"But why Turkish?" asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes, gazing fix-
edly at my boots. I was reclining in a cane-backed chair at the
moment, and my protruded feet had attracted his ever-active
attention.
"English," I answered in some surprise. "I got them at
Latimer's, in Oxford Street."
Holmes smiled with an expression of weary patience.
"The bath!" he said; "the bath! Why the relaxing and expen-
sive Turkish rather than the invigorating home-made article?"
"Because for the last few days I have been feeling rheumatic
and old. A Turkish bath is what we call an alterative in
medicine -- a fresh starting-point, a cleanser of the system.
"By the way, Holmes," I added, "I have no doubt the
connection between my boots and a Turkish bath is a perfectly
self-evident one to a logical mind, and yet I should be obliged to
you if you would indicate it."
"The train of reasoning is not very obscure, Watson," said
Holmes with a mischievous twinkle. "It belongs to the same
elementary class of deduction which I should illustrate if I were
to ask you who shared your cab in your drive this morning."
"I don't admit that a fresh illustration is an explanation," said
I with some asperity.
"Bravo, Watson! A very dignified and logical remonstrance.
Let me see, what were the points? Take the last one first -- the
cab. You observe that you have some splashes on the left sleeve
and shoulder of your coat. Had you sat in the centre of a hansom
you would probably have had no splashes, and if you had they
would certainly have been symmetrical. Therefore it is clear that
you sat at the side. Therefore it is equally clear that you had a
companion."
"That is very evident."
"Absurdly commonplace, is it not?"
"But the boots and the bath?"
"Equally childish. You are in the habit of doing up your boots
in a certain way. I see them on this occasion fastened with an
elaborate double bow, which is not your usual method of tying
them. You have, therefore, had them off. Who has tied them? A
bootmaker -- or the boy at the bath. It is unlikely that it is the
bootmaker, since your boots are nearly new. Well, what re-
mains? The bath. Absurd, is it not? But, for all that, the Turkish
bath has served a purpose."
"What is that?"
"You say that you have had it because you need a change. Let
me suggest that you take one. How would Lausanne do, my dear
Watson -- first-class tickets and all expenses paid on a princely
scale?"
"Splendid! But why?"
Holmes leaned back in his armchair and took his notebook
from his pocket.
"One of the most dangerous classes in the world," said he,
"is the drifting and friendless woman. She is the most harmless
and often the most useful of mortals, but she is the inevitable
inciter of crime in others. She is helpless. She is migratory. She
has sufficient means to take her from country to country and
from hotel to hotel. She is lost, as often as not, in a maze
of obscure pensions and boarding-houses. She is a stray chicken
in a world of foxes. When she is gobbled up she is hardly
missed. I much fear that some evil has come to the Lady Frances
Carfax."
I was relieved at this sudden descent from the general to the
particular. Holmes consulted his notes.
"Lady Frances," he continued, "is the sole survivor of the
direct family of the late Earl of Rufton. The estates went, as you
may remember, in the male line. She was left with limited
means, but with some very remarkable old Spanish jewellery of
silver and curiously cut diamonds to which she was fondly
attached -- too attached, for she refused to leave them with her
banker and always carried them about with her. A rather pathetic
figure, the Lady Frances, a beautiful woman, still in fresh mid-
dle age, and yet, by a strange chance, the last derelict of what
only twenty years ago was a goodly fleet."
"What has happened to her, then?"
"Ah, what has happened to the Lady Frances? Is she alive or
dead? There is our problem. She is a lady of precise habits, and
for four years it has been her invariable custom to write every
second week to Miss Dobney, her old governess, who has long
retired and lives in Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney who has
consulted me. Nearly five weeks have passed without a word.
The last letter was from the Hotel National at Lausanne. Lady
Frances seems to have left there and given no address. The
family are anxious, and as they are exceedingly wealthy no sum
wlll be spared if we can clear the matter up."
"Is Miss Dobney the only source of information? Surely she
had other correspondents?"
"There is one correspondent who is a sure draw, Watson.
