clear is why at sight of us one of the rogues

should instantly walk out of the room and hang himself.”

“The paper!” croaked a voice behind us. The man was sitting up,

blanched and ghastly, with returning reason in his eyes, and

hands which rubbed nervously at the broad red band which still

encircled his throat.

“The paper! Of course!” yelled Holmes, in a paroxysm of

excitement. “Idiot that I was! I thought so much of our visit

that the paper never entered my head for an instant. To be sure,

the secret must be there.” He flattened it out upon the table,

and a cry of triumph burst from his lips. “Look at this, Watson,”

he cried. “It is a London paper, an early edition of the _Evening

Standard_. Here is what we want. Look at the headlines: ‘Crime in

the City. Murder at Mawson & Williams’. Gigantic Attempted

Robbery. Capture of the Criminal.’ Here, Watson, we are all

equally anxious to hear it, so kindly read it aloud to us.”

It appeared from its position in the paper to have been the one

event of importance in town, and the account of it ran in this

way:

“A desperate attempt at robbery, culminating in the death of one

man and the capture of the criminal, occurred this afternoon in

the City. For some time back Mawson & Williams, the famous

financial house, have been the guardians of securities which

amount in the aggregate to a sum of considerably over a million

sterling. So conscious was the manager of the responsibility

which devolved upon him in consequence of the great interests at

stake that safes of the very latest construction have been

employed, and an armed watchman has been left day and night in

the building. It appears that last week a new clerk named Hall

Pycroft was engaged by the firm. This person appears to have been

none other than Beddington, the famous forger and cracksman, who,

with his brother, had only recently emerged from a five years’

spell of penal servitude. By some means, which are not yet clear,

he succeeded in winning, under a false name, this official

position in the office, which he utilised in order to obtain

moulding of various locks, and a thorough knowledge of the

position of the strong room and the safes.

“It is customary at Mawson’s for the clerks to leave at midday on

Saturday. Sergeant Tuson, of the City Police, was somewhat

surprised, therefore to see a gentleman with a carpet bag come

down the steps at twenty minutes past one. His suspicions being

aroused, the sergeant followed the man, and with the aid of

Constable Pollock succeeded, after a most desperate resistance,

in arresting him. It was at once clear that a daring and gigantic

robbery had been committed. Nearly a hundred thousand pounds’

worth of American railway bonds, with a large amount of scrip in

other mines and companies, was discovered in the bag. On

examining the premises the body of the unfortunate watchman was

found doubled up and thrust into the largest of the safes, where

it would not have been discovered until Monday morning had it not

been for the prompt action of Sergeant Tuson. The man’s skull had

been shattered by a blow from a poker delivered from behind.

There could be no doubt that Beddington had obtained entrance by

pretending that he had left something behind him, and having

murdered the watchman, rapidly rifled the large safe, and then

made off with his booty. His brother, who usually works with him,

has not appeared in this job as far as can at present be

ascertained, although the police are making energetic inquiries

as to his whereabouts.”

“Well, we may save the police some little trouble in that

direction,” said Holmes, glancing at the haggard figure huddled

up by the window. “Human nature is a strange mixture, Watson. You

see that even a villain and murderer can inspire such affection

that his brother turns to suicide when he learns that his neck is

forfeited. However, we have no choice as to our action. The

doctor and I will remain on guard, Mr. Pycroft, if you will have

the kindness to step out for the police.”

V. The “_Gloria Scott_”

“I have some papers here,” said my friend Sherlock Holmes, as we

sat one winter’s night on either side of the fire, “which I

really think, Watson, that it would be worth your while to glance

over. These are the documents in the extraordinary case of the

_Gloria Scott_, and this is the message which struck Justice of

the Peace Trevor dead with horror when he read it.”

He had picked from a drawer a little tarnished cylinder, and,

undoing the tape, he handed me a short note scrawled upon a

half-sheet of slate-grey paper.

“The supply of game for London is going steadily up,” it ran.

“Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now told to receive all

orders for fly-paper and for preservation of your hen-pheasant’s

life.”

As I glanced up from reading this enigmatical message, I saw

Holmes chuckling at the expression upon my face.

“You look a little bewildered,” said he.

“I cannot see how such a message as this could inspire horror. It

seems to me to be rather grotesque than otherwise.”

“Very likely. Yet the fact remains that the reader, who was a

fine, robust old man, was knocked clean down by it as if it had

been the butt end of a pistol.”

“You arouse my curiosity,” said I. “But why did you say just now

that there were very particular reasons why I should study this

case?”

“Because it was the first in which I was ever engaged.”

I had often endeavoured to elicit from my companion what had

first turned his mind in the direction of criminal research, but

had never caught him before in a communicative humour. Now he sat

forward in this armchair and spread out the documents upon his

knees. Then he lit his pipe and sat for some time smoking and

turning them over.

“You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?” he asked. “He was the

only friend I made during the two years I was at college. I was

never a very sociable fellow, Watson, always rather fond of

moping in my rooms and working out my own little methods of

thought, so that I never mixed much with the men of my year. Bar

fencing and boxing I had few athletic tastes, and then my line of

study was quite distinct from that of the other fellows, so that

we had no points of contact at all. Trevor was the only man I

knew, and that only through the accident of his bull terrier

freezing on to my ankle one morning as I went down to chapel.

“It was a prosaic way of forming a friendship, but it was

effective. I was laid by the heels for ten days, but Trevor used

to come in to inquire after me. At first it was only a minute’s

chat, but soon his visits lengthened, and before the end of the

term we were close friends. He was a hearty, full-blooded fellow,

full of spirits and energy, the very opposite to me in most

respects, but we had some subjects in common, and it was a bond

of union when I found that he was as friendless as I. Finally, he

invited me down to his father’s place at Donnithorpe, in Norfolk,

and I accepted his hospitality for a month of the long vacation.

“Old Trevor was evidently a man of some wealth and consideration,

a J.P. and a landed proprietor. Donnithorpe is a little hamlet

just to the north of Langmere, in the country of the Broads. The

house was an old-fashioned, wide-spread, oak-beamed brick

building, with a fine lime-lined avenue leading up to it. There

was excellent wild-duck shooting in the fens, remarkably good

fishing, a small but select library, taken over, as I understood,

from a former occupant, and a tolerable cook, so that he would be

a fastidious man who could not put in a pleasant month there.

“Trevor senior was a widower, and my friend his only son.

“There had been a daughter, I heard, but she had died of

diphtheria while on a visit to Birmingham. The father interested

me extremely. He was a man of little culture, but with a

considerable amount of rude strength, both physically and

mentally. He knew hardly any books, but he had travelled far, had

seen much of the world. And had remembered all that he had

learned. In person he was a thick-set, burly man with a shock of

grizzled hair, a brown, weather-beaten face, and blue eyes which

were keen to the verge of fierceness. Yet he had a reputation for

kindness and charity on the country-side, and was noted for the

leniency of his sentences from the bench.

“One evening, shortly after my arrival, we were sitting over a

glass of port after dinner, when young Trevor began to talk about

those habits of observation and inference which I had already

formed into a system, although I had not yet appreciated the part

which they were to play in my life. The old man evidently thought

that his son was exaggerating in his description of one or two

trivial feats which I had performed.

“‘Come, now, Mr. Holmes,’ said he, laughing good-humoredly. ‘I’m

an excellent subject, if you can deduce anything from me.’

“‘I fear there is not very much,’ I answered; ‘I might suggest

that you have gone about in fear of some personal attack within

the last twelve months.’

“The laugh faded from his lips, and he stared at me in great

surprise.

“‘Well, that’s true enough,’ said he. ‘You know, Victor,’ turning

to his son, ‘when we broke up that poaching gang, they swore to

knife us, and Sir Edward Holly has actually been attacked. I’ve

always been on my guard since then, though I have no idea how you

know it.’

“‘You have a very handsome stick,’ I answered. ‘By the

inscription I observed that you had not had it more than a year.

But you have taken some pains to bore the head of it and pour

melted lead into the hole so as to make it a formidable weapon. I

argued that you would not take such precautions unless you had

some danger to fear.’

“‘Anything else?’ he asked, smiling.

“‘You have boxed a good deal in your youth.’

“‘Right again. How did you know it? Is my nose knocked a little

out of the straight?’

“‘No,’ said I. ‘It is your ears. They have the peculiar

flattening and thickening which marks the boxing man.’

“‘Anything else?’

“‘You have done a good deal of digging by your callosities.’

“‘Made all my money at the gold fields.’

“‘You have been in New Zealand.’

“‘Right again.’

“‘You have visited Japan.’

“‘Quite true.’

“‘And you have been most intimately associated with some one

whose initials were J. A., and whom you afterwards were eager to

entirely forget.’

“Mr. Trevor stood slowly up, fixed his large blue eyes upon me

with a strange wild stare, and then pitched forward, with his

face among the nutshells which strewed the cloth, in a dead

faint.

“You can imagine, Watson, how shocked both his son and I were.

His attack did not last long, however, for when we undid his

collar, and sprinkled the water from one of the finger-glasses

over his face, he gave a gasp or two and sat up.

“‘Ah, boys,’ said he, forcing a smile, ‘I hope I haven’t

frightened you. Strong as I look, there is a weak place in my

heart, and it does not take much to knock me over. I don’t know

how you manage this, Mr. Holmes, but it seems to me that all the

detectives of fact and of fancy would be children in your hands.

That’s your line of life, sir, and you may take the word of a man

who has seen something of the world.’

“And that recommendation, with the exaggerated estimate of my

ability with which he prefaced it, was, if you will believe me,

Watson, the very first thing which ever made me feel that a

profession might be made out of what had up to that time been the

merest hobby. At the moment, however, I was too much concerned at

the sudden illness of my host to think of anything else.

“‘I hope that I have said nothing to pain you?’ said I.

“‘Well, you certainly touched upon rather a tender point. Might I

ask how you know, and how much you know?’ He spoke now in a

half-jesting fashion, but a look of terror still lurked at the

back of his eyes.

“‘It is simplicity itself,’ said I. ‘When you bared your arm to

draw that fish into the boat I saw that J. A. had been tattooed

in the bend of the elbow. The letters were still legible, but it

was perfectly clear from their blurred appearance, and from the

staining of the skin round them, that efforts had been made to

obliterate them. It was obvious, then, that those initials had

once been very familiar to you, and that you had afterwards

wished to forget them.’

“What an eye you have!” he cried, with a sigh of relief. ‘It is

just as you say. But we won’t talk of it. Of all ghosts the

ghosts of our old lovers are the worst. Come into the

billiard-room and have a quiet cigar.’

“From that day, amid all his cordiality, there was always a touch

of suspicion in Mr. Trevor’s manner towards me. Even his son

remarked it. ‘You’ve given the governor such a turn,’ said he,

‘that he’ll never be sure again of what you know and what you

don’t know.’ He did not mean to show it, I am sure, but it was so

strongly in his mind that it peeped out at every action. At last

I became so convinced that I was causing him uneasiness that I

drew my visit to a close. On the very day, however, before I

left, an incident occurred which proved in the sequel to be of

importance.

“We were sitting out upon the lawn on garden chairs, the three of

us, basking in the sun and admiring the view across the Broads,

when a maid came out to say that there was a man at the door who

wanted to see Mr. Trevor.

“‘What is his name?’ asked my host.

“‘He would not give any.’

“‘What does he want, then?’

“‘He says that you know him, and that he only wants a moment’s

conversation.’

“‘Show him round here.’ An instant afterwards there appeared a

little wizened fellow with a cringing manner and a shambling

style of walking. He wore an open jacket, with a splotch of tar

on the sleeve, a red-and-black check shirt, dungaree trousers,

and heavy boots badly worn. His face was thin and brown and

crafty, with a perpetual smile upon it, which showed an irregular

line of yellow teeth, and his crinkled hands were half closed in

a way that is distinctive of sailors. As he came slouching across

the lawn I heard Mr. Trevor make a sort of hiccoughing noise in

his throat, and jumping out of his chair, he ran into the house.

He was back in a moment, and I smelt a strong reek of brandy as

he passed me.

“‘Well, my man,’ said he, ‘what can I do for you?’

“The sailor stood looking at him with puckered eyes, and with the

same loose-lipped smile upon his face.

“‘You don’t know me?’ he asked.

“‘Why, dear me, it is surely Hudson,’ said Mr. Trevor in a tone

of surprise.

“‘Hudson it is, sir,’ said the seaman. ‘Why, it’s thirty year and

more since I saw you last. Here you are in your house, and me

still picking my salt meat out of the harness cask.’

“‘Tut, you will find that I have not forgotten old times,’ cried

Mr. Trevor, and, walking towards the sailor, he said something in

a low voice. ‘Go into the kitchen,’ he continued out loud, ‘and

you will get food and drink. I have no doubt that I shall find

you a situation.’

“‘Thank you, sir,’ said the seaman, touching his forelock. ‘I’m

just off a two-yearer in an eight-knot tramp, short-handed at

that, and I wants a rest. I thought I’d get it either with Mr.

Beddoes or with you.’

“‘Ah!’ cried Trevor. ‘You know where Mr. Beddoes is?’

“‘Bless you, sir, I know where all my old friends are,’ said the

fellow with a sinister smile, and he slouched off after the maid

to the kitchen. Mr. Trevor mumbled something to us about having

been shipmate with the man when he was going back to the

diggings, and then, leaving us on the lawn, he went indoors. An

hour later, when we entered the house, we found him stretched

dead drunk upon the dining-room sofa. The whole incident left a

most ugly impression upon my mind, and I was not sorry next day

to leave Donnithorpe behind me, for I felt that my presence must

be a source of embarrassment to my friend.

“All this occurred during the first month of the long vacation. I

went up to my London rooms, where I spent seven weeks working out

a few experiments in organic chemistry. One day, however, when

the autumn was far advanced and the vacation drawing to a close,

I received a telegram from my friend imploring me to return to

Donnithorpe, and saying that he was in great need of my advice

and assistance. Of course I dropped everything and set out for

the North once more.

“He met me with the dog-cart at the station, and I saw at a

glance that the last two months had been very trying ones for

him. He had grown thin and careworn, and had lost the loud,

cheery manner for which he had been remarkable.

“‘The governor is dying,’ were the first words he said.

“‘Impossible!’ I cried. ‘What is the matter?’

“‘Apoplexy. Nervous shock, He’s been on the verge all day. I

doubt if we shall find him alive.’

“I was, as you may think, Watson, horrified at this unexpected

news.

“‘What has caused it?’ I asked.

“‘Ah, that is the point. Jump in and we can talk it over while we

drive. You remember that fellow who came upon the evening before

you left us?’

“‘Perfectly.’

“‘Do you know who it was that we let into the house that day?’

“‘I have no idea.’

“‘It was the devil, Holmes,’ he cried.

“I stared at him in astonishment.

“‘Yes, it was the devil himself. We have not had a peaceful hour

since—not one. The governor has never held up his head from that

evening, and now the life has been crushed out of him and his

heart broken, all through this accursed Hudson.’

“‘What power had he, then?’

“‘Ah, that is what I would give so much to know. The kindly,

charitable, good old governor—how could he have fallen into the

clutches of such a ruffian! But I am so glad that you have come,

Holmes. I trust very much to your judgment and discretion, and I

know that you will advise me for the best.’

“We were dashing along the smooth white country road, with the

long stretch of the Broads in front of us glimmering in the red

light of the setting sun. From a grove upon our left I could

already see the high chimneys and the flag-staff which marked the

squire’s dwelling.

“‘My father made the fellow gardener,’ said my companion, ‘and

then, as that did not satisfy him, he was promoted to be butler.

The house seemed to be at his mercy, and he wandered about and

did what he chose in it. The maids complained of his drunken

habits and his vile language. The dad raised their wages all

round to recompense them for the annoyance. The fellow would take

the boat and my father’s best gun and treat himself to little

shooting trips. And all this with such a sneering, leering,

insolent face that I would have knocked him down twenty times

over if he had been a man of my own age. I tell you, Holmes, I

have had to keep a tight hold upon myself all this time; and now

I am asking myself whether, if I had let myself go a little more,

I might not have been a wiser man.

“‘Well, matters went from bad to worse with us, and this animal

Hudson became more and more intrusive, until at last, on making

some insolent reply to my father in my presence one day, I took

him by the shoulders and turned him out of the room. He slunk

away with a livid face and two venomous eyes which uttered more

threats than his tongue could do. I don’t know what passed

between the poor dad and him after that, but the dad came to me

next day and asked me whether I would mind apologising to Hudson.

I refused, as you can imagine, and asked my father how he could

allow such a wretch to take such liberties with himself and his

household.

“‘“Ah, my boy,” said he, “it is all very well to talk, but you

don’t know how I am placed. But you shall know, Victor. I’ll see

that you shall know, come what may. You wouldn’t believe harm of

your poor old father, would you, lad?” He was very much moved,

and shut himself up in the study all day, where I could see

through the window that he was writing busily.

“‘That evening there came what seemed to me to be a grand

release, for Hudson told us that he was going to leave us. He

walked into the dining-room as we sat after dinner, and announced

his intention in the thick voice of a half-drunken man.

“‘“I’ve had enough of Norfolk,” said he. “I’ll run down to Mr.

Beddoes in Hampshire. He’ll be as glad to see me as you were, I

daresay.”

“‘“You’re not going away in an unkind spirit, Hudson, I hope,”

said my father, with a tameness which made my blood boil.

“‘“I’ve not had my ’pology,” said he sulkily, glancing in my

direction.

“‘“Victor, you will acknowledge that you have used this worthy

fellow rather roughly,” said the dad, turning to me.

“‘“On the contrary, I think that we have both shown extraordinary

patience towards him,” I answered.

“‘“Oh, you do, do you?” he snarls. “Very good, mate. We’ll see

about that!” He slouched out of the room, and half an hour

afterwards left the house, leaving my father in a state of

pitiable nervousness. Night after night I heard him pacing his

room, and it was just as he was recovering his confidence that

the blow did at last fall.

“‘And how?’ I asked eagerly.

“‘In a most extraordinary fashion. A letter arrived for my father

yesterday evening, bearing the Fordingbridge postmark. My father

read it, clapped both his hands to his head, and began running

round the room in little circles like a man who has been driven

out of his senses. When I at last drew him down on to the sofa,

his mouth and eyelids were all puckered on one side, and I saw

that he had a stroke. Dr. Fordham came over at once. We put him

to bed; but the paralysis has spread, he has shown no sign of

returning consciousness, and I think that we shall hardly find

him alive.’

“‘You horrify me, Trevor!’ I cried. ‘What then could have been in

this letter to cause so dreadful a result?’

“‘Nothing. There lies the inexplicable part of it. The message

was absurd and trivial. Ah, my God, it is as I feared!’

“As he spoke we came round the curve of the avenue, and saw in

the fading light that every blind in the house had been drawn

down. As we dashed up to the door, my friend’s face convulsed

with grief, a gentleman in black emerged from it.

“‘When did it happen, doctor?’ asked Trevor.

“‘Almost immediately after you left.’

“‘Did he recover consciousness?’

“‘For an instant before the end.’

“‘Any message for me?’

“‘Only that the papers were in the back drawer of the Japanese

cabinet.’

“My friend ascended with the doctor to the chamber of death,

while I remained in the study, turning the whole matter over and

over in my head, and feeling as sombre as ever I had done in my

life. What was the past of this Trevor, pugilist, traveler, and

gold-digger, and how had he placed himself in the power of this

acid-faced seaman? Why, too, should he faint at an allusion to

the half-effaced initials upon his arm, and die of fright when he

had a letter from Fordingbridge? Then I remembered that

Fordingbridge was in Hampshire, and that this Mr. Beddoes, whom

the seaman had gone to visit and presumably to blackmail, had

also been mentioned as living in Hampshire. The letter, then,

might either come from Hudson, the seaman, saying that he had

betrayed the guilty secret which appeared to exist, or it might

come from Beddoes, warning an old confederate that such a

betrayal was imminent. So far it seemed clear enough. But then

how could this letter be trivial and grotesque, as described by

the son? He must have misread it. If so, it must have been one of

those ingenious secret codes which mean one thing while they seem

to mean another. I must see this letter. If there were a hidden

meaning in it, I was confident that I could pluck it forth. For

an hour I sat pondering over it in the gloom, until at last a

weeping maid brought in a lamp, and close at her heels came my

friend Trevor, pale but composed, with these very papers which

lie upon my knee held in his grasp. He sat down opposite to me,

drew the lamp to the edge of the table, and handed me a short

note scribbled, as you see, upon a single sheet of grey paper.