That is the bank. Single ladies must live, and their passbooks are
compressed diaries. She banks at Silvester's. I have glanced over
her account. The last check but one paid her bill at Lausanne
but it was a large one and probably left her with cash in hand.
Only one check has been drawn since."
"To whom, and where?"
"To Miss Marie Devine. There is nothing to show where
the check was drawn. It was cashed at the Credit Lyonnais
at Montpellier less than three weeks ago. The sum was fifty
pounds."
"And who is Miss Marie Devine?"
"That also I have been able to discover. Miss Marie Devine
was the maid of Lady Frances Carfax. Why she should have
paid her this check we have not yet determined. I have no
doubt, however, that your researches will soon clear the matter
up."
"My researches!"
"Hence the health-giving expedition to Lausanne. You know
that I cannot possibly leave London while old Abrahams is in
such mortal terror of his life. Besides, on general principles it is
best that I should not leave the country. Scotland Yard feels
lonely without me, and it causes an unhealthy excitement among
the criminal classes. Go, then, my dear Watson, and if my
humble counsel can ever be valued at so extravagant a rate as
two pence a word, it waits your disposal night and day at the end
of the Continental wire."
Two days later found me at the Hotel National at Lausanne,
where I received every courtesy at the hands of M. Moser, the
well-known manager. Lady Frances, as he informed me, had
stayed there for several weeks. She had been much liked by all
who met her. Her age was not more than forty. She was still
handsome and bore every sign of having in her youth been a very
lovely woman. M. Moser knew nothing of any valuable jewellery,
but it had been remarked by the servants that the heavy trunk in
the lady's bedroom was always scrupulously locked. Marie
Devine, the maid, was as popular as her mistress. She was
actually engaged to one of the head waiters in the hotel, and
there was no difficulty in getting her address. It was 11 Rue de
Trajan, Montpellier. All this I jotted down and felt that Holmes
himself could not have been more adroit in collecting his facts.
Only one corner still remained in the shadow. No light which I
possessed could clear up the cause for the lady's sudden depar-
ture. She was very happy at Lausanne. There was every reason
to believe that she intended to remain for the season in her
luxurious rooms overlooking the lake. And yet she had left at a
single day's notice, which involved her in the useless payment of
a week's rent. Only Jules Vibart, the lover of the maid, had any
suggestion to offer. He connected the sudden departure with the
visit to the hotel a day or two before of a tall, dark, bearded
man. "Un sauvage -- un veritable sauvage!" cried Jules Vibart.
The man had rooms somewhere in the town. He had been seen
talking earnestly to Madame on the promenade by the lake. Then
he had called. She had refused to see him. He was English, but
of his name there was no record. Madame had left the place
immediately afterwards. Jules Vibart, and, what was of more
importance, Jules Vibart's sweetheart, thought that this call and
this departure were cause and effect. Only one thing Jules would
not discuss. That was the reason why Marie had left her mis-
tress. Of that he could or would say nothing. If I wished to
know, I must go to Montpellier and ask her.
So ended the first chapter of my inquiry. The second was
devoted to the place which Lady Frances Carfax had sought
when she left Lausanne. Concerning this there had been some
secrecy, which confirmed the idea that she had gone with the
intention of throwing someone off her track. Otherwise why
should not her luggage have been openly labelled for Baden?
Both she and it reached the Rhenish spa by some circuitous
route. This much I gathered from the manager of Cook's local
office. So to Baden I went, after dispatching to Holmes an
account of all my proceedings and receiving in reply a telegram
of half-humorous commendation.
At Baden the track was not difficult to follow. Lady Frances
had stayed at the Englischer Hof for a fortnight. While there she
had made the acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger and his wife, a
missionary from South America. Like most lonely ladies, Lady
Frances found her comfort and occupation in religion. Dr. Shles-
singer's remarkable personality, his whole-hearted devotion, and
the fact that he was recovering from a disease contracted in the
exercise of his apostolic duties affected her deeply. She had
helped Mrs. Shlessinger in the nursing of the convalescent saint.