‘The supply of game for London is going steadily up,’ it ran.

‘Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now told to receive all

orders for fly paper and for preservation of your hen pheasant’s

life.’

“I daresay my face looked as bewildered as yours did just now

when first I read this message. Then I reread it very carefully.

It was evidently as I had thought, and some secret meaning must

lie buried in this strange combination of words. Or could it be

that there was a prearranged significance to such phrases as ‘fly

paper’ and ‘hen pheasant’? Such a meaning would be arbitrary and

could not be deduced in any way. And yet I was loath to believe

that this was the case, and the presence of the word ‘Hudson’

seemed to show that the subject of the message was as I had

guessed, and that it was from Beddoes rather than the sailor. I

tried it backwards, but the combination ‘life pheasant’s hen’ was

not encouraging. Then I tried alternate words, but neither ‘The

of for’ nor ‘supply game London’ promised to throw any light upon

it. And then in an instant the key of the riddle was in my hands,

and I saw that every third word, beginning with the first, would

give a message which might well drive old Trevor to despair.

“It was short and terse, the warning, as I now read it to my

companion:

“‘The game is up. Hudson has told all. Fly for your life.’

“Victor Trevor sank his face into his shaking hands. ‘It must be

that, I suppose,’ said he. ‘This is worse than death, for it

means disgrace as well. But what is the meaning of these

“head-keepers” and “hen pheasants”?’

“‘It means nothing to the message, but it might mean a good deal

to us if we had no other means of discovering the sender. You see

that he has begun by writing “The ... game ... is,” and so on.

Afterwards he had, to fulfill the prearranged cipher, to fill in

any two words in each space. He would naturally use the first

words which came to his mind, and if there were so many which

referred to sport among them, you may be tolerably sure that he

is either an ardent shot or interested in breeding. Do you know

anything of this Beddoes?’

“‘Why, now that you mention it,’ said he, ‘I remember that my

poor father used to have an invitation from him to shoot over his

preserves every autumn.’

“‘Then it is undoubtedly from him that the note comes,’ said I.

‘It only remains for us to find out what this secret was which

the sailor Hudson seems to have held over the heads of these two

wealthy and respected men.’

“‘Alas, Holmes, I fear that it is one of sin and shame!’ cried my

friend. ‘But from you I shall have no secrets. Here is the

statement which was drawn up by my father when he knew that the

danger from Hudson had become imminent. I found it in the

Japanese cabinet, as he told the doctor. Take it and read it to

me, for I have neither the strength nor the courage to do it

myself.’

“These are the very papers, Watson, which he handed to me, and I

will read them to you, as I read them in the old study that night

to him. They are endorsed outside, as you see, ‘Some particulars

of the voyage of the bark _Gloria Scott_, from her leaving

Falmouth on the 8th October, 1855, to her destruction in N. lat.

15º 20’, W. long. 25º 14’ on Nov. 6th.’ It is in the form of a

letter, and runs in this way:

“‘My dear, dear son,—Now that approaching disgrace begins to

darken the closing years of my life, I can write with all truth

and honesty that it is not the terror of the law, it is not the

loss of my position in the county, nor is it my fall in the eyes

of all who have known me, which cuts me to the heart; but it is

the thought that you should come to blush for me—you who love me

and who have seldom, I hope, had reason to do other than respect

me. But if the blow falls which is forever hanging over me, then

I should wish you to read this, that you may know straight from

me how far I have been to blame. On the other hand, if all should

go well (which may kind God Almighty grant!), then if by any

chance this paper should be still undestroyed and should fall

into your hands, I conjure you, by all you hold sacred, by the

memory of your dear mother, and by the love which had been

between us, to hurl it into the fire and to never give one

thought to it again.

“‘If then your eye goes on to read this line, I know that I shall

already have been exposed and dragged from my home, or as is more

likely, for you know that my heart is weak, by lying with my

tongue sealed forever in death. In either case the time for

suppression is past, and every word which I tell you is the naked

truth, and this I swear as I hope for mercy.

“‘My name, dear lad, is not Trevor. I was James Armitage in my

younger days, and you can understand now the shock that it was to

me a few weeks ago when your college friend addressed me in words

which seemed to imply that he had surmised my secret. As Armitage

it was that I entered a London banking house, and as Armitage I

was convicted of breaking my country’s laws, and was sentenced to

transportation. Do not think very harshly of me, laddie. It was a

debt of honour, so called, which I had to pay, and I used money

which was not my own to do it, in the certainty that I could

replace it before there could be any possibility of its being

missed. But the most dreadful ill-luck pursued me. The money

which I had reckoned upon never came to hand, and a premature

examination of accounts exposed my deficit. The case might have

been dealt leniently with, but the laws were more harshly

administered thirty years ago than now, and on my twenty-third

birthday I found myself chained as a felon with thirty-seven

other convicts in ’tween-decks of the barque _Gloria Scott_,

bound for Australia.

“‘It was the year ’55 when the Crimean war was at its height, and

the old convict ships had been largely used as transports in the

Black Sea. The government was compelled, therefore, to use

smaller and less suitable vessels for sending out their

prisoners. The _Gloria Scott_ had been in the Chinese tea trade,

but she was an old-fashioned, heavy-bowed, broad-beamed craft,

and the new clippers had cut her out. She was a five-hundred-ton

boat, and besides her thirty-eight gaol-birds, she carried

twenty-six of a crew, eighteen soldiers, a captain, three mates,

a doctor, a chaplain, and four warders. Nearly a hundred souls

were in her, all told, when we set sail from Falmouth.

“‘The partitions between the cells of the convicts, instead of

being of thick oak, as is usual in convict-ships, were quite thin

and frail. The man next to me, upon the aft side, was one whom I

had particularly noticed when we were led down the quay. He was a

young man with a clear, hairless face, a long, thin nose, and

rather nut-cracker jaws. He carried his head very jauntily in the

air, had a swaggering style of walking, and was, above all else,

remarkable for his extraordinary height. I don’t think any of our

heads would have come up to his shoulder, and I am sure that he

could not have measured less than six and a half feet. It was

strange among so many sad and weary faces to see one which was

full of energy and resolution. The sight of it was to me like a

fire in a snowstorm. I was glad, then, to find that he was my

neighbour, and gladder still when, in the dead of the night, I

heard a whisper close to my ear, and found that he had managed to

cut an opening in the board which separated us.

“‘“Hallao, chummy!” said he, “what’s your name, and what are you

here for?”

“‘I answered him, and asked in turn who I was talking with.

“‘“I’m Jack Prendergast,” said he, “and by God! You’ll learn to

bless my name before you’ve done with me.”

“‘I remembered hearing of his case, for it was one which had made

an immense sensation throughout the country some time before my

own arrest. He was a man of good family and of great ability, but

of incurably vicious habits, who had by an ingenious system of

fraud obtained huge sums of money from the leading London

merchants.

“‘“Ha, ha! You remember my case!” said he proudly.

“‘“Very well, indeed.”

“‘“Then maybe you remember something queer about it?”

“‘“What was that, then?”

“‘“I’d had nearly a quarter of a million, hadn’t I?”

“‘“So it was said.”

“‘“But none was recovered, eh?”

“‘“No.”

“‘“Well, where d’ye suppose the balance is?” he asked.

“‘“I have no idea,” said I.

“‘“Right between my finger and thumb,” he cried. “By God! I’ve

got more pounds to my name than you’ve hairs on your head. And if

you’ve money, my son, and know how to handle it and spread it,

you can do _anything!_ Now, you don’t think it likely that a man

who could do anything is going to wear his breeches out sitting

in the stinking hold of a rat-gutted, beetle-ridden, mouldy old

coffin of a China coaster. No, sir, such a man will look after

himself and will look after his chums. You may lay to that! You

hold on to him, and you may kiss the book that he’ll haul you

through.”

“‘That was his style of talk, and at first I thought it meant

nothing; but after a while, when he had tested me and sworn me in

with all possible solemnity, he let me understand that there

really was a plot to gain command of the vessel. A dozen of the

prisoners had hatched it before they came aboard, Prendergast was

the leader, and his money was the motive power.

“‘“I’d a partner,” said he, “a rare good man, as true as a stock

to a barrel. He’s got the dibbs, he has, and where do you think

he is at this moment? Why, he’s the chaplain of this ship—the

chaplain, no less! He came aboard with a black coat, and his

papers right, and money enough in his box to buy the thing right

up from keel to main-truck. The crew are his, body and soul. He

could buy ’em at so much a gross with a cash discount, and he did

it before ever they signed on. He’s got two of the warders and

Mercer, the second mate, and he’d get the captain himself, if he

thought him worth it.”

“‘“What are we to do, then?” I asked.

“‘“What do you think?” said he. “We’ll make the coats of some of

these soldiers redder than ever the tailor did.”

“‘“But they are armed,” said I.

“‘“And so shall we be, my boy. There’s a brace of pistols for

every mother’s son of us, and if we can’t carry this ship, with

the crew at our back, it’s time we were all sent to a young

misses’ boarding-school. You speak to your mate upon the left

to-night, and see if he is to be trusted.”

“‘I did so, and found my other neighbour to be a young fellow in

much the same position as myself, whose crime had been forgery.

His name was Evans, but he afterwards changed it, like myself,

and he is now a rich and prosperous man in the south of England.

He was ready enough to join the conspiracy, as the only means of

saving ourselves, and before we had crossed the Bay there were

only two of the prisoners who were not in the secret. One of

these was of weak mind, and we did not dare to trust him, and the

other was suffering from jaundice, and could not be of any use to

us.

““From the beginning there was really nothing to prevent us from

taking possession of the ship. The crew were a set of ruffians,

specially picked for the job. The sham chaplain came into our

cells to exhort us, carrying a black bag, supposed to be full of

tracts, and so often did he come that by the third day we had

each stowed away at the foot of our beds a file, a brace of

pistols, a pound of powder, and twenty slugs. Two of the warders

were agents of Prendergast, and the second mate was his

right-hand man. The captain, the two mates, two warders,

Lieutenant Martin, his eighteen soldiers, and the doctor were all

that we had against us. Yet, safe as it was, we determined to

neglect no precaution, and to make our attack suddenly by night.

It came, however, more quickly than we expected, and in this way.

“‘One evening, about the third week after our start, the doctor

had come down to see one of the prisoners who was ill, and

putting his hand down on the bottom of his bunk he felt the

outline of the pistols. If he had been silent he might have blown

the whole thing, but he was a nervous little chap, so he gave a

cry of surprise and turned so pale that the man knew what was up

in an instant and seized him. He was gagged before he could give

the alarm, and tied down upon the bed. He had unlocked the door

that led to the deck, and we were through it in a rush. The two

sentries were shot down, and so was a corporal who came running

to see what was the matter. There were two more soldiers at the

door of the state-room, and their muskets seemed not to be

loaded, for they never fired upon us, and they were shot while

trying to fix their bayonets. Then we rushed on into the

captain’s cabin, but as we pushed open the door there was an

explosion from within, and there he lay with his brains smeared

over the chart of the Atlantic which was pinned upon the table,

while the chaplain stood with a smoking pistol in his hand at his

elbow. The two mates had both been seized by the crew, and the

whole business seemed to be settled.

“‘The state-room was next the cabin, and we flocked in there and

flopped down on the settees, all speaking together, for we were

just mad with the feeling that we were free once more. There were

lockers all round, and Wilson, the sham chaplain, knocked one of

them in, and pulled out a dozen of brown sherry. We cracked off

the necks of the bottles, poured the stuff out into tumblers, and

were just tossing them off, when in an instant without warning

there came the roar of muskets in our ears, and the saloon was so

full of smoke that we could not see across the table. When it

cleared again the place was a shambles. Wilson and eight others

were wriggling on the top of each other on the floor, and the

blood and the brown sherry on that table turn me sick now when I

think of it. We were so cowed by the sight that I think we should

have given the job up if it had not been for Prendergast. He

bellowed like a bull and rushed for the door with all that were

left alive at his heels. Out we ran, and there on the poop were

the lieutenant and ten of his men. The swing skylights above the

saloon table had been a bit open, and they had fired on us

through the slit. We got on them before they could load, and they

stood to it like men; but we had the upper hand of them, and in

five minutes it was all over. My God! Was there ever a

slaughter-house like that ship! Prendergast was like a raging

devil, and he picked the soldiers up as if they had been children

and threw them overboard alive or dead. There was one sergeant

that was horribly wounded and yet kept on swimming for a

surprising time, until some one in mercy blew out his brains.

When the fighting was over there was no one left of our enemies

except just the warders, the mates, and the doctor.

“‘It was over them that the great quarrel arose. There were many

of us who were glad enough to win back our freedom, and yet who

had no wish to have murder on our souls. It was one thing to

knock the soldiers over with their muskets in their hands, and it

was another to stand by while men were being killed in cold

blood. Eight of us, five convicts and three sailors, said that we

would not see it done. But there was no moving Prendergast and

those who were with him. Our only chance of safety lay in making

a clean job of it, said he, and he would not leave a tongue with

power to wag in a witness-box. It nearly came to our sharing the

fate of the prisoners, but at last he said that if we wished we

might take a boat and go. We jumped at the offer, for we were

already sick of these bloodthirsty doings, and we saw that there

would be worse before it was done. We were given a suit of

sailors’ togs each, a barrel of water, two casks, one of junk and

one of biscuits, and a compass. Prendergast threw us over a

chart, told us that we were shipwrecked mariners whose ship had

foundered in lat. 15º N. and long 25º W., and then cut the

painter and let us go.

“‘And now I come to the most surprising part of my story, my dear

son. The seamen had hauled the foreyard aback during the rising,

but now as we left them they brought it square again, and as

there was a light wind from the north and east the barque began

to draw slowly away from us. Our boat lay, rising and falling,

upon the long, smooth rollers, and Evans and I, who were the most

educated of the party, were sitting in the sheets working out our

position and planning what coast we should make for. It was a

nice question, for the Cape de Verds were about five hundred

miles to the north of us, and the African coast about seven

hundred to the east. On the whole, as the wind was coming round

to the north, we thought that Sierra Leone might be best, and

turned our head in that direction, the barque being at that time

nearly hull down on our starboard quarter. Suddenly as we looked

at her we saw a dense black cloud of smoke shoot up from her,

which hung like a monstrous tree upon the sky line. A few seconds

later a roar like thunder burst upon our ears, and as the smoke

thinned away there was no sign left of the _Gloria Scott_. In an

instant we swept the boat’s head round again and pulled with all

our strength for the place where the haze still trailing over the

water marked the scene of this catastrophe.

“‘It was a long hour before we reached it, and at first we feared

that we had come too late to save any one. A splintered boat and

a number of crates and fragments of spars rising and falling on

the waves showed us where the vessel had foundered; but there was

no sign of life, and we had turned away in despair when we heard

a cry for help, and saw at some distance a piece of wreckage with

a man lying stretched across it. When we pulled him aboard the

boat he proved to be a young seaman of the name of Hudson, who

was so burned and exhausted that he could give us no account of

what had happened until the following morning.

“‘It seemed that after we had left, Prendergast and his gang had

proceeded to put to death the five remaining prisoners. The two

warders had been shot and thrown overboard, and so also had the

third mate. Prendergast then descended into the ’tween-decks and

with his own hands cut the throat of the unfortunate surgeon.

There only remained the first mate, who was a bold and active

man. When he saw the convict approaching him with the bloody

knife in his hand he kicked off his bonds, which he had somehow

contrived to loosen, and rushing down the deck he plunged into

the after-hold.

“‘A dozen convicts, who descended with their pistols in search of

him, found him with a match-box in his hand seated beside an open

powder barrel, which was one of a hundred carried on board, and

swearing that he would blow all hands up if he were in any way

molested. An instant later the explosion occurred, though Hudson

thought it was caused by the misdirected bullet of one of the

convicts rather than the mate’s match. Be the cause what it may,

it was the end of the _Gloria Scott_ and of the rabble who held

command of her.

“‘Such, in a few words, my dear boy, is the history of this

terrible business in which I was involved. Next day we were

picked up by the brig _Hotspur_, bound for Australia, whose

captain found no difficulty in believing that we were the

survivors of a passenger ship which had foundered. The transport

ship _Gloria Scott_ was set down by the Admiralty as being lost

at sea, and no word has ever leaked out as to her true fate.

After an excellent voyage the _Hotspur_ landed us at Sydney,

where Evans and I changed our names and made our way to the

diggings, where, among the crowds who were gathered from all

nations, we had no difficulty in losing our former identities.

“‘The rest I need not relate. We prospered, we travelled, we came

back as rich colonials to England, and we bought country estates.

For more than twenty years we have led peaceful and useful lives,

and we hoped that our past was forever buried. Imagine, then, my

feelings when in the seaman who came to us I recognised instantly

the man who had been picked off the wreck. He had tracked us down

somehow, and had set himself to live upon our fears. You will

understand now how it was that I strove to keep the peace with

him, and you will in some measure sympathise with me in the fears

which fill me, now that he has gone from me to his other victim

with threats upon his tongue.’

“Underneath is written in a hand so shaky as to be hardly

legible, ‘Beddoes writes in cipher to say H. has told all. Sweet

Lord, have mercy on our souls!’

“That was the narrative which I read that night to young Trevor,

and I think, Watson, that under the circumstances it was a

dramatic one. The good fellow was heartbroken at it, and went out

to the Terai tea planting, where I hear that he is doing well. As

to the sailor and Beddoes, neither of them was ever heard of

again after that day on which the letter of warning was written.

They both disappeared utterly and completely. No complaint had

been lodged with the police, so that Beddoes had mistaken a

threat for a deed. Hudson had been seen lurking about, and it was

believed by the police that he had done away with Beddoes and had

fled. For myself I believe that the truth was exactly the

opposite. I think that it is most probable that Beddoes, pushed

to desperation and believing himself to have been already

betrayed, had revenged himself upon Hudson, and had fled from the

country with as much money as he could lay his hands on. Those

are the facts of the case, Doctor, and if they are of any use to

your collection, I am sure that they are very heartily at your

service.”

VI. The Musgrave Ritual

An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend

Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he

was the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although also

he affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the

less in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever

drove a fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least

conventional in that respect myself. The rough-and-tumble work in

Afghanistan, coming on the top of a natural Bohemianism of

disposition, has made me rather more lax than befits a medical

man. But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who

keeps his cigars in the coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end

of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence

transfixed by a jack-knife into the very centre of his wooden

mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself virtuous airs. I have

always held, too, that pistol practice should be distinctly an

open-air pastime; and when Holmes, in one of his queer humours,

would sit in an armchair with his hair-trigger and a hundred

Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a

patriotic V. R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that

neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was

improved by it.

Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics

which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of

turning up in the butter-dish or in even less desirable places.

But his papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroying

documents, especially those which were connected with his past

cases, and yet it was only once in every year or two that he

would muster energy to docket and arrange them; for, as I have

mentioned somewhere in these incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of

passionate energy when he performed the remarkable feats with

which his name is associated were followed by reactions of

lethargy during which he would lie about with his violin and his

books, hardly moving save from the sofa to the table. Thus month

after month his papers accumulated, until every corner of the

room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were on no

account to be burned, and which could not be put away save by

their owner. One winter’s night, as we sat together by the fire,

I ventured to suggest to him that, as he had finished pasting

extracts into his common-place book, he might employ the next two

hours in making our room a little more habitable. He could not

deny the justice of my request, so with a rather rueful face he

went off to his bedroom, from which he returned presently pulling

a large tin box behind him. This he placed in the middle of the

floor and, squatting down upon a stool in front of it, he threw

back the lid. I could see that it was already a third full of

bundles of paper tied up with red tape into separate packages.