He spent his day, as the manager described it to me, upon a
lounge-chair on the veranda, with an attendant lady upon either
side of him. He was preparing a map of the Holy Land, with
special reference to the kingdom of the Midianites, upon which
he was writing a monograph. Finally, having improved much in
health, he and his wife had returned to London, and Lady
Frances had started thither in their company. This was just three
weeks before, and the manager had heard nothing since. As to
the maid, Marie, she had gone off some days beforehand in
floods of tears, after informing the other maids that she was
leaving service forever. Dr. Shlessinger had paid the bill of the
whole party before his departure.
"By the way," said the landlord in conclusion, "you are not
the only friend of Lady Frances Carfax who is inquiring after her
just now. Only a week or so ago we had a man here upon the
same errand."
"Did he give a name?" I asked.
"None; but he was an Englishman, though of an unusual
type."
"A savage?" said I, linking my facts after the fashion of my
illustrious friend.
"Exactly. That describes him very well. He is a bulky, bearded,
sunburned fellow, who looks as if he would be more at home in
a farmers' inn than in a fashionable hotel. A hard, fierce man, I
should think, and one whom I should be sorry to offend."
Already the mystery began to define itself, as figures grow
clearer with the lifting of a fog. Here was this good and pious
lady pursued from place to place by a sinister and unrelenting
figure. She feared him, or she would not have fled from Lausanne.
He had still followed. Sooner or later he would overtake her.
Had he already overtaken her? Was that the secret of her contin-
ued silence? Could the good people who were her companions
not screen her from his violence or his blackmail? What horrible
purpose, what deep design, lay behind this long pursuit? There
was the problem which I had to solve.
To Holmes I wrote showing how rapidly and surely I had got
down to the roots of the matter. In reply I had a telegram asking
for a description of Dr. Shlessinger's left ear. Holmes's ideas of
humour are strange and occasionally offensive, so I took no
notice of his ill-timed jest -- indeed, I had already reached Mont-
pellier in my pursuit of the maid, Marie, before his message
came.
I had no difficulty in finding the ex-servant and in learning all
that she could tell me. She was a devoted creature, who had only
left her mistress because she was sure that she was in good
hands, and because her own approaching marriage made a sepa-
ration inevitable in any case. Her mistress had, as she confessed
with distress, shown some irritability of temper towards her
during their stay in Baden, and had even questioned her once as
if she had suspicions of her honesty, and this had made the
parting easier than it would otherwise have been. Lady Frances
had given her fifty pounds as a wedding-present. Like me, Marie
viewed with deep distrust the stranger who had driven her mis-
tress from Lausanne. With her own eyes she had seen him seize
the lady's wrist with great violence on the public promenade by
the lake. He was a fierce and terrible man. She believed that it
was out of dread of him that Lady Frances had accepted the
escort of the Shlessingers to London. She had never spoken to
Marie about it, but many little signs had convinced the maid that
her mistress lived in a state of continual nervous apprehension.
So far she had got in her narrative, when suddenly she sprang
from her chair and her face was convulsed with surprise and
fear. "See!" she cried. "The miscreant follows still! There is the
very man of whom I speak."
Through the open sitting-room window I saw a huge, swarthy
man with a bristling black beard walking slowly down the centre
of the street and staring eagerly at the numbers of the houses. It
was clear that, like myself, he was on the track of the maid.
Acting upon the impulse of the moment, I rushed out and
accosted him.
"You are an Englishman," I said.
"What if I am?" he asked with a most villainous scowl.
"May I ask what your name is?"
"No, you may not," said he with decision.
The situation was awkward, but the most direct way is often
the best.
"Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?" I asked.
He stared at me in amazement.
"What have you done with her? Why have you pursued her? I
insist upon an answer!" said I.