“There are cases enough here, Watson,” said he, looking at me

with mischievous eyes. “I think that if you knew all that I had

in this box you would ask me to pull some out instead of putting

others in.”

“These are the records of your early work, then?” I asked. “I

have often wished that I had notes of those cases.”

“Yes, my boy, these were all done prematurely before my

biographer had come to glorify me.” He lifted bundle after bundle

in a tender, caressing sort of way. “They are not all successes,

Watson,” said he. “But there are some pretty little problems

among them. Here’s the record of the Tarleton murders, and the

case of Vamberry, the wine merchant, and the adventure of the old

Russian woman, and the singular affair of the aluminium crutch,

as well as a full account of Ricoletti of the club-foot, and his

abominable wife. And here—ah, now, this really is something a

little _recherché_.”

He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest, and brought up

a small wooden box with a sliding lid, such as children’s toys

are kept in. From within he produced a crumpled piece of paper,

an old-fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string

attached to it, and three rusty old disks of metal.

“Well, my boy, what do you make of this lot?” he asked, smiling

at my expression.

“It is a curious collection.”

“Very curious, and the story that hangs round it will strike you

as being more curious still.”

“These relics have a history then?”

“So much so that they _are_ history.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one, and laid them along

the edge of the table. Then he reseated himself in his chair and

looked them over with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

“These,” said he, “are all that I have left to remind me of the

adventure of the Musgrave Ritual.”

I had heard him mention the case more than once, though I had

never been able to gather the details.

“I should be so glad,” said I, “if you would give me an account

of it.”

“And leave the litter as it is?” he cried, mischievously. “Your

tidiness won’t bear much strain after all, Watson. But I should

be glad that you should add this case to your annals, for there

are points in it which make it quite unique in the criminal

records of this or, I believe, of any other country. A collection

of my trifling achievements would certainly be incomplete which

contained no account of this very singular business.

“You may remember how the affair of the _Gloria Scott_, and my

conversation with the unhappy man whose fate I told you of, first

turned my attention in the direction of the profession which has

become my life’s work. You see me now when my name has become

known far and wide, and when I am generally recognised both by

the public and by the official force as being a final court of

appeal in doubtful cases. Even when you knew me first, at the

time of the affair which you have commemorated in ‘A Study in

Scarlet,’ I had already established a considerable, though not a

very lucrative, connection. You can hardly realize, then, how

difficult I found it at first, and how long I had to wait before

I succeeded in making any headway.

“When I first came up to London I had rooms in Montague Street,

just round the corner from the British Museum, and there I

waited, filling in my too abundant leisure time by studying all

those branches of science which might make me more efficient. Now

and again cases came in my way, principally through the

introduction of old fellow-students, for during my last years at

the University there was a good deal of talk there about myself

and my methods. The third of these cases was that of the Musgrave

Ritual, and it is to the interest which was aroused by that

singular chain of events, and the large issues which proved to be

at stake, that I trace my first stride towards the position which

I now hold.

“Reginald Musgrave had been in the same college as myself, and I

had some slight acquaintance with him. He was not generally

popular among the undergraduates, though it always seemed to me

that what was set down as pride was really an attempt to cover

extreme natural diffidence. In appearance he was a man of

exceedingly aristocratic type, thin, high-nosed, and large-eyed,

with languid and yet courtly manners. He was indeed a scion of

one of the very oldest families in the kingdom, though his branch

was a cadet one which had separated from the northern Musgraves

some time in the sixteenth century, and had established itself in

western Sussex, where the Manor House of Hurlstone is perhaps the

oldest inhabited building in the county. Something of his

birthplace seemed to cling to the man, and I never looked at his

pale, keen face or the poise of his head without associating him

with grey archways and mullioned windows and all the venerable

wreckage of a feudal keep. Once or twice we drifted into talk,

and I can remember that more than once he expressed a keen

interest in my methods of observation and inference.

“For four years I had seen nothing of him until one morning he

walked into my room in Montague Street. He had changed little,

was dressed like a young man of fashion—he was always a bit of a

dandy—and preserved the same quiet, suave manner which had

formerly distinguished him.

“‘How has all gone with you Musgrave?’ I asked, after we had

cordially shaken hands.

“‘You probably heard of my poor father’s death,’ said he; ‘he was

carried off about two years ago. Since then I have of course had

the Hurlstone estates to manage, and as I am member for my

district as well, my life has been a busy one. But I understand,

Holmes, that you are turning to practical ends those powers with

which you used to amaze us?’

“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I have taken to living by my wits.’

“‘I am delighted to hear it, for your advice at present would be

exceedingly valuable to me. We have had some very strange doings

at Hurlstone, and the police have been able to throw no light

upon the matter. It is really the most extraordinary and

inexplicable business.’

“You can imagine with what eagerness I listened to him, Watson,

for the very chance for which I had been panting during all those

months of inaction seemed to have come within my reach. In my

inmost heart I believed that I could succeed where others failed,

and now I had the opportunity to test myself.

“‘Pray, let me have the details,’ I cried.

“Reginald Musgrave sat down opposite to me, and lit the cigarette

which I had pushed towards him.

“‘You must know,’ said he, ‘that though I am a bachelor, I have

to keep up a considerable staff of servants at Hurlstone, for it

is a rambling old place, and takes a good deal of looking after.

I preserve, too, and in the pheasant months I usually have a

house-party, so that it would not do to be short-handed.

Altogether there are eight maids, the cook, the butler, two

footmen, and a boy. The garden and the stables of course have a

separate staff.

“‘Of these servants the one who had been longest in our service

was Brunton the butler. He was a young schoolmaster out of place

when he was first taken up by my father, but he was a man of

great energy and character, and he soon became quite invaluable

in the household. He was a well-grown, handsome man, with a

splendid forehead, and though he has been with us for twenty

years he cannot be more than forty now. With his personal

advantages and his extraordinary gifts—for he can speak several

languages and play nearly every musical instrument—it is

wonderful that he should have been satisfied so long in such a

position, but I suppose that he was comfortable, and lacked

energy to make any change. The butler of Hurlstone is always a

thing that is remembered by all who visit us.

“‘But this paragon has one fault. He is a bit of a Don Juan, and

you can imagine that for a man like him it is not a very

difficult part to play in a quiet country district. When he was

married it was all right, but since he has been a widower we have

had no end of trouble with him. A few months ago we were in hopes

that he was about to settle down again for he became engaged to

Rachel Howells, our second housemaid; but he has thrown her over

since then and taken up with Janet Tregellis, the daughter of the

head gamekeeper. Rachel—who is a very good girl, but of an

excitable Welsh temperament—had a sharp touch of brain-fever, and

goes about the house now—or did until yesterday—like a black-eyed

shadow of her former self. That was our first drama at Hurlstone;

but a second one came to drive it from our minds, and it was

prefaced by the disgrace and dismissal of butler Brunton.

“‘This was how it came about. I have said that the man was

intelligent, and this very intelligence has caused his ruin, for

it seems to have led to an insatiable curiosity about things

which did not in the least concern him. I had no idea of the

lengths to which this would carry him, until the merest accident

opened my eyes to it.

“‘I have said that the house is a rambling one. One day last

week—on Thursday night, to be more exact—I found that I could not

sleep, having foolishly taken a cup of strong _café noir_ after

my dinner. After struggling against it until two in the morning,

I felt that it was quite hopeless, so I rose and lit the candle

with the intention of continuing a novel which I was reading. The

book, however, had been left in the billiard-room, so I pulled on

my dressing-gown and started off to get it.

“‘In order to reach the billiard-room I had to descend a flight

of stairs and then to cross the head of a passage which led to

the library and the gun-room. You can imagine my surprise when,

as I looked down this corridor, I saw a glimmer of light coming

from the open door of the library. I had myself extinguished the

lamp and closed the door before coming to bed. Naturally my first

thought was of burglars. The corridors at Hurlstone have their

walls largely decorated with trophies of old weapons. From one of

these I picked a battle-axe, and then, leaving my candle behind

me, I crept on tiptoe down the passage and peeped in at the open

door.

“‘Brunton, the butler, was in the library. He was sitting, fully

dressed, in an easy-chair, with a slip of paper which looked like

a map upon his knee, and his forehead sunk forward upon his hand

in deep thought. I stood dumb with astonishment, watching him

from the darkness. A small taper on the edge of the table shed a

feeble light which sufficed to show me that he was fully dressed.

Suddenly, as I looked, he rose from his chair, and walking over

to a bureau at the side, he unlocked it and drew out one of the

drawers. From this he took a paper, and returning to his seat he

flattened it out beside the taper on the edge of the table, and

began to study it with minute attention. My indignation at this

calm examination of our family documents overcame me so far that

I took a step forward, and Brunton, looking up, saw me standing

in the doorway. He sprang to his feet, his face turned livid with

fear, and he thrust into his breast the chart-like paper which he

had been originally studying.

“‘“So!” said I. “This is how you repay the trust which we have

reposed in you. You will leave my service to-morrow.”

“‘He bowed with the look of a man who is utterly crushed, and

slunk past me without a word. The taper was still on the table,

and by its light I glanced to see what the paper was which

Brunton had taken from the bureau. To my surprise it was nothing

of any importance at all, but simply a copy of the questions and

answers in the singular old observance called the Musgrave

Ritual. It is a sort of ceremony peculiar to our family, which

each Musgrave for centuries past has gone through on his coming

of age—a thing of private interest, and perhaps of some little

importance to the archaeologist, like our own blazonings and

charges, but of no practical use whatever.’

“‘We had better come back to the paper afterwards,’ said I.

“‘If you think it really necessary,’ he answered, with some

hesitation. ‘To continue my statement, however: I relocked the

bureau, using the key which Brunton had left, and I had turned to

go when I was surprised to find that the butler had returned, and

was standing before me.

“‘“Mr. Musgrave, sir,” he cried, in a voice which was hoarse with

emotion, “I can’t bear disgrace, sir. I’ve always been proud

above my station in life, and disgrace would kill me. My blood

will be on your head, sir—it will, indeed—if you drive me to

despair. If you cannot keep me after what has passed, then for

God’s sake let me give you notice and leave in a month, as if of

my own free will. I could stand that, Mr. Musgrave, but not to be

cast out before all the folk that I know so well.”

“‘“You don’t deserve much consideration, Brunton,” I answered.

“Your conduct has been most infamous. However, as you have been a

long time in the family, I have no wish to bring public disgrace

upon you. A month, however is too long. Take yourself away in a

week, and give what reason you like for going.”

“‘“Only a week, sir?” he cried, in a despairing voice. “A

fortnight—say at least a fortnight!”

“‘“A week,” I repeated, “and you may consider yourself to have

been very leniently dealt with.”

“‘He crept away, his face sunk upon his breast, like a broken

man, while I put out the light and returned to my room.

“‘For two days after this Brunton was most assiduous in his

attention to his duties. I made no allusion to what had passed,

and waited with some curiosity to see how he would cover his

disgrace. On the third morning, however he did not appear, as was

his custom, after breakfast to receive my instructions for the

day. As I left the dining-room I happened to meet Rachel Howells,

the maid. I have told you that she had only recently recovered

from an illness, and was looking so wretchedly pale and wan that

I remonstrated with her for being at work.

“‘“You should be in bed,” I said. “Come back to your duties when

you are stronger.”

“‘She looked at me with so strange an expression that I began to

suspect that her brain was affected.

“‘“I am strong enough, Mr. Musgrave,” said she.

“‘“We will see what the doctor says,” I answered. “You must stop

work now, and when you go downstairs just say that I wish to see

Brunton.”

“‘“The butler is gone,” said she.

“‘“Gone! Gone where?”

“‘“He is gone. No one has seen him. He is not in his room. Oh,

yes, he is gone, he is gone!” She fell back against the wall with

shriek after shriek of laughter, while I, horrified at this

sudden hysterical attack, rushed to the bell to summon help. The

girl was taken to her room, still screaming and sobbing, while I

made inquiries about Brunton. There was no doubt about it that he

had disappeared. His bed had not been slept in, he had been seen

by no one since he had retired to his room the night before, and

yet it was difficult to see how he could have left the house, as

both windows and doors were found to be fastened in the morning.

His clothes, his watch, and even his money were in his room, but

the black suit which he usually wore was missing. His slippers,

too, were gone, but his boots were left behind. Where then could

butler Brunton have gone in the night, and what could have become

of him now?

“‘Of course we searched the house from cellar to garret, but

there was no trace of him. It is, as I have said, a labyrinth of

an old house, especially the original wing, which is now

practically uninhabited; but we ransacked every room and cellar

without discovering the least sign of the missing man. It was

incredible to me that he could have gone away leaving all his

property behind him, and yet where could he be? I called in the

local police, but without success. Rain had fallen on the night

before and we examined the lawn and the paths all round the

house, but in vain. Matters were in this state, when a new

development quite drew our attention away from the original

mystery.

“‘For two days Rachel Howells had been so ill, sometimes

delirious, sometimes hysterical, that a nurse had been employed

to sit up with her at night. On the third night after Brunton’s

disappearance, the nurse, finding her patient sleeping nicely,

had dropped into a nap in the armchair, when she woke in the

early morning to find the bed empty, the window open, and no

signs of the invalid. I was instantly aroused, and, with the two

footmen, started off at once in search of the missing girl. It

was not difficult to tell the direction which she had taken, for,

starting from under her window, we could follow her footmarks

easily across the lawn to the edge of the mere, where they

vanished close to the gravel path which leads out of the grounds.

The lake there is eight feet deep, and you can imagine our

feelings when we saw that the trail of the poor demented girl

came to an end at the edge of it.

“‘Of course, we had the drags at once, and set to work to recover

the remains, but no trace of the body could we find. On the other

hand, we brought to the surface an object of a most unexpected

kind. It was a linen bag which contained within it a mass of old

rusted and discoloured metal and several dull-coloured pieces of

pebble or glass. This strange find was all that we could get from

the mere, and, although we made every possible search and inquiry

yesterday, we know nothing of the fate either of Rachel Howells

or of Richard Brunton. The county police are at their wits’ end,

and I have come up to you as a last resource.’

“You can imagine, Watson, with what eagerness I listened to this

extraordinary sequence of events, and endeavoured to piece them

together, and to devise some common thread upon which they might

all hang. The butler was gone. The maid was gone. The maid had

loved the butler, but had afterwards had cause to hate him. She

was of Welsh blood, fiery and passionate. She had been terribly

excited immediately after his disappearance. She had flung into

the lake a bag containing some curious contents. These were all

factors which had to be taken into consideration, and yet none of

them got quite to the heart of the matter. What was the

starting-point of this chain of events? There lay the end of this

tangled line.

“‘I must see that paper, Musgrave,’ said I, ‘which this butler of

yours thought it worth his while to consult, even at the risk of

the loss of his place.’

“‘It is rather an absurd business, this ritual of ours,’ he

answered. ‘But it has at least the saving grace of antiquity to

excuse it. I have a copy of the questions and answers here if you

care to run your eye over them.’

“He handed me the very paper which I have here, Watson, and this

is the strange catechism to which each Musgrave had to submit

when he came to man’s estate. I will read you the questions and

answers as they stand.

“‘Whose was it?’

“‘His who is gone.’

“‘Who shall have it?’

“‘He who will come.’

“‘Where was the sun?’

“‘Over the oak.’

“‘Where was the shadow?’

“‘Under the elm.’

“How was it stepped?’

“‘North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two

and by two, west by one and by one, and so under.’

“‘What shall we give for it?’

“‘All that is ours.’

“‘Why should we give it?’

“‘For the sake of the trust.’

“‘The original has no date, but is in the spelling of the middle

of the seventeenth century,’ remarked Musgrave. ‘I am afraid,

however, that it can be of little help to you in solving this

mystery.’

“‘At least,’ said I, ‘it gives us another mystery, and one which

is even more interesting than the first. It may be that the

solution of the one may prove to be the solution of the other.

You will excuse me, Musgrave, if I say that your butler appears

to me to have been a very clever man, and to have had a clearer

insight than ten generations of his masters.’

“‘I hardly follow you,’ said Musgrave. ‘The paper seems to me to

be of no practical importance.’

“‘But to me it seems immensely practical, and I fancy that

Brunton took the same view. He had probably seen it before that

night on which you caught him.’

“‘It is very possible. We took no pains to hide it.’

“‘He simply wished, I should imagine, to refresh his memory upon

that last occasion. He had, as I understand, some sort of map or

chart which he was comparing with the manuscript, and which he

thrust into his pocket when you appeared.’

“‘That is true. But what could he have to do with this old family

custom of ours, and what does this rigmarole mean?’

“‘I don’t think that we should have much difficulty in

determining that,’ said I; ‘with your permission we will take the

first train down to Sussex, and go a little more deeply into the

matter upon the spot.’

“The same afternoon saw us both at Hurlstone. Possibly you have

seen pictures and read descriptions of the famous old building,

so I will confine my account of it to saying that it is built in

the shape of an L, the long arm being the more modern portion,

and the shorter the ancient nucleus, from which the other had

developed. Over the low, heavily-lintelled door, in the centre of

this old part, is chiseled the date, 1607, but experts are agreed

that the beams and stonework are really much older than this. The

enormously thick walls and tiny windows of this part had in the

last century driven the family into building the new wing, and

the old one was used now as a storehouse and a cellar, when it

was used at all. A splendid park with fine old timber surrounds

the house, and the lake, to which my client had referred, lay

close to the avenue, about two hundred yards from the building.

“I was already firmly convinced, Watson, that there were not

three separate mysteries here, but one only, and that if I could

read the Musgrave Ritual aright I should hold in my hand the clue

which would lead me to the truth concerning both the butler

Brunton and the maid Howells. To that then I turned all my

energies. Why should this servant be so anxious to master this

old formula? Evidently because he saw something in it which had

escaped all those generations of country squires, and from which

he expected some personal advantage. What was it then, and how

had it affected his fate?

“It was perfectly obvious to me, on reading the Ritual, that the

measurements must refer to some spot to which the rest of the

document alluded, and that if we could find that spot, we should

be in a fair way towards finding what the secret was which the

old Musgraves had thought it necessary to embalm in so curious a

fashion. There were two guides given us to start with, an oak and

an elm. As to the oak there could be no question at all. Right in

front of the house, upon the left-hand side of the drive, there

stood a patriarch among oaks, one of the most magnificent trees

that I have ever seen.

“‘That was there when your Ritual was drawn up,’ said I, as we

drove past it.

“‘It was there at the Norman Conquest in all probability,’ he

answered. ‘It has a girth of twenty-three feet.’

“‘Have you any old elms?’ I asked.

“‘There used to be a very old one over yonder but it was struck

by lightning ten years ago, and we cut down the stump.’

“‘You can see where it used to be?’

“‘Oh, yes.’

“‘There are no other elms?’

“‘No old ones, but plenty of beeches.’

“‘I should like to see where it grew.’

“We had driven up in a dog-cart, and my client led me away at

once, without our entering the house, to the scar on the lawn

where the elm had stood. It was nearly midway between the oak and

the house. My investigation seemed to be progressing.

“‘I suppose it is impossible to find out how high the elm was?’ I

asked.

“‘I can give you it at once. It was sixty-four feet.’

“‘How do you come to know it?’ I asked, in surprise.

“‘When my old tutor used to give me an exercise in trigonometry,

it always took the shape of measuring heights. When I was a lad I

worked out every tree and building in the estate.’

“This was an unexpected piece of luck. My data were coming more

quickly than I could have reasonably hoped.

“‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘did your butler ever ask you such a

question?’

“Reginald Musgrave looked at me in astonishment. ‘Now that you

call it to my mind,’ he answered, ‘Brunton _did_ ask me about the

height of the tree some months ago, in connection with some

little argument with the groom.’

“This was excellent news, Watson, for it showed me that I was on

the right road. I looked up at the sun. It was low in the

heavens, and I calculated that in less than an hour it would lie

just above the topmost branches of the old oak. One condition

mentioned in the Ritual would then be fulfilled. And the shadow

of the elm must mean the farther end of the shadow, otherwise the

trunk would have been chosen as the guide. I had, then, to find

where the far end of the shadow would fall when the sun was just

clear of the oak.”

“That must have been difficult, Holmes, when the elm was no

longer there.”

“Well, at least I knew that if Brunton could do it, I could also.

Besides, there was no real difficulty. I went with Musgrave to

his study and whittled myself this peg, to which I tied this long

string with a knot at each yard. Then I took two lengths of a

fishing-rod, which came to just six feet, and I went back with my

client to where the elm had been. The sun was just grazing the

top of the oak. I fastened the rod on end, marked out the

direction of the shadow, and measured it. It was nine feet in

length.

“Of course the calculation now was a simple one. If a rod of six

feet threw a shadow of nine, a tree of sixty-four feet would

throw one of ninety-six, and the line of the one would of course

be the line of the other. I measured out the distance, which

brought me almost to the wall of the house, and I thrust a peg

into the spot. You can imagine my exultation, Watson, when within

two inches of my peg I saw a conical depression in the ground. I

knew that it was the mark made by Brunton in his measurements,

and that I was still upon his trail.

“From this starting-point I proceeded to step, having first taken

the cardinal points by my pocket-compass. Ten steps with each

foot took me along parallel with the wall of the house, and again

I marked my spot with a peg. Then I carefully paced off five to

the east and two to the south. It brought me to the very

threshold of the old door. Two steps to the west meant now that I

was to go two paces down the stone-flagged passage, and this was

the place indicated by the Ritual.

“Never have I felt such a cold chill of disappointment, Watson.

For a moment it seemed to me that there must be some radical

mistake in my calculations. The setting sun shone full upon the

passage floor, and I could see that the old, foot-worn grey

stones with which it was paved were firmly cemented together, and

had certainly not been moved for many a long year. Brunton had

not been at work here. I tapped upon the floor, but it sounded

the same all over, and there was no sign of any crack or crevice.

But, fortunately, Musgrave, who had begun to appreciate the

meaning of my proceedings, and who was now as excited as myself,

took out his manuscript to check my calculation.

“‘And under,’ he cried. ‘You have omitted the “and under.”’

“I had thought that it meant that we were to dig, but now, of

course, I saw at once that I was wrong. ‘There is a cellar under

this then?’ I cried.

“‘Yes, and as old as the house. Down here, through this door.’

“We went down a winding stone stair, and my companion, striking a

match, lit a large lantern which stood on a barrel in the corner.

In an instant it was obvious that we had at last come upon the

true place, and that we had not been the only people to visit the

spot recently.

“It had been used for the storage of wood, but the billets, which

had evidently been littered over the floor, were now piled at the

sides, so as to leave a clear space in the middle. In this space

lay a large and heavy flagstone with a rusted iron ring in the

centre to which a thick shepherd’s-check muffler was attached.

“‘By Jove!’ cried my client. ‘That’s Brunton’s muffler. I have

seen it on him, and could swear to it. What has the villain been

doing here?’

“At my suggestion a couple of the county police were summoned to

be present, and I then endeavoured to raise the stone by pulling

on the cravat. I could only move it slightly, and it was with the

aid of one of the constables that I succeeded at last in carrying

it to one side. A black hole yawned beneath into which we all

peered, while Musgrave, kneeling at the side, pushed down the

lantern.

“A small chamber about seven feet deep and four feet square lay

open to us. At one side of this was a squat, brass-bound wooden

box, the lid of which was hinged upwards, with this curious

old-fashioned key projecting from the lock. It was furred outside

by a thick layer of dust, and damp and worms had eaten through

the wood, so that a crop of livid fungi was growing on the inside

of it. Several discs of metal, old coins apparently, such as I

hold here, were scattered over the bottom of the box, but it

contained nothing else.

“At the moment, however, we had no thought for the old chest, for

our eyes were riveted upon that which crouched beside it. It was

the figure of a man, clad in a suit of black, who squatted down

upon his hams with his forehead sunk upon the edge of the box and

his two arms thrown out on each side of it. The attitude had

drawn all the stagnant blood to the face, and no man could have

recognised that distorted liver-coloured countenance; but his

height, his dress, and his hair were all sufficient to show my

client, when we had drawn the body up, that it was indeed his

missing butler. He had been dead some days, but there was no

wound or bruise upon his person to show how he had met his

dreadful end. When his body had been carried from the cellar we

found ourselves still confronted with a problem which was almost

as formidable as that with which we had started.

“I confess that so far, Watson, I had been disappointed in my

investigation. I had reckoned upon solving the matter when once I

had found the place referred to in the Ritual; but now I was

there, and was apparently as far as ever from knowing what it was

which the family had concealed with such elaborate precautions.

It is true that I had thrown a light upon the fate of Brunton,

but now I had to ascertain how that fate had come upon him, and

what part had been played in the matter by the woman who had

disappeared. I sat down upon a keg in the corner and thought the

whole matter carefully over.

“You know my methods in such cases, Watson. I put myself in the

man’s place and, having first gauged his intelligence, I try to

imagine how I should myself have proceeded under the same

circumstances. In this case the matter was simplified by

Brunton’s intelligence being quite first-rate, so that it was

unnecessary to make any allowance for the personal equation, as

the astronomers have dubbed it. He knew that something valuable

was concealed. He had spotted the place. He found that the stone

which covered it was just too heavy for a man to move unaided.

What would he do next? He could not get help from outside, even

if he had some one whom he could trust, without the unbarring of

doors and considerable risk of detection. It was better, if he

could, to have his helpmate inside the house. But whom could he

ask? This girl had been devoted to him. A man always finds it

hard to realize that he may have finally lost a woman’s love,

however badly he may have treated her. He would try by a few

attentions to make his peace with the girl Howells, and then

would engage her as his accomplice. Together they would come at

night to the cellar, and their united force would suffice to

raise the stone. So far I could follow their actions as if I had

actually seen them.

“But for two of them, and one a woman, it must have been heavy

work the raising of that stone. A burly Sussex policeman and I

had found it no light job. What would they do to assist them?

Probably what I should have done myself. I rose and examined

carefully the different billets of wood which were scattered

round the floor. Almost at once I came upon what I expected. One

piece, about three feet in length, had a very marked indentation

at one end, while several were flattened at the sides as if they

had been compressed by some considerable weight. Evidently, as

they had dragged the stone up they had thrust the chunks of wood

into the chink, until at last, when the opening was large enough

to crawl through, they would hold it open by a billet placed

lengthwise, which might very well become indented at the lower

end, since the whole weight of the stone would press it down on

to the edge of this other slab. So far I was still on safe

ground.

“And now how was I to proceed to reconstruct this midnight drama?

Clearly, only one could fit into the hole, and that one was

Brunton. The girl must have waited above. Brunton then unlocked

the box, handed up the contents presumably—since they were not to

be found—and then—and then what happened?

“What smouldering fire of vengeance had suddenly sprung into

flame in this passionate Celtic woman’s soul when she saw the man

who had wronged her—wronged her, perhaps, far more than we

suspected—in her power? Was it a chance that the wood had

slipped, and that the stone had shut Brunton into what had become

his sepulchre? Had she only been guilty of silence as to his

fate? Or had some sudden blow from her hand dashed the support

away and sent the slab crashing down into its place? Be that as

it might, I seemed to see that woman’s figure still clutching at

her treasure trove and flying wildly up the winding stair, with

her ears ringing perhaps with the muffled screams from behind her

and with the drumming of frenzied hands against the slab of stone

which was choking her faithless lover’s life out.

“Here was the secret of her blanched face, her shaken nerves, her

peals of hysterical laughter on the next morning. But what had

been in the box? What had she done with that? Of course, it must

have been the old metal and pebbles which my client had dragged

from the mere. She had thrown them in there at the first

opportunity to remove the last trace of her crime.

“For twenty minutes I had sat motionless, thinking the matter

out. Musgrave still stood with a very pale face, swinging his

lantern and peering down into the hole.

“‘These are coins of Charles the First,’ said he, holding out the

few which had been in the box; ‘you see we were right in fixing

our date for the Ritual.’

“‘We may find something else of Charles the First,’ I cried, as

the probable meaning of the first two questions of the Ritual

broke suddenly upon me. ‘Let me see the contents of the bag which

you fished from the mere.’

“We ascended to his study, and he laid the _débris_ before me. I

could understand his regarding it as of small importance when I

looked at it, for the metal was almost black and the stones

lustreless and dull. I rubbed one of them on my sleeve, however,

and it glowed afterwards like a spark in the dark hollow of my

hand. The metal work was in the form of a double ring, but it had

been bent and twisted out of its original shape.

“‘You must bear in mind,’ said I, ‘that the Royal party made head

in England even after the death of the King, and that when they

at last fled they probably left many of their most precious

possessions buried behind them, with the intention of returning

for them in more peaceful times.’

“‘My ancestor, Sir Ralph Musgrave, was a prominent Cavalier and

the right-hand man of Charles the Second in his wanderings,’ said

my friend.

“‘Ah, indeed!’ I answered. ‘Well now, I think that really should

give us the last link that we wanted. I must congratulate you on

coming into the possession, though in rather a tragic manner of a

relic which is of great intrinsic value, but of even greater

importance as an historical curiosity.’

“‘What is it, then?’ he gasped in astonishment.

“‘It is nothing less than the ancient crown of the Kings of

England.’

“‘The crown!’

“‘Precisely. Consider what the Ritual says: How does it run?

“Whose was it?” “His who is gone.” That was after the execution

of Charles. Then, “Who shall have it?” “He who will come.” That

was Charles the Second, whose advent was already foreseen. There

can, I think, be no doubt that this battered and shapeless diadem

once encircled the brows of the royal Stuarts.’

“‘And how came it in the pond?’

“‘Ah, that is a question that will take some time to answer.’ And

with that I sketched out to him the whole long chain of surmise

and of proof which I had constructed. The twilight had closed in

and the moon was shining brightly in the sky before my narrative

was finished.

“‘And how was it then that Charles did not get his crown when he

returned?’ asked Musgrave, pushing back the relic into its linen

bag.

“‘Ah, there you lay your finger upon the one point which we shall

probably never be able to clear up. It is likely that the

Musgrave who held the secret died in the interval, and by some

oversight left this guide to his descendant without explaining

the meaning of it. From that day to this it has been handed down

from father to son, until at last it came within reach of a man

who tore its secret out of it and lost his life in the venture.’

“And that’s the story of the Musgrave Ritual, Watson. They have

the crown down at Hurlstone—though they had some legal bother and

a considerable sum to pay before they were allowed to retain it.

I am sure that if you mentioned my name they would be happy to

show it to you. Of the woman nothing was ever heard, and the

probability is that she got away out of England and carried

herself and the memory of her crime to some land beyond the

seas.”

VII. The Reigate Squires

It was some time before the health of my friend Mr. Sherlock

Holmes recovered from the strain caused by his immense exertions

in the spring of ’87. The whole question of the

Netherland-Sumatra Company and of the colossal schemes of Baron

Maupertuis are too recent in the minds of the public, and are too

intimately concerned with politics and finance to be fitting

subjects for this series of sketches. They led, however, in an

indirect fashion to a singular and complex problem which gave my

friend an opportunity of demonstrating the value of a fresh

weapon among the many with which he waged his life-long battle

against crime.

On referring to my notes I see that it was upon the 14th of April

that I received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that

Holmes was lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four

hours I was in his sick-room, and was relieved to find that there

was nothing formidable in his symptoms. Even his iron

constitution, however, had broken down under the strain of an

investigation which had extended over two months, during which

period he had never worked less than fifteen hours a day, and had

more than once, as he assured me, kept to his task for five days

at a stretch. Even the triumphant issue of his labours could not

save him from reaction after so terrible an exertion, and at a

time when Europe was ringing with his name and when his room was

literally ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams I found him a

prey to the blackest depression. Even the knowledge that he had

succeeded where the police of three countries had failed, and

that he had outmanœuvred at every point the most accomplished

swindler in Europe, was insufficient to rouse him from his

nervous prostration.

Three days later we were back in Baker Street together; but it

was evident that my friend would be much the better for a change,

and the thought of a week of spring time in the country was full

of attractions to me also. My old friend, Colonel Hayter, who had

come under my professional care in Afghanistan, had now taken a

house near Reigate in Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come

down to him upon a visit. On the last occasion he had remarked

that if my friend would only come with me he would be glad to

extend his hospitality to him also. A little diplomacy was

needed, but when Holmes understood that the establishment was a

bachelor one, and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom,

he fell in with my plans and a week after our return from Lyons

we were under the Colonel’s roof. Hayter was a fine old soldier

who had seen much of the world, and he soon found, as I had

expected, that Holmes and he had much in common.

On the evening of our arrival we were sitting in the Colonel’s

gun-room after dinner, Holmes stretched upon the sofa, while

Hayter and I looked over his little armoury of fire-arms.

“By the way,” said he suddenly, “I think I’ll take one of these

pistols upstairs with me in case we have an alarm.”

“An alarm!” said I.

“Yes, we’ve had a scare in this part lately. Old Acton, who is

one of our county magnates, had his house broken into last

Monday. No great damage done, but the fellows are still at

large.”

“No clue?” asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the Colonel.

“None as yet. But the affair is a petty one, one of our little

country crimes, which must seem too small for your attention, Mr.

Holmes, after this great international affair.”

Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it

had pleased him.

“Was there any feature of interest?”

“I fancy not. The thieves ransacked the library and got very

little for their pains. The whole place was turned upside down,

drawers burst open, and presses ransacked, with the result that

an odd volume of Pope’s ‘Homer,’ two plated candlesticks, an

ivory letter-weight, a small oak barometer, and a ball of twine

are all that have vanished.”

“What an extraordinary assortment!” I exclaimed.

“Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold of everything they could

get.”

Holmes grunted from the sofa.

“The county police ought to make something of that,” said he;

“why, it is surely obvious that—”

But I held up a warning finger.

“You are here for a rest, my dear fellow. For Heaven’s sake don’t

get started on a new problem when your nerves are all in shreds.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic resignation

towards the Colonel, and the talk drifted away into less

dangerous channels.

It was destined, however, that all my professional caution should

be wasted, for next morning the problem obtruded itself upon us

in such a way that it was impossible to ignore it, and our

country visit took a turn which neither of us could have

anticipated. We were at breakfast when the Colonel’s butler

rushed in with all his propriety shaken out of him.

“Have you heard the news, sir?” he gasped. “At the Cunningham’s

sir!”

“Burglary!” cried the Colonel, with his coffee-cup in mid-air.

“Murder!”

The Colonel whistled. “By Jove!” said he. “Who’s killed, then?

The J.P. or his son?”

“Neither, sir. It was William the coachman. Shot through the

heart, sir, and never spoke again.”

“Who shot him, then?”

“The burglar, sir. He was off like a shot and got clean away.

He’d just broke in at the pantry window when William came on him

and met his end in saving his master’s property.”

“What time?”

“It was last night, sir, somewhere about twelve.”

“Ah, then, we’ll step over afterwards,” said the Colonel, coolly

settling down to his breakfast again. “It’s a baddish business,”

he added when the butler had gone; “he’s our leading man about

here, is old Cunningham, and a very decent fellow too. He’ll be

cut up over this, for the man has been in his service for years

and was a good servant. It’s evidently the same villains who

broke into Acton’s.”

“And stole that very singular collection,” said Holmes,

thoughtfully.

“Precisely.”

“Hum! It may prove the simplest matter in the world, but all the

same at first glance this is just a little curious, is it not? A

gang of burglars acting in the country might be expected to vary

the scene of their operations, and not to crack two cribs in the

same district within a few days. When you spoke last night of

taking precautions I remember that it passed through my mind that

this was probably the last parish in England to which the thief

or thieves would be likely to turn their attention—which shows

that I have still much to learn.”

“I fancy it’s some local practitioner,” said the Colonel. “In

that case, of course, Acton’s and Cunningham’s are just the

places he would go for, since they are far the largest about

here.”

“And richest?”

“Well, they ought to be, but they’ve had a lawsuit for some years

which has sucked the blood out of both of them, I fancy. Old

Acton has some claim on half Cunningham’s estate, and the lawyers

have been at it with both hands.”

“If it’s a local villain there should not be much difficulty in

running him down,” said Holmes with a yawn. “All right, Watson, I

don’t intend to meddle.”

“Inspector Forrester, sir,” said the butler, throwing open the

door.

The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the

room. “Good-morning, Colonel,” said he; “I hope I don’t intrude,

but we hear that Mr. Holmes of Baker Street is here.”

The Colonel waved his hand towards my friend, and the Inspector

bowed.

“We thought that perhaps you would care to step across, Mr.

Holmes.”

“The fates are against you, Watson,” said he, laughing. “We were

chatting about the matter when you came in, Inspector. Perhaps

you can let us have a few details.” As he leaned back in his

chair in the familiar attitude I knew that the case was hopeless.

“We had no clue in the Acton affair. But here we have plenty to

go on, and there’s no doubt it is the same party in each case.

The man was seen.”

“Ah!”

“Yes, sir. But he was off like a deer after the shot that killed

poor William Kirwan was fired. Mr. Cunningham saw him from the

bedroom window, and Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from the back

passage. It was quarter to twelve when the alarm broke out. Mr.

Cunningham had just got into bed, and Mr. Alec was smoking a pipe

in his dressing-gown. They both heard William the coachman

calling for help, and Mr. Alec ran down to see what was the

matter. The back door was open, and as he came to the foot of the

stairs he saw two men wrestling together outside. One of them

fired a shot, the other dropped, and the murderer rushed across

the garden and over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham, looking out of his

bedroom, saw the fellow as he gained the road, but lost sight of

him at once. Mr. Alec stopped to see if he could help the dying

man, and so the villain got clean away. Beyond the fact that he

was a middle-sized man and dressed in some dark stuff, we have no

personal clue; but we are making energetic inquiries, and if he

is a stranger we shall soon find him out.”

“What was this William doing there? Did he say anything before he

died?”

“Not a word. He lives at the lodge with his mother, and as he was

a very faithful fellow we imagine that he walked up to the house

with the intention of seeing that all was right there. Of course

this Acton business has put every one on their guard. The robber

must have just burst open the door—the lock has been forced—when

William came upon him.”

“Did William say anything to his mother before going out?”

“She is very old and deaf, and we can get no information from

her. The shock has made her half-witted, but I understand that

she was never very bright. There is one very important

circumstance, however. Look at this!”

He took a small piece of torn paper from a note-book and spread

it out upon his knee.

“This was found between the finger and thumb of the dead man. It

appears to be a fragment torn from a larger sheet. You will

observe that the hour mentioned upon it is the very time at which

the poor fellow met his fate. You see that his murderer might

have torn the rest of the sheet from him or he might have taken

this fragment from the murderer. It reads almost as though it

were an appointment.”

Holmes took up the scrap of paper, a facsimile of which is here

reproduced.

scrap of paper

“Presuming that it is an appointment,” continued the Inspector,

“it is of course a conceivable theory that this William

Kirwan—though he had the reputation of being an honest man, may

have been in league with the thief. He may have met him there,

may even have helped him to break in the door, and then they may

have fallen out between themselves.”

“This writing is of extraordinary interest,” said Holmes, who had

been examining it with intense concentration. “These are much

deeper waters than I had thought.” He sank his head upon his

hands, while the Inspector smiled at the effect which his case

had had upon the famous London specialist.

“Your last remark,” said Holmes, presently, “as to the

possibility of there being an understanding between the burglar

and the servant, and this being a note of appointment from one to

the other, is an ingenious and not entirely impossible

supposition. But this writing opens up—” He sank his head into

his hands again and remained for some minutes in the deepest

thought. When he raised his face again, I was surprised to see

that his cheek was tinged with colour, and his eyes as bright as

before his illness. He sprang to his feet with all his old

energy.