The fellow gave a bellow of anger and sprang upon me like a
tiger. I have held my own in many a struggle, but the man had a
grip of iron and the fury of a fiend. His hand was on my throat
and my senses were nearly gone before an unshaven French
ouvrier in a blue blouse darted out from a cabaret opposite, with
a cudgel in his hand, and struck my assailant a sharp crack over
the forearm, which made him leave go his hold. He stood for an
instant fuming with rage and uncertain whether he should not
renew his attack. Then, with a snarl of anger, he left me and
entered the cottage from which I had just come. I turned to thank
my preserver, who stood beside me in the roadway.
"Well, Watson," said he, "a very pretty hash you have made
of it! I rather think you had better come back with me to London
by the night express."
An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual garb and
style, was seated in my private room at the hotel. His explana-
tion of his sudden and opportune appearance was simplicity
itself, for, finding that he could get away from London, he
determined to head me off at the next obvious point of my
travels. In the disguise of a workingman he had sat in the
cabaret waiting for my appearance.
"And a singularly consistent investigation you have made, my
dear Watson," said he. "I cannot at the moment recall any
possible blunder which you have omitted. The total effect of
your proceeding has been to give the alarm everywhere and yet
to discover nothing."
"Perhaps you would have done no better," I answered bitterly.
"There is no 'perhaps' about it. I have done better. Here is the
Hon. Philip Green, who is a fellow-lodger with you in this hotel,
and we may find him the starting-point for a more successful
investigation."
A card had come up on a salver, and it was followed by the
same bearded ruffian who had attacked me in the street. He
started when he saw me.
"What is this, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "I had your note and
I have come. But what has this man to do with the matter?"
"This is my old friend and associate, Dr. Watson, who is
helping us in this affair."
The stranger held out a huge, sunburned hand, with a few
words of apology.
"I hope I didn't harm you. When you accused me of hurting her
I lost my grip of myself. Indeed, I'm not responsible in these
days. My nerves are like live wires. But this situation is beyond
me. What I want to know, in the first place, Mr. Holmes, is,
how in the world you came to hear of my existence at all."
"I am in touch with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances's governess."
"Old Susan Dobney with the mob cap! I remember her well."
"And she remembers you. It was in the days before -- before
you found it better to go to South Africa."
"Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need hide nothing
from you. I swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that there never was in
this world a man who loved a woman with a more wholehearted
love than I had for Frances. I was a wild youngster, I know --
not worse than others of my class. But her mind was pure as
snow. She could not bear a shadow of coarseness. So, when she
came to hear of things that I had done, she would bave no more
to say to me. And yet she loved me -- that is the wonder of
it! -- loved me well enough to remain single all her sainted days
just for my sake alone. When the years had passed and I had
made my money at Barberton I thought perhaps I could seek her
out and soften her. I had heard that she was still unmarried. I
found her at Lausanne and tried all I knew. She weakened, I
think, but her will was strong, and when next I called she had
left the town. I traced her to Baden, and then after a time heard
that her maid was here. I'm a rough fellow, fresh from a rough
life, and when Dr. Watson spoke to me as he did I lost hold of
myself for a moment. But for God's sake tell me what has
become of the Lady Frances."
"That is for us to find out," said Sherlock Holmes with
peculiar gravity. "What is your London address, Mr. Green?"
"The Langham Hotel will find me."
"Then may I recommend that you return there and be on hand
in case I should want you? I have no desire to encourage false
hopes, but you may rest assured that all that can be done will be
done for the safety of Lady Frances. I can say no more for the
instant. I will leave you this card so that you may be able to keep
in touch with us. Now, Watson, if you will pack your bag I will
cable to Mrs. Hudson to make one of her best efforts for two
hungry travellers at 7:30 to-morrow."
A telegram was awaiting us when we reached our Baker Street
rooms, which Holmes read with an exclamation of interest and
threw across to me. "Jagged or torn," was the message, and the
place of origin, Baden.
"What is this?" I asked.
"It is everything," Holmes answered. "You may remember
my seemingly irrelevant question as to this clerical gentleman's
left ear. You did not answer it."
"I had left Baden and could not inquire."
"Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate to the manager of
the Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here."
"What does it show?"