“I’ll tell you what,” said he, “I should like to have a quiet

little glance into the details of this case. There is something

in it which fascinates me extremely. If you will permit me,

Colonel, I will leave my friend Watson and you, and I will step

round with the Inspector to test the truth of one or two little

fancies of mine. I will be with you again in half an hour.”

An hour and half had elapsed before the Inspector returned alone.

“Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field outside,” said

he. “He wants us all four to go up to the house together.”

“To Mr. Cunningham’s?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What for?”

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t quite know, sir.

Between ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes had not quite got over his

illness yet. He’s been behaving very queerly, and he is very much

excited.”

“I don’t think you need alarm yourself,” said I. “I have usually

found that there was method in his madness.”

“Some folks might say there was madness in his method,” muttered

the Inspector. “But he’s all on fire to start, Colonel, so we had

best go out if you are ready.”

We found Holmes pacing up and down in the field, his chin sunk

upon his breast, and his hands thrust into his trousers pockets.

“The matter grows in interest,” said he. “Watson, your

country-trip has been a distinct success. I have had a charming

morning.”

“You have been up to the scene of the crime, I understand,” said

the Colonel.

“Yes; the Inspector and I have made quite a little reconnaissance

together.”

“Any success?”

“Well, we have seen some very interesting things. I’ll tell you

what we did as we walk. First of all, we saw the body of this

unfortunate man. He certainly died from a revolver wound as

reported.”

“Had you doubted it, then?”

“Oh, it is as well to test everything. Our inspection was not

wasted. We then had an interview with Mr. Cunningham and his son,

who were able to point out the exact spot where the murderer had

broken through the garden-hedge in his flight. That was of great

interest.”

“Naturally.”

“Then we had a look at this poor fellow’s mother. We could get no

information from her, however, as she is very old and feeble.”

“And what is the result of your investigations?”

“The conviction that the crime is a very peculiar one. Perhaps

our visit now may do something to make it less obscure. I think

that we are both agreed, Inspector that the fragment of paper in

the dead man’s hand, bearing, as it does, the very hour of his

death written upon it, is of extreme importance.”

“It should give a clue, Mr. Holmes.”

“It _does_ give a clue. Whoever wrote that note was the man who

brought William Kirwan out of his bed at that hour. But where is

the rest of that sheet of paper?”

“I examined the ground carefully in the hope of finding it,” said

the Inspector.

“It was torn out of the dead man’s hand. Why was some one so

anxious to get possession of it? Because it incriminated him. And

what would he do with it? Thrust it into his pocket, most likely,

never noticing that a corner of it had been left in the grip of

the corpse. If we could get the rest of that sheet it is obvious

that we should have gone a long way towards solving the mystery.”

“Yes, but how can we get at the criminal’s pocket before we catch

the criminal?”

“Well, well, it was worth thinking over. Then there is another

obvious point. The note was sent to William. The man who wrote it

could not have taken it; otherwise, of course, he might have

delivered his own message by word of mouth. Who brought the note,

then? Or did it come through the post?”

“I have made inquiries,” said the Inspector. “William received a

letter by the afternoon post yesterday. The envelope was

destroyed by him.”

“Excellent!” cried Holmes, clapping the Inspector on the back.

“You’ve seen the postman. It is a pleasure to work with you.

Well, here is the lodge, and if you will come up, Colonel, I will

show you the scene of the crime.”

We passed the pretty cottage where the murdered man had lived,

and walked up an oak-lined avenue to the fine old Queen Anne

house, which bears the date of Malplaquet upon the lintel of the

door. Holmes and the Inspector led us round it until we came to

the side gate, which is separated by a stretch of garden from the

hedge which lines the road. A constable was standing at the

kitchen door.

“Throw the door open, officer,” said Holmes. “Now, it was on

those stairs that young Mr. Cunningham stood and saw the two men

struggling just where we are. Old Mr. Cunningham was at that

window—the second on the left—and he saw the fellow get away just

to the left of that bush. Then Mr. Alec ran out and knelt beside

the wounded man. The ground is very hard, you see, and there are

no marks to guide us.” As he spoke two men came down the garden

path, from round the angle of the house. The one was an elderly

man, with a strong, deep-lined, heavy-eyed face; the other a

dashing young fellow, whose bright, smiling expression and showy

dress were in strange contrast with the business which had

brought us there.

“Still at it, then?” said he to Holmes. “I thought you Londoners

were never at fault. You don’t seem to be so very quick, after

all.”

“Ah, you must give us a little time,” said Holmes good-humoredly.

“You’ll want it,” said young Alec Cunningham. “Why, I don’t see

that we have any clue at all.”

“There’s only one,” answered the Inspector. “We thought that if

we could only find—Good heavens, Mr. Holmes! What is the matter?”

My poor friend’s face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful

expression. His eyes rolled upwards, his features writhed in

agony, and with a suppressed groan he dropped on his face upon

the ground. Horrified at the suddenness and severity of the

attack, we carried him into the kitchen, where he lay back in a

large chair, and breathed heavily for some minutes. Finally, with

a shamefaced apology for his weakness, he rose once more.

“Watson would tell you that I have only just recovered from a

severe illness,” he explained. “I am liable to these sudden

nervous attacks.”

“Shall I send you home in my trap?” asked old Cunningham.

“Well, since I am here, there is one point on which I should like

to feel sure. We can very easily verify it.”

“What was it?”

“Well, it seems to me that it is just possible that the arrival

of this poor fellow William was not before, but after, the

entrance of the burglar into the house. You appear to take it for

granted that, although the door was forced, the robber never got

in.”

“I fancy that is quite obvious,” said Mr. Cunningham, gravely.

“Why, my son Alec had not yet gone to bed, and he would certainly

have heard any one moving about.”

“Where was he sitting?”

“I was smoking in my dressing-room.”

“Which window is that?”

“The last on the left next my father’s.”

“Both of your lamps were lit, of course?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“There are some very singular points here,” said Holmes, smiling.

“Is it not extraordinary that a burglar—and a burglar who had had

some previous experience—should deliberately break into a house

at a time when he could see from the lights that two of the

family were still afoot?”

“He must have been a cool hand.”

“Well, of course, if the case were not an odd one we should not

have been driven to ask you for an explanation,” said young Mr.

Alec. “But as to your ideas that the man had robbed the house

before William tackled him, I think it a most absurd notion.

Wouldn’t we have found the place disarranged, and missed the

things which he had taken?”

“It depends on what the things were,” said Holmes. “You must

remember that we are dealing with a burglar who is a very

peculiar fellow, and who appears to work on lines of his own.

Look, for example, at the queer lot of things which he took from

Acton’s—what was it?—a ball of string, a letter-weight, and I

don’t know what other odds and ends.”

“Well, we are quite in your hands, Mr. Holmes,” said old

Cunningham. “Anything which you or the Inspector may suggest will

most certainly be done.”

“In the first place,” said Holmes, “I should like you to offer a

reward—coming from yourself, for the officials may take a little

time before they would agree upon the sum, and these things

cannot be done too promptly. I have jotted down the form here, if

you would not mind signing it. Fifty pounds was quite enough, I

thought.”

“I would willingly give five hundred,” said the J.P., taking the

slip of paper and the pencil which Holmes handed to him. “This is

not quite correct, however,” he added, glancing over the

document.

“I wrote it rather hurriedly.”

“You see you begin, ‘Whereas, at about a quarter to one on

Tuesday morning an attempt was made,’ and so on. It was at a

quarter to twelve, as a matter of fact.”

I was pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would

feel any slip of the kind. It was his specialty to be accurate as

to fact, but his recent illness had shaken him, and this one

little incident was enough to show me that he was still far from

being himself. He was obviously embarrassed for an instant, while

the Inspector raised his eyebrows, and Alec Cunningham burst into

a laugh. The old gentleman corrected the mistake, however, and

handed the paper back to Holmes.

“Get it printed as soon as possible,” he said; “I think your idea

is an excellent one.”

Holmes put the slip of paper carefully away into his pocket-book.

“And now,” said he, “it really would be a good thing that we

should all go over the house together and make certain that this

rather erratic burglar did not, after all, carry anything away

with him.”

Before entering, Holmes made an examination of the door which had

been forced. It was evident that a chisel or strong knife had

been thrust in, and the lock forced back with it. We could see

the marks in the wood where it had been pushed in.

“You don’t use bars, then?” he asked.

“We have never found it necessary.”

“You don’t keep a dog?”

“Yes, but he is chained on the other side of the house.”

“When do the servants go to bed?”

“About ten.”

“I understand that William was usually in bed also at that hour.”

“Yes.”

“It is singular that on this particular night he should have been

up. Now, I should be very glad if you would have the kindness to

show us over the house, Mr. Cunningham.”

A stone-flagged passage, with the kitchens branching away from

it, led by a wooden staircase directly to the first floor of the

house. It came out upon the landing opposite to a second more

ornamental stair which came up from the front hall. Out of this

landing opened the drawing-room and several bedrooms, including

those of Mr. Cunningham and his son. Holmes walked slowly, taking

keen note of the architecture of the house. I could tell from his

expression that he was on a hot scent, and yet I could not in the

least imagine in what direction his inferences were leading him.

“My good sir,” said Mr. Cunningham with some impatience, “this is

surely very unnecessary. That is my room at the end of the

stairs, and my son’s is the one beyond it. I leave it to your

judgment whether it was possible for the thief to have come up

here without disturbing us.”

“You must try round and get on a fresh scent, I fancy,” said the

son with a rather malicious smile.

“Still, I must ask you to humour me a little further. I should

like, for example, to see how far the windows of the bedrooms

command the front. This, I understand is your son’s room”—he

pushed open the door—“and that, I presume, is the dressing-room

in which he sat smoking when the alarm was given. Where does the

window of that look out to?” He stepped across the bedroom,

pushed open the door, and glanced round the other chamber.

“I hope that you are satisfied now?” said Mr. Cunningham, tartly.

“Thank you, I think I have seen all that I wished.”

“Then if it is really necessary we can go into my room.”

“If it is not too much trouble.”

The J.P. shrugged his shoulders, and led the way into his own

chamber, which was a plainly furnished and commonplace room. As

we moved across it in the direction of the window, Holmes fell

back until he and I were the last of the group. Near the foot of

the bed stood a dish of oranges and a carafe of water. As we

passed it Holmes, to my unutterable astonishment, leaned over in

front of me and deliberately knocked the whole thing over. The

glass smashed into a thousand pieces and the fruit rolled about

into every corner of the room.

“You’ve done it now, Watson,” said he, coolly. “A pretty mess

you’ve made of the carpet.”

I stooped in some confusion and began to pick up the fruit,

understanding for some reason my companion desired me to take the

blame upon myself. The others did the same, and set the table on

its legs again.

“Halloa!” cried the Inspector, “where’s he got to?”

Holmes had disappeared.

“Wait here an instant,” said young Alec Cunningham. “The fellow

is off his head, in my opinion. Come with me, father, and see

where he has got to!”

They rushed out of the room, leaving the Inspector, the Colonel,

and me staring at each other.

“’Pon my word, I am inclined to agree with Master Alec,” said the

official. “It may be the effect of this illness, but it seems to

me that—”

His words were cut short by a sudden scream of “Help! Help!

Murder!” With a thrill I recognised the voice of that of my

friend. I rushed madly from the room on to the landing. The

cries, which had sunk down into a hoarse, inarticulate shouting,

came from the room which we had first visited. I dashed in, and

on into the dressing-room beyond. The two Cunninghams were

bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock Holmes, the younger

clutching his throat with both hands, while the elder seemed to

be twisting one of his wrists. In an instant the three of us had

torn them away from him, and Holmes staggered to his feet, very

pale and evidently greatly exhausted.

“Arrest these men, Inspector!” he gasped.

“On what charge?”

“That of murdering their coachman, William Kirwan!”

The Inspector stared about him in bewilderment. “Oh, come now,

Mr. Holmes,” said he at last, “I’m sure you don’t really mean

to—”

“Tut, man, look at their faces!” cried Holmes, curtly.

Never, certainly, have I seen a plainer confession of guilt upon

human countenances. The older man seemed numbed and dazed with a

heavy, sullen expression upon his strongly-marked face. The son,

on the other hand, had dropped all that jaunty, dashing style

which had characterized him, and the ferocity of a dangerous wild

beast gleamed in his dark eyes and distorted his handsome

features. The Inspector said nothing, but, stepping to the door,

he blew his whistle. Two of his constables came at the call.

“I have no alternative, Mr. Cunningham,” said he. “I trust that

this may all prove to be an absurd mistake, but you can see

that—Ah, would you? Drop it!” He struck out with his hand, and a

revolver which the younger man was in the act of cocking

clattered down upon the floor.

“Keep that,” said Holmes, quietly putting his foot upon it; “you

will find it useful at the trial. But this is what we really

wanted.” He held up a little crumpled piece of paper.

“The remainder of the sheet!” cried the Inspector.

“Precisely.”

“And where was it?”

“Where I was sure it must be. I’ll make the whole matter clear to

you presently. I think, Colonel, that you and Watson might return

now, and I will be with you again in an hour at the furthest. The

Inspector and I must have a word with the prisoners, but you will

certainly see me back at luncheon time.”

Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word, for about one o’clock he

rejoined us in the Colonel’s smoking-room. He was accompanied by

a little elderly gentleman, who was introduced to me as the Mr.

Acton whose house had been the scene of the original burglary.

“I wished Mr. Acton to be present while I demonstrated this small

matter to you,” said Holmes, “for it is natural that he should

take a keen interest in the details. I am afraid, my dear

Colonel, that you must regret the hour that you took in such a

stormy petrel as I am.”

“On the contrary,” answered the Colonel, warmly, “I consider it

the greatest privilege to have been permitted to study your

methods of working. I confess that they quite surpass my

expectations, and that I am utterly unable to account for your

result. I have not yet seen the vestige of a clue.”

“I am afraid that my explanation may disillusionize you but it

has always been my habit to hide none of my methods, either from

my friend Watson or from any one who might take an intelligent

interest in them. But, first, as I am rather shaken by the

knocking about which I had in the dressing-room, I think that I

shall help myself to a dash of your brandy, Colonel. My strength

has been rather tried of late.”

“I trust that you had no more of those nervous attacks.”

Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily. “We will come to that in its

turn,” said he. “I will lay an account of the case before you in

its due order, showing you the various points which guided me in

my decision. Pray interrupt me if there is any inference which is

not perfectly clear to you.

“It is of the highest importance in the art of detection to be

able to recognise, out of a number of facts, which are incidental

and which vital. Otherwise your energy and attention must be

dissipated instead of being concentrated. Now, in this case there

was not the slightest doubt in my mind from the first that the

key of the whole matter must be looked for in the scrap of paper

in the dead man’s hand.

“Before going into this, I would draw your attention to the fact

that, if Alec Cunningham’s narrative was correct, and if the

assailant, after shooting William Kirwan, had _instantly_ fled,

then it obviously could not be he who tore the paper from the

dead man’s hand. But if it was not he, it must have been Alec

Cunningham himself, for by the time that the old man had

descended several servants were upon the scene. The point is a

simple one, but the Inspector had overlooked it because he had

started with the supposition that these county magnates had had

nothing to do with the matter. Now, I make a point of never

having any prejudices, and of following docilely wherever fact

may lead me, and so, in the very first stage of the

investigation, I found myself looking a little askance at the

part which had been played by Mr. Alec Cunningham.

“And now I made a very careful examination of the corner of paper

which the Inspector had submitted to us. It was at once clear to

me that it formed part of a very remarkable document. Here it is.

Do you not now observe something very suggestive about it?”

“It has a very irregular look,” said the Colonel.

“My dear sir,” cried Holmes, “there cannot be the least doubt in

the world that it has been written by two persons doing alternate

words. When I draw your attention to the strong t’s of ‘at’ and

‘to’, and ask you to compare them with the weak ones of ‘quarter’

and ‘twelve,’ you will instantly recognise the fact. A very brief

analysis of these four words would enable you to say with the

utmost confidence that the ‘learn’ and the ‘maybe’ are written in

the stronger hand, and the ‘what’ in the weaker.”

“By Jove, it’s as clear as day!” cried the Colonel. “Why on earth

should two men write a letter in such a fashion?”

“Obviously the business was a bad one, and one of the men who

distrusted the other was determined that, whatever was done, each

should have an equal hand in it. Now, of the two men, it is clear

that the one who wrote the ‘at’ and ‘to’ was the ringleader.”

“How do you get at that?”

“We might deduce it from the mere character of the one hand as

compared with the other. But we have more assured reasons than

that for supposing it. If you examine this scrap with attention

you will come to the conclusion that the man with the stronger

hand wrote all his words first, leaving blanks for the other to

fill up. These blanks were not always sufficient, and you can see

that the second man had a squeeze to fit his ‘quarter’ in between

the ‘at’ and the ‘to,’ showing that the latter were already

written. The man who wrote all his words first is undoubtedly the

man who planned the affair.”

“Excellent!” cried Mr. Acton.

“But very superficial,” said Holmes. “We come now, however, to a

point which is of importance. You may not be aware that the

deduction of a man’s age from his writing is one which has been

brought to considerable accuracy by experts. In normal cases one

can place a man in his true decade with tolerable confidence. I

say normal cases, because ill-health and physical weakness

reproduce the signs of old age, even when the invalid is a youth.

In this case, looking at the bold, strong hand of the one, and

the rather broken-backed appearance of the other, which still

retains its legibility although the t’s have begun to lose their

crossing, we can say that the one was a young man and the other

was advanced in years without being positively decrepit.”

“Excellent!” cried Mr. Acton again.

“There is a further point, however, which is subtler and of

greater interest. There is something in common between these

hands. They belong to men who are blood-relatives. It may be most

obvious to you in the Greek e’s, but to me there are many small

points which indicate the same thing. I have no doubt at all that

a family mannerism can be traced in these two specimens of

writing. I am only, of course, giving you the leading results now

of my examination of the paper. There were twenty-three other

deductions which would be of more interest to experts than to

you. They all tend to deepen the impression upon my mind that the

Cunninghams, father and son, had written this letter.

“Having got so far, my next step was, of course, to examine into

the details of the crime, and to see how far they would help us.

I went up to the house with the Inspector, and saw all that was

to be seen. The wound upon the dead man was, as I was able to

determine with absolute confidence, fired from a revolver at the

distance of something over four yards. There was no

powder-blackening on the clothes. Evidently, therefore, Alec

Cunningham had lied when he said that the two men were struggling

when the shot was fired. Again, both father and son agreed as to

the place where the man escaped into the road. At that point,

however, as it happens, there is a broadish ditch, moist at the

bottom. As there were no indications of bootmarks about this

ditch, I was absolutely sure not only that the Cunninghams had

again lied, but that there had never been any unknown man upon

the scene at all.

“And now I have to consider the motive of this singular crime. To

get at this, I endeavoured first of all to solve the reason of

the original burglary at Mr. Acton’s. I understood, from

something which the Colonel told us, that a lawsuit had been

going on between you, Mr. Acton, and the Cunninghams. Of course,

it instantly occurred to me that they had broken into your

library with the intention of getting at some document which

might be of importance in the case.”

“Precisely so,” said Mr. Acton. “There can be no possible doubt

as to their intentions. I have the clearest claim upon half of

their present estate, and if they could have found a single

paper—which, fortunately, was in the strong-box of my

solicitors—they would undoubtedly have crippled our case.”

“There you are,” said Holmes, smiling. “It was a dangerous,

reckless attempt, in which I seem to trace the influence of young

Alec. Having found nothing they tried to divert suspicion by

making it appear to be an ordinary burglary, to which end they

carried off whatever they could lay their hands upon. That is all

clear enough, but there was much that was still obscure. What I

wanted above all was to get the missing part of that note. I was

certain that Alec had torn it out of the dead man’s hand, and

almost certain that he must have thrust it into the pocket of his

dressing-gown. Where else could he have put it? The only question

was whether it was still there. It was worth an effort to find

out, and for that object we all went up to the house.

“The Cunninghams joined us, as you doubtless remember, outside

the kitchen door. It was, of course, of the very first importance

that they should not be reminded of the existence of this paper,

otherwise they would naturally destroy it without delay. The

Inspector was about to tell them the importance which we attached

to it when, by the luckiest chance in the world, I tumbled down

in a sort of fit and so changed the conversation.

“Good heavens!” cried the Colonel, laughing, “do you mean to say

all our sympathy was wasted and your fit an imposture?”

“Speaking professionally, it was admirably done,” cried I,

looking in amazement at this man who was forever confounding me

with some new phase of his astuteness.

“It is an art which is often useful,” said he. “When I recovered

I managed, by a device which had perhaps some little merit of

ingenuity, to get old Cunningham to write the word ‘twelve,’ so

that I might compare it with the ‘twelve’ upon the paper.”

“Oh, what an ass I have been!” I exclaimed.

“I could see that you were commiserating me over my weakness,”

said Holmes, laughing. “I was sorry to cause you the sympathetic

pain which I know that you felt. We then went upstairs together,

and having entered the room and seen the dressing-gown hanging up

behind the door, I contrived, by upsetting a table, to engage

their attention for the moment, and slipped back to examine the

pockets. I had hardly got the paper, however—which was, as I had

expected, in one of them—when the two Cunninghams were on me, and

would, I verily believe, have murdered me then and there but for

your prompt and friendly aid. As it is, I feel that young man’s

grip on my throat now, and the father has twisted my wrist round

in the effort to get the paper out of my hand. They saw that I

must know all about it, you see, and the sudden change from

absolute security to complete despair made them perfectly

desperate.

“I had a little talk with old Cunningham afterwards as to the

motive of the crime. He was tractable enough, though his son was

a perfect demon, ready to blow out his own or anybody else’s

brains if he could have got to his revolver. When Cunningham saw

that the case against him was so strong he lost all heart and

made a clean breast of everything. It seems that William had

secretly followed his two masters on the night when they made

their raid upon Mr. Acton’s, and having thus got them into his

power, proceeded, under threats of exposure, to levy blackmail

upon them. Mr. Alec, however, was a dangerous man to play games

of that sort with. It was a stroke of positive genius on his part

to see in the burglary scare which was convulsing the country

side an opportunity of plausibly getting rid of the man whom he

feared. William was decoyed up and shot, and had they only got

the whole of the note and paid a little more attention to detail

in the accessories, it is very possible that suspicion might

never have been aroused.”

“And the note?” I asked.

Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper before us.

piece of paper

If you will only come round at quarter to twelve

to the east gate you will learn what

will very much surprise you and maybe

be of the greatest service to you and also

to Annie Morrison. But say nothing to anyone

upon the matter

“It is very much the sort of thing that I expected,” said he. “Of

course, we do not yet know what the relations may have been

between Alec Cunningham, William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison. The

results shows that the trap was skillfully baited. I am sure that

you cannot fail to be delighted with the traces of heredity shown

in the p’s and in the tails of the g’s. The absence of the i-dots

in the old man’s writing is also most characteristic. Watson, I

think our quiet rest in the country has been a distinct success,

and I shall certainly return much invigorated to Baker Street

to-morrow.”

VIII. The Crooked Man

One summer night, a few months after my marriage, I was seated by

my own hearth smoking a last pipe and nodding over a novel, for

my day’s work had been an exhausting one. My wife had already

gone upstairs, and the sound of the locking of the hall door some

time before told me that the servants had also retired. I had

risen from my seat and was knocking out the ashes of my pipe when

I suddenly heard the clang of the bell.

I looked at the clock. It was a quarter to twelve. This could not

be a visitor at so late an hour. A patient, evidently, and

possibly an all-night sitting. With a wry face I went out into

the hall and opened the door. To my astonishment it was Sherlock

Holmes who stood upon my step.

“Ah, Watson,” said he, “I hoped that I might not be too late to

catch you.”

“My dear fellow, pray come in.”

“You look surprised, and no wonder! Relieved, too, I fancy! Hum!

You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of your bachelor days then!

There’s no mistaking that fluffy ash upon your coat. It’s easy to

tell that you have been accustomed to wear a uniform, Watson.

You’ll never pass as a pure-bred civilian as long as you keep

that habit of carrying your handkerchief in your sleeve. Could

you put me up to-night?”

“With pleasure.”

“You told me that you had bachelor quarters for one, and I see

that you have no gentleman visitor at present. Your hat-stand

proclaims as much.”

“I shall be delighted if you will stay.”

“Thank you. I’ll fill the vacant peg then. Sorry to see that

you’ve had the British workman in the house. He’s a token of

evil. Not the drains, I hope?”

“No, the gas.”

“Ah! He has left two nail-marks from his boot upon your linoleum

just where the light strikes it. No, thank you, I had some supper

at Waterloo, but I’ll smoke a pipe with you with pleasure.”

I handed him my pouch, and he seated himself opposite to me and

smoked for some time in silence. I was well aware that nothing

but business of importance would have brought him to me at such

an hour, so I waited patiently until he should come round to it.

“I see that you are professionally rather busy just now,” said

he, glancing very keenly across at me.

“Yes, I’ve had a busy day,” I answered. “It may seem very foolish

in your eyes,” I added, “but really I don’t know how you deduced

it.”

Holmes chuckled to himself.

“I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Watson,”

said he. “When your round is a short one you walk, and when it is

a long one you use a hansom. As I perceive that your boots,

although used, are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are

at present busy enough to justify the hansom.”

“Excellent!” I cried.

“Elementary,” said he. “It is one of those instances where the

reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his

neighbour, because the latter has missed the one little point

which is the basis of the deduction. The same may be said, my

dear fellow, for the effect of some of these little sketches of

yours, which is entirely meretricious, depending as it does upon

your retaining in your own hands some factors in the problem

which are never imparted to the reader. Now, at present I am in

the position of these same readers, for I hold in this hand

several threads of one of the strangest cases which ever

perplexed a man’s brain, and yet I lack the one or two which are

needful to complete my theory. But I’ll have them, Watson, I’ll

have them!” His eyes kindled and a slight flush sprang into his

thin cheeks. For an instant only. When I glanced again his face

had resumed that red-Indian composure which had made so many

regard him as a machine rather than a man.

“The problem presents features of interest,” said he. “I may even

say exceptional features of interest. I have already looked into

the matter, and have come, as I think, within sight of my

solution. If you could accompany me in that last step you might

be of considerable service to me.”

“I should be delighted.”

“Could you go as far as Aldershot to-morrow?”

“I have no doubt Jackson would take my practice.”

“Very good. I want to start by the 11.10 from Waterloo.”

“That would give me time.”

“Then, if you are not too sleepy, I will give you a sketch of

what has happened, and of what remains to be done.”

“I was sleepy before you came. I am quite wakeful now.”

“I will compress the story as far as may be done without omitting

anything vital to the case. It is conceivable that you may even

have read some account of the matter. It is the supposed murder

of Colonel Barclay, of the Royal Mallows, at Aldershot, which I

am investigating.”

“I have heard nothing of it.”

“It has not excited much attention yet, except locally. The facts

are only two days old. Briefly they are these:

“The Royal Mallows is, as you know, one of the most famous Irish

regiments in the British army. It did wonders both in the Crimea

and the Mutiny, and has since that time distinguished itself upon

every possible occasion. It was commanded up to Monday night by

James Barclay, a gallant veteran, who started as a full private,

was raised to commissioned rank for his bravery at the time of

the Mutiny, and so lived to command the regiment in which he had

once carried a musket.

“Colonel Barclay had married at the time when he was a sergeant,

and his wife, whose maiden name was Miss Nancy Devoy, was the

daughter of a former colour-sergeant in the same corps. There

was, therefore, as can be imagined, some little social friction

when the young couple (for they were still young) found

themselves in their new surroundings. They appear, however, to

have quickly adapted themselves, and Mrs. Barclay has always, I

understand, been as popular with the ladies of the regiment as

her husband was with his brother officers. I may add that she was

a woman of great beauty, and that even now, when she has been

married for upwards of thirty years, she is still of a striking

and queenly appearance.

“Colonel Barclay’s family life appears to have been a uniformly

happy one. Major Murphy, to whom I owe most of my facts, assures

me that he has never heard of any misunderstanding between the

pair. On the whole, he thinks that Barclay’s devotion to his wife

was greater than his wife’s to Barclay. He was acutely uneasy if

he were absent from her for a day. She, on the other hand, though

devoted and faithful, was less obtrusively affectionate. But they

were regarded in the regiment as the very model of a middle-aged

couple. There was absolutely nothing in their mutual relations to

prepare people for the tragedy which was to follow.

“Colonel Barclay himself seems to have had some singular traits

in his character. He was a dashing, jovial old soldier in his

usual mood, but there were occasions on which he seemed to show

himself capable of considerable violence and vindictiveness. This

side of his nature, however, appears never to have been turned

towards his wife. Another fact, which had struck Major Murphy and

three out of five of the other officers with whom I conversed,

was the singular sort of depression which came upon him at times.

As the major expressed it, the smile had often been struck from

his mouth, as if by some invisible hand, when he has been joining

the gayeties and chaff of the mess-table. For days on end, when

the mood was on him, he has been sunk in the deepest gloom. This

and a certain tinge of superstition were the only unusual traits

in his character which his brother officers had observed. The

latter peculiarity took the form of a dislike to being left

alone, especially after dark. This puerile feature in a nature

which was conspicuously manly had often given rise to comment and

conjecture.

“The first battalion of the Royal Mallows (which is the old

117th) has been stationed at Aldershot for some years. The

married officers live out of barracks, and the Colonel has during

all this time occupied a villa called Lachine, about half a mile

from the north camp. The house stands in its own grounds, but the

west side of it is not more than thirty yards from the high-road.

A coachman and two maids form the staff of servants. These with

their master and mistress were the sole occupants of Lachine, for

the Barclays had no children, nor was it usual for them to have

resident visitors.

“Now for the events at Lachine between nine and ten on the

evening of last Monday.”

“Mrs. Barclay was, it appears, a member of the Roman Catholic

Church, and had interested herself very much in the establishment

of the Guild of St. George, which was formed in connection with

the Watt Street Chapel for the purpose of supplying the poor with

cast-off clothing. A meeting of the Guild had been held that

evening at eight, and Mrs. Barclay had hurried over her dinner in

order to be present at it. When leaving the house she was heard

by the coachman to make some commonplace remark to her husband,

and to assure him that she would be back before very long. She

then called for Miss Morrison, a young lady who lives in the next

villa, and the two went off together to their meeting. It lasted

forty minutes, and at a quarter-past nine Mrs. Barclay returned

home, having left Miss Morrison at her door as she passed.

“There is a room which is used as a morning-room at Lachine. This

faces the road and opens by a large glass folding-door on to the

lawn. The lawn is thirty yards across, and is only divided from

the highway by a low wall with an iron rail above it. It was into

this room that Mrs. Barclay went upon her return. The blinds were

not down, for the room was seldom used in the evening, but Mrs.

Barclay herself lit the lamp and then rang the bell, asking Jane

Stewart, the housemaid, to bring her a cup of tea, which was

quite contrary to her usual habits. The Colonel had been sitting

in the dining-room, but hearing that his wife had returned he

joined her in the morning-room. The coachman saw him cross the

hall and enter it. He was never seen again alive.

“The tea which had been ordered was brought up at the end of ten

minutes; but the maid, as she approached the door, was surprised

to hear the voices of her master and mistress in furious

altercation. She knocked without receiving any answer, and even

turned the handle, but only to find that the door was locked upon

the inside. Naturally enough she ran down to tell the cook, and

the two women with the coachman came up into the hall and

listened to the dispute which was still raging. They all agreed

that only two voices were to be heard, those of Barclay and of

his wife. Barclay’s remarks were subdued and abrupt, so that none

of them were audible to the listeners. The lady’s, on the other

hand, were most bitter, and when she raised her voice could be

plainly heard. ‘You coward!’ she repeated over and over again.

‘What can be done now? What can be done now? Give me back my

life. I will never so much as breathe the same air with you

again! You coward! You coward!’ Those were scraps of her

conversation, ending in a sudden dreadful cry in the man’s voice,

with a crash, and a piercing scream from the woman. Convinced

that some tragedy had occurred, the coachman rushed to the door

and strove to force it, while scream after scream issued from

within. He was unable, however, to make his way in, and the maids

were too distracted with fear to be of any assistance to him. A

sudden thought struck him, however, and he ran through the hall

door and round to the lawn upon which the long French windows

open. One side of the window was open, which I understand was

quite usual in the summer-time, and he passed without difficulty

into the room. His mistress had ceased to scream and was

stretched insensible upon a couch, while with his feet tilted

over the side of an armchair, and his head upon the ground near

the corner of the fender, was lying the unfortunate soldier stone

dead in a pool of his own blood.

“Naturally, the coachman’s first thought, on finding that he

could do nothing for his master, was to open the door. But here

an unexpected and singular difficulty presented itself. The key

was not in the inner side of the door, nor could he find it

anywhere in the room. He went out again, therefore, through the

window, and having obtained the help of a policeman and of a

medical man, he returned. The lady, against whom naturally the

strongest suspicion rested, was removed to her room, still in a

state of insensibility. The Colonel’s body was then placed upon

the sofa, and a careful examination made of the scene of the

tragedy.

“The injury from which the unfortunate veteran was suffering was

found to be a jagged cut some two inches long at the back part of

his head, which had evidently been caused by a violent blow from

a blunt weapon. Nor was it difficult to guess what that weapon

may have been. Upon the floor, close to the body, was lying a

singular club of hard carved wood with a bone handle. The Colonel

possessed a varied collection of weapons brought from the

different countries in which he had fought, and it is conjectured

by the police that his club was among his trophies. The servants

deny having seen it before, but among the numerous curiosities in

the house it is possible that it may have been overlooked.

Nothing else of importance was discovered in the room by the

police, save the inexplicable fact that neither upon Mrs.

Barclay’s person nor upon that of the victim nor in any part of

the room was the missing key to be found. The door had eventually

to be opened by a locksmith from Aldershot.

“That was the state of things, Watson, when upon the Tuesday

morning I, at the request of Major Murphy, went down to Aldershot

to supplement the efforts of the police. I think that you will

acknowledge that the problem was already one of interest, but my

observations soon made me realize that it was in truth much more

extraordinary than would at first sight appear.

“Before examining the room I cross-questioned the servants, but

only succeeded in eliciting the facts which I have already

stated. One other detail of interest was remembered by Jane

Stewart, the housemaid. You will remember that on hearing the

sound of the quarrel she descended and returned with the other

servants. On that first occasion, when she was alone, she says

that the voices of her master and mistress were sunk so low that

she could hear hardly anything, and judged by their tones rather

than their words that they had fallen out. On my pressing her,

however, she remembered that she heard the word ‘David’ uttered

twice by the lady. The point is of the utmost importance as

guiding us towards the reason of the sudden quarrel. The

Colonel’s name, you remember, was James.

“There was one thing in the case which had made the deepest

impression both upon the servants and the police. This was the

contortion of the Colonel’s face. It had set, according to their

account, into the most dreadful expression of fear and horror

which a human countenance is capable of assuming. More than one

person fainted at the mere sight of him, so terrible was the

effect. It was quite certain that he had foreseen his fate, and

that it had caused him the utmost horror. This, of course, fitted

in well enough with the police theory, if the Colonel could have

seen his wife making a murderous attack upon him. Nor was the

fact of the wound being on the back of his head a fatal objection

to this, as he might have turned to avoid the blow. No

information could be got from the lady herself, who was

temporarily insane from an acute attack of brain-fever.

“From the police I learned that Miss Morrison, who you remember

went out that evening with Mrs. Barclay, denied having any

knowledge of what it was which had caused the ill-humour in which

her companion had returned.

“Having gathered these facts, Watson, I smoked several pipes over

them, trying to separate those which were crucial from others

which were merely incidental. There could be no question that the

most distinctive and suggestive point in the case was the

singular disappearance of the door-key. A most careful search had

failed to discover it in the room. Therefore it must have been

taken from it. But neither the Colonel nor the Colonel’s wife

could have taken it. That was perfectly clear. Therefore a third

person must have entered the room. And that third person could

only have come in through the window. It seemed to me that a

careful examination of the room and the lawn might possibly

reveal some traces of this mysterious individual. You know my

methods, Watson. There was not one of them which I did not apply

to the inquiry. And it ended by my discovering traces, but very

different ones from those which I had expected. There had been a

man in the room, and he had crossed the lawn coming from the

road. I was able to obtain five very clear impressions of his

footmarks: one in the roadway itself, at the point where he had

climbed the low wall, two on the lawn, and two very faint ones

upon the stained boards near the window where he had entered. He

had apparently rushed across the lawn, for his toe-marks were

much deeper than his heels. But it was not the man who surprised

me. It was his companion.”

“His companion!”

Holmes pulled a large sheet of tissue-paper out of his pocket and

carefully unfolded it upon his knee.

“What do you make of that?” he asked.

The paper was covered with the tracings of the footmarks of some

small animal. It had five well-marked footpads, an indication of

long nails, and the whole print might be nearly as large as a

dessert-spoon.

“It’s a dog,” said I.

“Did you ever hear of a dog running up a curtain? I found

distinct traces that this creature had done so.”

“A monkey, then?”

“But it is not the print of a monkey.”

“What can it be, then?”

“Neither dog nor cat nor monkey nor any creature that we are

familiar with. I have tried to reconstruct it from the

measurements. Here are four prints where the beast has been

standing motionless. You see that it is no less than fifteen

inches from fore-foot to hind. Add to that the length of neck and

head, and you get a creature not much less than two feet

long—probably more if there is any tail. But now observe this

other measurement. The animal has been moving, and we have the

length of its stride. In each case it is only about three inches.

You have an indication, you see, of a long body with very short

legs attached to it. It has not been considerate enough to leave

any of its hair behind it. But its general shape must be what I

have indicated, and it can run up a curtain, and it is

carnivorous.”

“How do you deduce that?”

“Because it ran up the curtain. A canary’s cage was hanging in

the window, and its aim seems to have been to get at the bird.”

“Then what was the beast?”

“Ah, if I could give it a name it might go a long way towards

solving the case. On the whole, it was probably some creature of

the weasel and stoat tribe—and yet it is larger than any of these

that I have seen.”

“But what had it to do with the crime?”

“That, also, is still obscure. But we have learned a good deal,

you perceive. We know that a man stood in the road looking at the

quarrel between the Barclays—the blinds were up and the room

lighted. We know, also, that he ran across the lawn, entered the

room, accompanied by a strange animal, and that he either struck

the Colonel or, as is equally possible, that the Colonel fell

down from sheer fright at the sight of him, and cut his head on

the corner of the fender. Finally, we have the curious fact that

the intruder carried away the key with him when he left.”

“Your discoveries seem to have left the business more obscure

that it was before,” said I.

“Quite so. They undoubtedly showed that the affair was much

deeper than was at first conjectured. I thought the matter over,

and I came to the conclusion that I must approach the case from

another aspect. But really, Watson, I am keeping you up, and I

might just as well tell you all this on our way to Aldershot

to-morrow.”

“Thank you, you have gone rather too far to stop.”

“It is quite certain that when Mrs. Barclay left the house at

half-past seven she was on good terms with her husband. She was

never, as I think I have said, ostentatiously affectionate, but

she was heard by the coachman chatting with the Colonel in a

friendly fashion. Now, it was equally certain that, immediately

on her return, she had gone to the room in which she was least

likely to see her husband, had flown to tea as an agitated woman

will, and finally, on his coming in to her, had broken into

violent recriminations. Therefore something had occurred between

seven-thirty and nine o’clock which had completely altered her

feelings towards him. But Miss Morrison had been with her during

the whole of that hour and a half. It was absolutely certain,

therefore, in spite of her denial, that she must know something

of the matter.

“My first conjecture was, that possibly there had been some

passages between this young lady and the old soldier, which the

former had now confessed to the wife. That would account for the

angry return, and also for the girl’s denial that anything had

occurred. Nor would it be entirely incompatible with most of the

words overheard. But there was the reference to David, and there

was the known affection of the Colonel for his wife, to weigh

against it, to say nothing of the tragic intrusion of this other

man, which might, of course, be entirely disconnected with what

had gone before. It was not easy to pick one’s steps, but, on the

whole, I was inclined to dismiss the idea that there had been

anything between the Colonel and Miss Morrison, but more than

ever convinced that the young lady held the clue as to what it

was which had turned Mrs. Barclay to hatred of her husband. I

took the obvious course, therefore, of calling upon Miss

Morrison, of explaining to her that I was perfectly certain that

she held the facts in her possession, and of assuring her that

her friend, Mrs. Barclay, might find herself in the dock upon a

capital charge unless the matter were cleared up.

“Miss Morrison is a little, ethereal slip of a girl, with timid

eyes and blonde hair, but I found her by no means wanting in

shrewdness and common sense. She sat thinking for some time after

I had spoken, and then, turning to me with a brisk air of

resolution, she broke into a remarkable statement which I will

condense for your benefit.

“‘I promised my friend that I would say nothing of the matter,

and a promise is a promise,’ said she; ‘but if I can really help

her when so serious a charge is laid against her, and when her

own mouth, poor darling, is closed by illness, then I think I am

absolved from my promise. I will tell you exactly what happened

upon Monday evening.

“‘We were returning from the Watt Street Mission about a quarter

to nine o’clock. On our way we had to pass through Hudson Street,

which is a very quiet thoroughfare. There is only one lamp in it,

upon the left-hand side, and as we approached this lamp I saw a

man coming towards us with his back very bent, and something like

a box slung over one of his shoulders. He appeared to be

deformed, for he carried his head low and walked with his knees

bent. We were passing him when he raised his face to look at us

in the circle of light thrown by the lamp, and as he did so he

stopped and screamed out in a dreadful voice, “My God, it’s

Nancy!” Mrs. Barclay turned as white as death, and would have

fallen down had the dreadful-looking creature not caught hold of

her. I was going to call for the police, but she, to my surprise,

spoke quite civilly to the fellow.

“‘“I thought you had been dead this thirty years, Henry,” said

she, in a shaking voice.

“‘“So I have,” said he, and it was awful to hear the tones that

he said it in. He had a very dark, fearsome face, and a gleam in

his eyes that comes back to me in my dreams. His hair and

whiskers were shot with grey, and his face was all crinkled and

puckered like a withered apple.

“‘“Just walk on a little way, dear,” said Mrs. Barclay; “I want

to have a word with this man. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

She tried to speak boldly, but she was still deadly pale and

could hardly get her words out for the trembling of her lips.

“‘I did as she asked me, and they talked together for a few

minutes. Then she came down the street with her eyes blazing, and

I saw the crippled wretch standing by the lamp-post and shaking

his clenched fists in the air as if he were mad with rage. She

never said a word until we were at the door here, when she took

me by the hand and begged me to tell no one what had happened.

“‘“It’s an old acquaintance of mine who has come down in the

world,” said she. When I promised her I would say nothing she

kissed me, and I have never seen her since. I have told you now

the whole truth, and if I withheld it from the police it is

because I did not realize then the danger in which my dear friend

stood. I know that it can only be to her advantage that

everything should be known.’

“There was her statement, Watson, and to me, as you can imagine,

it was like a light on a dark night. Everything which had been

disconnected before began at once to assume its true place, and I

had a shadowy presentiment of the whole sequence of events. My

next step obviously was to find the man who had produced such a

remarkable impression upon Mrs. Barclay. If he were still in

Aldershot it should not be a very difficult matter. There are not

such a very great number of civilians, and a deformed man was

sure to have attracted attention. I spent a day in the search,

and by evening—this very evening, Watson—I had run him down. The

man’s name is Henry Wood, and he lives in lodgings in this same

street in which the ladies met him. He has only been five days in

the place. In the character of a registration-agent I had a most

interesting gossip with his landlady. The man is by trade a

conjurer and performer, going round the canteens after nightfall,

and giving a little entertainment at each. He carries some

creature about with him in that box; about which the landlady

seemed to be in considerable trepidation, for she had never seen

an animal like it. He uses it in some of his tricks according to

her account. So much the woman was able to tell me, and also that

it was a wonder the man lived, seeing how twisted he was, and

that he spoke in a strange tongue sometimes, and that for the

last two nights she had heard him groaning and weeping in his

bedroom. He was all right, as far as money went, but in his

deposit he had given her what looked like a bad florin. She

showed it to me, Watson, and it was an Indian rupee.

“So now, my dear fellow, you see exactly how we stand and why it

is I want you. It is perfectly plain that after the ladies parted

from this man he followed them at a distance, that he saw the

quarrel between husband and wife through the window, that he

rushed in, and that the creature which he carried in his box got

loose. That is all very certain. But he is the only person in

this world who can tell us exactly what happened in that room.”

“And you intend to ask him?”

“Most certainly—but in the presence of a witness.”

“And I am the witness?”

“If you will be so good. If he can clear the matter up, well and

good. If he refuses, we have no alternative but to apply for a

warrant.”

“But how do you know he’ll be there when we return?”

“You may be sure that I took some precautions. I have one of my

Baker Street boys mounting guard over him who would stick to him

like a burr, go where he might. We shall find him in Hudson

Street to-morrow, Watson, and meanwhile I should be the criminal

myself if I kept you out of bed any longer.”

It was midday when we found ourselves at the scene of the

tragedy, and, under my companion’s guidance, we made our way at

once to Hudson Street. In spite of his capacity for concealing

his emotions, I could easily see that Holmes was in a state of

suppressed excitement, while I was myself tingling with that

half-sporting, half-intellectual pleasure which I invariably

experienced when I associated myself with him in his

investigations.

“This is the street,” said he, as we turned into a short

thoroughfare lined with plain two-storied brick houses. “Ah, here

is Simpson to report.”

“He’s in all right, Mr. Holmes,” cried a small street Arab,

running up to us.

“Good, Simpson!” said Holmes, patting him on the head. “Come

along, Watson. This is the house.” He sent in his card with a

message that he had come on important business, and a moment

later we were face to face with the man whom we had come to see.

In spite of the warm weather he was crouching over a fire, and

the little room was like an oven. The man sat all twisted and

huddled in his chair in a way which gave an indescribable

impression of deformity; but the face which he turned towards us,

though worn and swarthy, must at some time have been remarkable

for its beauty. He looked suspiciously at us now out of

yellow-shot, bilious eyes, and, without speaking or rising, he

waved towards two chairs.

“Mr. Henry Wood, late of India, I believe,” said Holmes, affably.

“I’ve come over this little matter of Colonel Barclay’s death.”

“What should I know about that?”

“That’s what I want to ascertain. You know, I suppose, that

unless the matter is cleared up, Mrs. Barclay, who is an old

friend of yours, will in all probability be tried for murder.”

The man gave a violent start.

“I don’t know who you are,” he cried, “nor how you come to know

what you do know, but will you swear that this is true that you

tell me?”

“Why, they are only waiting for her to come to her senses to

arrest her.”

“My God! Are you in the police yourself?”

“No.”

“What business is it of yours, then?”

“It’s every man’s business to see justice done.”

“You can take my word that she is innocent.”

“Then you are guilty.”

“No, I am not.”

“Who killed Colonel James Barclay, then?”

“It was a just providence that killed him. But, mind you this,

that if I had knocked his brains out, as it was in my heart to

do, he would have had no more than his due from my hands. If his

own guilty conscience had not struck him down it is likely enough

that I might have had his blood upon my soul. You want me to tell

the story. Well, I don’t know why I shouldn’t, for there’s no

cause for me to be ashamed of it.

“It was in this way, sir. You see me now with my back like a

camel and my ribs all awry, but there was a time when Corporal

Henry Wood was the smartest man in the 117th Foot. We were in

India then, in cantonments, at a place we’ll call Bhurtee.

Barclay, who died the other day, was sergeant in the same company

as myself, and the belle of the regiment, ay, and the finest girl

that ever had the breath of life between her lips, was Nancy

Devoy, the daughter of the colour-sergeant. There were two men

that loved her, and one that she loved, and you’ll smile when you

look at this poor thing huddled before the fire, and hear me say

that it was for my good looks that she loved me.

“Well, though I had her heart, her father was set upon her

marrying Barclay. I was a harum-scarum, reckless lad, and he had

had an education, and was already marked for the sword-belt. But

the girl held true to me, and it seemed that I would have had her

when the Mutiny broke out, and all hell was loose in the country.

“We were shut up in Bhurtee, the regiment of us with half a

battery of artillery, a company of Sikhs, and a lot of civilians

and women-folk. There were ten thousand rebels round us, and they

were as keen as a set of terriers round a rat-cage. About the

second week of it our water gave out, and it was a question

whether we could communicate with General Neill’s column, which

was moving up country. It was our only chance, for we could not

hope to fight our way out with all the women and children, so I

volunteered to go out and to warn General Neill of our danger. My

offer was accepted, and I talked it over with Sergeant Barclay,

who was supposed to know the ground better than any other man,

and who drew up a route by which I might get through the rebel

lines. At ten o’clock the same night I started off upon my

journey. There were a thousand lives to save, but it was of only

one that I was thinking when I dropped over the wall that night.

“My way ran down a dried-up watercourse, which we hoped would

screen me from the enemy’s sentries; but as I crept round the

corner of it I walked right into six of them, who were crouching

down in the dark waiting for me. In an instant I was stunned with

a blow and bound hand and foot. But the real blow was to my heart

and not to my head, for as I came to and listened to as much as I

could understand of their talk, I heard enough to tell me that my

comrade, the very man who had arranged the way that I was to

take, had betrayed me by means of a native servant into the hands

of the enemy.

“Well, there’s no need for me to dwell on that part of it. You

know now what James Barclay was capable of. Bhurtee was relieved

by Neill next day, but the rebels took me away with them in their

retreat, and it was many a long year before ever I saw a white

face again. I was tortured and tried to get away, and was

captured and tortured again. You can see for yourselves the state

in which I was left. Some of them that fled into Nepaul took me

with them, and then afterwards I was up past Darjeeling. The

hill-folk up there murdered the rebels who had me, and I became

their slave for a time until I escaped; but instead of going

south I had to go north, until I found myself among the Afghans.

There I wandered about for many a year, and at last came back to

the Punjab, where I lived mostly among the natives and picked up

a living by the conjuring tricks that I had learned. What use was

it for me, a wretched cripple, to go back to England or to make

myself known to my old comrades? Even my wish for revenge would

not make me do that. I had rather that Nancy and my old pals

should think of Harry Wood as having died with a straight back,

than see him living and crawling with a stick like a chimpanzee.

They never doubted that I was dead, and I meant that they never

should. I heard that Barclay had married Nancy, and that he was

rising rapidly in the regiment, but even that did not make me

speak.

“But when one gets old one has a longing for home. For years I’ve

been dreaming of the bright green fields and the hedges of

England. At last I determined to see them before I died. I saved

enough to bring me across, and then I came here where the

soldiers are, for I know their ways and how to amuse them and so

earn enough to keep me.”

“Your narrative is most interesting,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I

have already heard of your meeting with Mrs. Barclay, and your

mutual recognition. You then, as I understand, followed her home

and saw through the window an altercation between her husband and

her, in which she doubtless cast his conduct to you in his teeth.

Your own feelings overcame you, and you ran across the lawn and

broke in upon them.”

“I did, sir, and at the sight of me he looked as I have never

seen a man look before, and over he went with his head on the

fender. But he was dead before he fell. I read death on his face

as plain as I can read that text over the fire. The bare sight of

me was like a bullet through his guilty heart.”

“And then?”

“Then Nancy fainted, and I caught up the key of the door from her

hand, intending to unlock it and get help. But as I was doing it

it seemed to me better to leave it alone and get away, for the

thing might look black against me, and any way my secret would be

out if I were taken. In my haste I thrust the key into my pocket,

and dropped my stick while I was chasing Teddy, who had run up

the curtain. When I got him into his box, from which he had

slipped, I was off as fast as I could run.”

“Who’s Teddy?” asked Holmes.

The man leaned over and pulled up the front of a kind of hutch in

the corner. In an instant out there slipped a beautiful

reddish-brown creature, thin and lithe, with the legs of a stoat,

a long, thin nose, and a pair of the finest red eyes that ever I

saw in an animal’s head.

“It’s a mongoose,” I cried.

“Well, some call them that, and some call them ichneumon,” said

the man. “Snake-catcher is what I call them, and Teddy is amazing

quick on cobras. I have one here without the fangs, and Teddy

catches it every night to please the folk in the canteen.

“Any other point, sir?”

“Well, we may have to apply to you again if Mrs. Barclay should

prove to be in serious trouble.”

“In that case, of course, I’d come forward.”

“But if not, there is no object in raking up this scandal against

a dead man, foully as he has acted. You have at least the

satisfaction of knowing that for thirty years of his life his

conscience bitterly reproached him for this wicked deed. Ah,

there goes Major Murphy on the other side of the street. Good-by,

Wood. I want to learn if anything has happened since yesterday.”

We were in time to overtake the major before he reached the

corner.

“Ah, Holmes,” he said: “I suppose you have heard that all this

fuss has come to nothing?”

“What then?”

“The inquest is just over. The medical evidence showed

conclusively that death was due to apoplexy. You see it was quite

a simple case after all.”

“Oh, remarkably superficial,” said Holmes, smiling. “Come,

Watson, I don’t think we shall be wanted in Aldershot any more.”

“There’s one thing,” said I, as we walked down to the station.

“If the husband’s name was James, and the other was Henry, what

was this talk about David?”

“That one word, my dear Watson, should have told me the whole

story had I been the ideal reasoner which you are so fond of

depicting. It was evidently a term of reproach.”

“Of reproach?”

“Yes; David strayed a little occasionally, you know, and on one

occasion in the same direction as Sergeant James Barclay. You

remember the small affair of Uriah and Bathsheba? My biblical

knowledge is a trifle rusty, I fear, but you will find the story

in the first or second of Samuel.”

IX. The Resident Patient

In glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of memoirs with

which I have endeavoured to illustrate a few of the mental

peculiarities of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been

struck by the difficulty which I have experienced in picking out

examples which shall in every way answer my purpose. For in those

cases in which Holmes has performed some _tour-de-force_ of

analytical reasoning, and has demonstrated the value of his

peculiar methods of investigation, the facts themselves have

often been so slight or so commonplace that I could not feel

justified in laying them before the public. On the other hand, it

has frequently happened that he has been concerned in some

research where the facts have been of the most remarkable and

dramatic character, but where the share which he has himself

taken in determining their causes has been less pronounced than

I, as his biographer, could wish. The small matter which I have

chronicled under the heading of “A Study in Scarlet,” and that

other later one connected with the loss of the _Gloria Scott_,

may serve as examples of this Scylla and Charybdis which are

forever threatening the historian. It may be that in the business

of which I am now about to write the part which my friend played

is not sufficiently accentuated; and yet the whole train of

circumstances is so remarkable that I cannot bring myself to omit

it entirely from this series.

I cannot be sure of the exact date, for some of my memoranda upon

the matter have been mislaid, but it must have been towards the

end of the first year during which Holmes and I shared chambers

in Baker Street. It was boisterous October weather, and we had

both remained indoors all day, I because I feared with my shaken

health to face the keen autumn wind, while he was deep in some of

those abstruse chemical investigations which absorbed him utterly

as long as he was engaged upon them. Towards evening, however,

the breaking of a test-tube brought his research to a premature

ending, and he sprang up from his chair with an exclamation of

impatience and a clouded brow.

“A day’s work ruined, Watson,” said he, striding across to the

window. “Ha! the stars are out and the wind has fallen. What do

you say to a ramble through London?”

I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly acquiesced. For

three hours we strolled about together, watching the

ever-changing kaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through

Fleet Street and the Strand. Holmes had shaken off his temporary

ill-humour, and his characteristic talk, with its keen observance

of detail and subtle power of inference held me amused and

enthralled. It was ten o’clock before we reached Baker Street

again. A brougham was waiting at our door.

“Hum! A doctor’s—general practitioner, I perceive,” said Holmes.

“Not been long in practice, but has had a good deal to do. Come

to consult us, I fancy! Lucky we came back!”

I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes’s methods to be able to

follow his reasoning, and to see that the nature and state of the

various medical instruments in the wicker basket which hung in

the lamplight inside the brougham had given him the data for his

swift deduction. The light in our window above showed that this

late visit was indeed intended for us. With some curiosity as to

what could have sent a brother medico to us at such an hour, I

followed Holmes into our sanctum.

A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from a chair

by the fire as we entered. His age may not have been more than

three or four and thirty, but his haggard expression and

unhealthy hue told of a life which has sapped his strength and

robbed him of his youth. His manner was nervous and shy, like

that of a sensitive gentleman, and the thin white hand which he

laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was that of an artist rather

than of a surgeon. His dress was quiet and sombre—a black

frock-coat, dark trousers, and a touch of colour about his

necktie.

“Good-evening, doctor,” said Holmes, cheerily. “I am glad to see

that you have only been waiting a very few minutes.”

“You spoke to my coachman, then?”

“No, it was the candle on the side-table that told me. Pray

resume your seat and let me know how I can serve you.”

“My name is Doctor Percy Trevelyan,” said our visitor, “and I

live at 403, Brook Street.”

“Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous

lesions?” I asked.

His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that his work

was known to me.

“I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was quite dead,”

said he. “My publishers gave me a most discouraging account of

its sale. You are yourself, I presume, a medical man?”

“A retired Army surgeon.”

“My own hobby has always been nervous disease. I should wish to

make it an absolute specialty, but, of course, a man must take

what he can get at first. This, however, is beside the question,

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your

time is. The fact is that a very singular train of events has

occurred recently at my house in Brook Street, and to-night they

came to such a head that I felt it was quite impossible for me to

wait another hour before asking for your advice and assistance.”

Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. “You are very welcome

to both,” said he. “Pray let me have a detailed account of what

the circumstances are which have disturbed you.”

“One or two of them are so trivial,” said Dr. Trevelyan, “that

really I am almost ashamed to mention them. But the matter is so

inexplicable, and the recent turn which it has taken is so

elaborate, that I shall lay it all before you, and you shall

judge what is essential and what is not.

“I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my own

college career. I am a London University man, you know, and I am

sure that you will not think that I am unduly singing my own

praises if I say that my student career was considered by my

professors to be a very promising one. After I had graduated I

continued to devote myself to research, occupying a minor

position in King’s College Hospital, and I was fortunate enough

to excite considerable interest by my research into the pathology

of catalepsy, and finally to win the Bruce Pinkerton prize and

medal by the monograph on nervous lesions to which your friend

has just alluded. I should not go too far if I were to say that

there was a general impression at that time that a distinguished

career lay before me.

“But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want of capital. As

you will readily understand, a specialist who aims high is

compelled to start in one of a dozen streets in the Cavendish

Square quarter, all of which entail enormous rents and furnishing

expenses. Besides this preliminary outlay, he must be prepared to

keep himself for some years, and to hire a presentable carriage

and horse. To do this was quite beyond my power, and I could only

hope that by economy I might in ten years’ time save enough to

enable me to put up my plate. Suddenly, however, an unexpected

incident opened up quite a new prospect to me.

“This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of Blessington,

who was a complete stranger to me. He came up to my room one

morning, and plunged into business in an instant.

“‘You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so distinguished a

career and won a great prize lately?’ said he.

“I bowed.

“‘Answer me frankly,’ he continued, ‘for you will find it to your

interest to do so. You have all the cleverness which makes a

successful man. Have you the tact?’

“I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the question.

“‘I trust that I have my share,’ I said.

“‘Any bad habits? Not drawn towards drink, eh?’

“‘Really, sir!’ I cried.

“‘Quite right! That’s all right! But I was bound to ask. With all

these qualities, why are you not in practice?’

“I shrugged my shoulders.

“‘Come, come!’ said he, in his bustling way. ‘It’s the old story.

More in your brains than in your pocket, eh? What would you say

if I were to start you in Brook Street?’

“I stared at him in astonishment.

“‘Oh, it’s for my sake, not for yours,’ he cried. ‘I’ll be

perfectly frank with you, and if it suits you it will suit me

very well. I have a few thousands to invest, d’ye see, and I

think I’ll sink them in you.’

“‘But why?’ I gasped.

“‘Well, it’s just like any other speculation, and safer than

most.’

“‘What am I to do, then?’

“‘I’ll tell you. I’ll take the house, furnish it, pay the maids,

and run the whole place. All you have to do is just to wear out

your chair in the consulting-room. I’ll let you have pocket-money

and everything. Then you hand over to me three quarters of what

you earn, and you keep the other quarter for yourself.’

“This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which the man

Blessington approached me. I won’t weary you with the account of

how we bargained and negotiated. It ended in my moving into the

house next Lady Day, and starting in practice on very much the

same conditions as he had suggested. He came himself to live with

me in the character of a resident patient. His heart was weak, it

appears, and he needed constant medical supervision. He turned

the two best rooms of the first floor into a sitting-room and

bedroom for himself. He was a man of singular habits, shunning

company and very seldom going out. His life was irregular, but in

one respect he was regularity itself. Every evening, at the same

hour, he walked into the consulting-room, examined the books, put

down five and three-pence for every guinea that I had earned, and

carried the rest off to the strong-box in his own room.

“I may say with confidence that he never had occasion to regret

his speculation. From the first it was a success. A few good

cases and the reputation which I had won in the hospital brought

me rapidly to the front, and during the last few years I have

made him a rich man.

“So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my relations with

Mr. Blessington. It only remains for me now to tell you what has

occurred to bring me here to-night.

“Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in, as it seemed

to me, a state of considerable agitation. He spoke of some

burglary which, he said, had been committed in the West End, and

he appeared, I remember, to be quite unnecessarily excited about

it, declaring that a day should not pass before we should add

stronger bolts to our windows and doors. For a week he continued

to be in a peculiar state of restlessness, peering continually

out of the windows, and ceasing to take the short walk which had

usually been the prelude to his dinner. From his manner it struck

me that he was in mortal dread of something or somebody, but when

I questioned him upon the point he became so offensive that I was

compelled to drop the subject. Gradually, as time passed, his

fears appeared to die away, and he had renewed his former habits,

when a fresh event reduced him to the pitiable state of

prostration in which he now lies.

“What happened was this. Two days ago I received the letter which

I now read to you. Neither address nor date is attached to it.

“‘A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England,’ it runs,

‘would be glad to avail himself of the professional assistance of

Dr. Percy Trevelyan. He has been for some years a victim to

cataleptic attacks, on which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is

an authority. He proposes to call at about quarter past six

to-morrow evening, if Dr. Trevelyan will make it convenient to be

at home.’

“This letter interested me deeply, because the chief difficulty

in the study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease. You may

believe, then, that I was in my consulting-room when, at the

appointed hour, the page showed in the patient.

“He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and commonplace—by no means

the conception one forms of a Russian nobleman. I was much more

struck by the appearance of his companion. This was a tall young

man, surprisingly handsome, with a dark, fierce face, and the

limbs and chest of a Hercules. He had his hand under the other’s

arm as they entered, and helped him to a chair with a tenderness

which one would hardly have expected from his appearance.

“‘You will excuse my coming in, doctor,’ said he to me, speaking

English with a slight lisp. ‘This is my father, and his health is

a matter of the most overwhelming importance to me.’

“I was touched by this filial anxiety. ‘You would, perhaps, care

to remain during the consultation?’ said I.

“‘Not for the world,’ he cried with a gesture of horror. ‘It is

more painful to me than I can express. If I were to see my father

in one of these dreadful seizures I am convinced that I should

never survive it. My own nervous system is an exceptionally

sensitive one. With your permission, I will remain in the

waiting-room while you go into my father’s case.’

“To this, of course, I assented, and the young man withdrew. The

patient and I then plunged into a discussion of his case, of

which I took exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable for

intelligence, and his answers were frequently obscure, which I

attributed to his limited acquaintance with our language.

Suddenly, however, as I sat writing, he ceased to give any answer

at all to my inquiries, and on my turning towards him I was

shocked to see that he was sitting bolt upright in his chair,

staring at me with a perfectly blank and rigid face. He was again

in the grip of his mysterious malady.

“My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of pity and

horror. My second, I fear, was rather one of professional

satisfaction. I made notes of my patient’s pulse and temperature,

tested the rigidity of his muscles, and examined his reflexes.

There was nothing markedly abnormal in any of these conditions,

which harmonised with my former experiences. I had obtained good

results in such cases by the inhalation of nitrite of amyl, and

the present seemed an admirable opportunity of testing its

virtues. The bottle was downstairs in my laboratory, so leaving

my patient seated in his chair, I ran down to get it. There was

some little delay in finding it—five minutes, let us say—and then

I returned. Imagine my amazement to find the room empty and the

patient gone.

“Of course, my first act was to run into the waiting-room. The

son had gone also. The hall door had been closed, but not shut.

My page who admits patients is a new boy and by no means quick.

He waits downstairs, and runs up to show patients out when I ring

the consulting-room bell. He had heard nothing, and the affair

remained a complete mystery. Mr. Blessington came in from his

walk shortly afterwards, but I did not say anything to him upon

the subject, for, to tell the truth, I have got in the way of

late of holding as little communication with him as possible.

“Well, I never thought that I should see anything more of the

Russian and his son, so you can imagine my amazement when, at the

very same hour this evening, they both came marching into my

consulting-room, just as they had done before.

“‘I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my abrupt

departure yesterday, doctor,’ said my patient.

“‘I confess that I was very much surprised at it,’ said I.

“‘Well, the fact is,’ he remarked, ‘that when I recover from

these attacks my mind is always very clouded as to all that has

gone before. I woke up in a strange room, as it seemed to me, and

made my way out into the street in a sort of dazed way when you

were absent.’

“‘And I,’ said the son, ‘seeing my father pass the door of the

waiting-room, naturally thought that the consultation had come to

an end. It was not until we had reached home that I began to

realize the true state of affairs.’

“‘Well,’ said I, laughing, ‘there is no harm done except that you

puzzled me terribly; so if you, sir, would kindly step into the

waiting-room I shall be happy to continue our consultation which

was brought to so abrupt an ending.’

“‘For half an hour or so I discussed that old gentleman’s

symptoms with him, and then, having prescribed for him, I saw him

go off upon the arm of his son.

“I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose this hour

of the day for his exercise. He came in shortly afterwards and

passed upstairs. An instant later I heard him running down, and

he burst into my consulting-room like a man who is mad with

panic.

“‘Who has been in my room?’ he cried.

“‘No one,’ said I.

“‘It’s a lie! He yelled. ‘Come up and look!’

“I passed over the grossness of his language, as he seemed half

out of his mind with fear. When I went upstairs with him he

pointed to several footprints upon the light carpet.

“‘D’you mean to say those are mine?’ he cried.

“They were certainly very much larger than any which he could

have made, and were evidently quite fresh. It rained hard this

afternoon, as you know, and my patients were the only people who

called. It must have been the case, then, that the man in the

waiting-room had, for some unknown reason, while I was busy with

the other, ascended to the room of my resident patient. Nothing

had been touched or taken, but there were the footprints to prove

that the intrusion was an undoubted fact.

“Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter than I

should have thought possible, though of course it was enough to

disturb anybody’s peace of mind. He actually sat crying in an

armchair, and I could hardly get him to speak coherently. It was

his suggestion that I should come round to you, and of course I

at once saw the propriety of it, for certainly the incident is a

very singular one, though he appears to completely overrate its

importance. If you would only come back with me in my brougham,

you would at least be able to soothe him, though I can hardly

hope that you will be able to explain this remarkable

occurrence.”

Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative with an

intentness which showed me that his interest was keenly aroused.

His face was as impassive as ever, but his lids had drooped more

heavily over his eyes, and his smoke had curled up more thickly

from his pipe to emphasize each curious episode in the doctor’s

tale. As our visitor concluded, Holmes sprang up without a word,

handed me my hat, picked his own from the table, and followed Dr.

Trevelyan to the door. Within a quarter of an hour we had been

dropped at the door of the physician’s residence in Brook Street,

one of those sombre, flat-faced houses which one associates with

a West-End practice. A small page admitted us, and we began at

once to ascend the broad, well-carpeted stair.

But a singular interruption brought us to a standstill. The light

at the top was suddenly whisked out, and from the darkness came a

reedy, quivering voice.

“I have a pistol,” it cried. “I give you my word that I’ll fire

if you come any nearer.”

“This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington,” cried Dr.

Trevelyan.

“Oh, then it is you, doctor,” said the voice, with a great heave

of relief. “But those other gentlemen, are they what they pretend

to be?”

We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the darkness.

“Yes, yes, it’s all right,” said the voice at last. “You can come

up, and I am sorry if my precautions have annoyed you.”

He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw before us a

singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well as his voice,

testified to his jangled nerves. He was very fat, but had

apparently at some time been much fatter, so that the skin hung

about his face in loose pouches, like the cheeks of a

blood-hound. He was of a sickly colour, and his thin, sandy hair

seemed to bristle up with the intensity of his emotion. In his

hand he held a pistol, but he thrust it into his pocket as we

advanced.

“Good-evening, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “I am sure I am very much

obliged to you for coming round. No one ever needed your advice

more than I do. I suppose that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this

most unwarrantable intrusion into my rooms.”

“Quite so,” said Holmes. “Who are these two men Mr. Blessington,

and why do they wish to molest you?”

“Well, well,” said the resident patient, in a nervous fashion,

“of course it is hard to say that. You can hardly expect me to

answer that, Mr. Holmes.”

“Do you mean that you don’t know?”

“Come in here, if you please. Just have the kindness to step in

here.”

He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably

furnished.

“You see that,” said he, pointing to a big black box at the end

of his bed. “I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes—never

made but one investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell

you. But I don’t believe in bankers. I would never trust a

banker, Mr. Holmes. Between ourselves, what little I have is in

that box, so you can understand what it means to me when unknown

people force themselves into my rooms.”

Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way and shook his

head.

“I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive me,” said he.

“But I have told you everything.”

Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust. “Good-night,

Dr. Trevelyan,” said he.

“And no advice for me?” cried Blessington, in a breaking voice.

“My advice to you, sir, is to speak the truth.”

A minute later we were in the street and walking for home. We had

crossed Oxford Street and were half way down Harley Street before

I could get a word from my companion.

“Sorry to bring you out on such a fool’s errand, Watson,” he said

at last. “It is an interesting case, too, at the bottom of it.”

“I can make little of it,” I confessed.

“Well, it is quite evident that there are two men—more, perhaps,

but at least two—who are determined for some reason to get at

this fellow Blessington. I have no doubt in my mind that both on

the first and on the second occasion that young man penetrated to

Blessington’s room, while his confederate, by an ingenious

device, kept the doctor from interfering.”

“And the catalepsy?”

“A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should hardly dare to

hint as much to our specialist. It is a very easy complaint to

imitate. I have done it myself.”

“And then?”

“By the purest chance Blessington was out on each occasion. Their

reason for choosing so unusual an hour for a consultation was

obviously to insure that there should be no other patient in the

waiting-room. It just happened, however, that this hour coincided

with Blessington’s constitutional, which seems to show that they

were not very well acquainted with his daily routine. Of course,

if they had been merely after plunder they would at least have

made some attempt to search for it. Besides, I can read in a

man’s eye when it is his own skin that he is frightened for. It

is inconceivable that this fellow could have made two such

vindictive enemies as these appear to be without knowing of it. I

hold it, therefore, to be certain that he does know who these men

are, and that for reasons of his own he suppresses it. It is just

possible that to-morrow may find him in a more communicative

mood.”

“Is there not one alternative,” I suggested, “grotesquely

improbable, no doubt, but still just conceivable? Might the whole

story of the cataleptic Russian and his son be a concoction of

Dr. Trevelyan’s, who has, for his own purposes, been in

Blessington’s rooms?”

I saw in the gaslight that Holmes wore an amused smile at this

brilliant departure of mine.

“My dear fellow,” said he, “it was one of the first solutions

which occurred to me, but I was soon able to corroborate the

doctor’s tale. This young man has left prints upon the

stair-carpet which made it quite superfluous for me to ask to see

those which he had made in the room. When I tell you that his

shoes were square-toed instead of being pointed like

Blessington’s, and were quite an inch and a third longer than the

doctor’s, you will acknowledge that there can be no doubt as to

his individuality. But we may sleep on it now, for I shall be

surprised if we do not hear something further from Brook Street

in the morning.”

Sherlock Holmes’s prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in a dramatic

fashion. At half-past seven next morning, in the first glimmer of

daylight, I found him standing by my bedside in his

dressing-gown.

“There’s a brougham waiting for us, Watson,” said he.

“What’s the matter, then?”

“The Brook Street business.”

“Any fresh news?”

“Tragic, but ambiguous,” said he, pulling up the blind. “Look at

this—a sheet from a note-book, with ‘For God’s sake come at

once—P.T.,’ scrawled upon it in pencil. Our friend, the doctor,

was hard put to it when he wrote this. Come along, my dear

fellow, for it’s an urgent call.”

In a quarter of an hour or so we were back at the physician’s

house. He came running out to meet us with a face of horror.

“Oh, such a business!” he cried, with his hands to his temples.

“What then?”

“Blessington has committed suicide!”

Holmes whistled.

“Yes, he hanged himself during the night.”

We had entered, and the doctor had preceded us into what was

evidently his waiting-room.

“I really hardly know what I am doing,” he cried. “The police are

already upstairs. It has shaken me most dreadfully.”

“When did you find it out?”

“He has a cup of tea taken in to him early every morning. When

the maid entered, about seven, there the unfortunate fellow was

hanging in the middle of the room. He had tied his cord to the

hook on which the heavy lamp used to hang, and he had jumped off

from the top of the very box that he showed us yesterday.”

Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought.

“With your permission,” said he at last, “I should like to go

upstairs and look into the matter.”

We both ascended, followed by the doctor.

It was a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the bedroom

door. I have spoken of the impression of flabbiness which this

man Blessington conveyed. As he dangled from the hook it was

exaggerated and intensified until he was scarce human in his

appearance. The neck was drawn out like a plucked chicken’s,

making the rest of him seem the more obese and unnatural by the

contrast. He was clad only in his long night-dress, and his

swollen ankles and ungainly feet protruded starkly from beneath

it. Beside him stood a smart-looking police-inspector, who was

taking notes in a pocket-book.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” said he, heartily, as my friend entered, “I am

delighted to see you.”

“Good-morning, Lanner,” answered Holmes; “you won’t think me an

intruder, I am sure. Have you heard of the events which led up to

this affair?”

“Yes, I heard something of them.”

“Have you formed any opinion?”

“As far as I can see, the man has been driven out of his senses

by fright. The bed has been well slept in, you see. There’s his

impression deep enough. It’s about five in the morning, you know,

that suicides are most common. That would be about his time for

hanging himself. It seems to have been a very deliberate affair.”

“I should say that he has been dead about three hours, judging by

the rigidity of the muscles,” said I.

“Noticed anything peculiar about the room?” asked Holmes.

“Found a screw-driver and some screws on the wash-hand stand.

Seems to have smoked heavily during the night, too. Here are four

cigar-ends that I picked out of the fireplace.”

“Hum!” said Holmes, “have you got his cigar-holder?”

“No, I have seen none.”

“His cigar-case, then?”

“Yes, it was in his coat-pocket.”

Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it contained.

“Oh, this is a Havana, and these others are cigars of the

peculiar sort which are imported by the Dutch from their East

Indian colonies. They are usually wrapped in straw, you know, and

are thinner for their length than any other brand.” He picked up

the four ends and examined them with his pocket-lens.

“Two of these have been smoked from a holder and two without,”

said he. “Two have been cut by a not very sharp knife, and two

have had the ends bitten off by a set of excellent teeth. This is

no suicide, Mr. Lanner. It is a very deeply planned and

cold-blooded murder.”

“Impossible!” cried the inspector.

“And why?”

“Why should any one murder a man in so clumsy a fashion as by

hanging him?”

“That is what we have to find out.”

“How could they get in?”

“Through the front door.”

“It was barred in the morning.”

“Then it was barred after them.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw their traces. Excuse me a moment, and I may be able to

give you some further information about it.”

He went over to the door, and turning the lock he examined it in

his methodical way. Then he took out the key, which was on the

inside, and inspected that also. The bed, the carpet, the chairs,

the mantelpiece, the dead body, and the rope were each in turn

examined, until at last he professed himself satisfied, and with

my aid and that of the inspector cut down the wretched object and

laid it reverently under a sheet.

“How about this rope?” he asked.

“It is cut off this,” said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a large coil

from under the bed. “He was morbidly nervous of fire, and always

kept this beside him, so that he might escape by the window in

case the stairs were burning.”

“That must have saved them trouble,” said Holmes, thoughtfully.

“Yes, the actual facts are very plain, and I shall be surprised

if by the afternoon I cannot give you the reasons for them as

well. I will take this photograph of Blessington, which I see

upon the mantelpiece, as it may help me in my inquiries.”

“But you have told us nothing!” cried the doctor.

“Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of events,” said

Holmes. “There were three of them in it: the young man, the old

man, and a third, to whose identity I have no clue. The first

two, I need hardly remark, are the same who masqueraded as the

Russian count and his son, so we can give a very full description

of them. They were admitted by a confederate inside the house. If

I might offer you a word of advice, Inspector, it would be to

arrest the page, who, as I understand, has only recently come

into your service, Doctor.”

“The young imp cannot be found,” said Dr. Trevelyan; “the maid

and the cook have just been searching for him.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“He has played a not unimportant part in this drama,” said he.

“The three men having ascended the stairs, which they did on

tiptoe, the elder man first, the younger man second, and the

unknown man in the rear—”

“My dear Holmes!” I ejaculated.

“Oh, there could be no question as to the superimposing of the

footmarks. I had the advantage of learning which was which last

night. They ascended, then, to Mr. Blessington’s room, the door

of which they found to be locked. With the help of a wire,

however, they forced round the key. Even without the lens you

will perceive, by the scratches on this ward, where the pressure

was applied.

“On entering the room their first proceeding must have been to

gag Mr. Blessington. He may have been asleep, or he may have been

so paralyzed with terror as to have been unable to cry out. These

walls are thick, and it is conceivable that his shriek, if he had

time to utter one, was unheard.

“Having secured him, it is evident to me that a consultation of

some sort was held. Probably it was something in the nature of a

judicial proceeding. It must have lasted for some time, for it

was then that these cigars were smoked. The older man sat in that

wicker chair; it was he who used the cigar-holder. The younger

man sat over yonder; he knocked his ash off against the chest of

drawers. The third fellow paced up and down. Blessington, I

think, sat upright in the bed, but of that I cannot be absolutely

certain.

“Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and hanging him. The

matter was so prearranged that it is my belief that they brought

with them some sort of block or pulley which might serve as a

gallows. That screw-driver and those screws were, as I conceive,

for fixing it up. Seeing the hook, however they naturally saved

themselves the trouble. Having finished their work they made off,

and the door was barred behind them by their confederate.”

We had all listened with the deepest interest to this sketch of

the night’s doings, which Holmes had deduced from signs so subtle

and minute that, even when he had pointed them out to us, we

could scarcely follow him in his reasoning. The inspector hurried

away on the instant to make inquiries about the page, while

Holmes and I returned to Baker Street for breakfast.

“I’ll be back by three,” said he, when we had finished our meal.

“Both the inspector and the doctor will meet me here at that

hour, and I hope by that time to have cleared up any little

obscurity which the case may still present.”

Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was a quarter