"It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an
exceptionally astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr. Shlessinger,
missionary from South America, is none other than Holy Peters,
one of the most unscrupulous rascals that Australia has ever
evolved -- and for a young country it has turned out some very
finished types. His particular specialty is the beguiling of lonely
ladies by playing upon their religious feelings, and his so-called
wife, an Englishwoman named Fraser, is a worthy helpmate.
The nature of his tactics suggested his identity to me, and this
physical peculiarity -- he was badly bitten in a saloon-fight at
Adelaide in '89 -- confirmed my suspicion. This poor lady is in
the hands of a most infernal couple, who will stick at nothing,
Watson. That she is already dead is a very likely supposition. If
not, she is undoubtedly in some sort of confinement and unable
to write to Miss Dobney or her other friends. It is always
possible that she never reached London, or that she has passed
through it, but the former is improbable, as, with their system of
registration, it is not easy for foreigners to play tricks with the
Continental police; and the latter is also unlikely, as these rogues
could not hope to find any other place where it would be as easy
to keep a person under restraint. All my instincts tell me that she
is in London, but as we have at present no possible means of
telling where, we can only take the obvious steps, eat our dinner,
and possess our souls in patience. Later in the evening I will
stroll down and have a word with friend Lestrade at Scotland
Yard."
But neither the official police nor Holmes's own small but
very efficient organization sufficed to clear away the mystery.
Amid the crowded millions of London the three persons we
sought were as completely obliterated as if they had never lived.
Advertisements were tried, and failed. Clues were followed, and
led to nothing. Every criminal resort which Shlessinger might
frequent was drawn in vain. His old associates were watched
but they kept clear of him. And then suddenly, after a week of
helpless suspense, there came a flash of light. A silver-and-
brilliant pendant of old Spanish design had been pawned at
Bovington's, in Westminster Road. The pawner was a large
clean-shaven man of clerical appearance. His name and address
were demonstrably false. The ear had escaped notice, but the
description was surely that of Shlessinger.
Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called
for news -- the third time within an hour of this fresh develop-
ment. His clothes were getting looser on his great body. He
seemed to be wilting away in his anxiety. "If you will only give
me something to do!" was his constant wail. At last Holmes
could oblige him.
"He has begun to pawn the jewels. We should get him now."
"But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady
Frances?"
Holmes shook his head very gravely.
"Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it is
clear that they cannot let her loose without their own destruction.
We must prepare for the worst."
"What can I do?"
"These people do not know you by sight?"
"No."
"It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the
future. In that case, we must begin again. On the other hand, he
has had a fair price and no questions asked, so if he is in need of
ready-money he will probably come back to Bovington's. I will
give you a note to them, and they will let you wait in the shop. If
the fellow comes you will follow him home. But no indiscretion
and, above all, no violence. I put you on your honour that you
will take no step without my knowledge and consent."
For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was, I may mention
the son of the famous admiral of that name who commanded the
Sea of Azof fleet in the Crimean War) brought us no news. On
the evening of the third he rushed into our sitting-room, pale,
trembling, with every muscle of his powerful frame quivering
with excitement.
"We have him! We have him!" he cried.
He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed him with a
few words and thrust him into an armchair.
"Come, now, give us the order of events," said he.
"She came only an hour ago. It was the wife, this time, but
the pendant she brought was the fellow of the other. She is a tall,
pale woman, with ferret eyes."
"That is the lady," said Holmes.
"She left the office and I followed her. She walked up the
Kennington Road, and I kept behind her. Presently she went into
a shop. Mr. Holmes, it was an undertaker's."
My companion started. "Well?" he asked in that vibrant
voice which told of the fiery soul behind the cold gray face.
"She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I entered
as well. 'It is late,' I heard her say, or words to that effect. The
woman was excusing herself. 'It should be there before now,'
she answered. 'It took longer, being out of the ordinary.' They
both stopped and looked at me, so I asked some question and
then left the shop."
"You did excellently well. What happened next?"
"The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway.
Her suspicions had been aroused, I think, for she looked round
her. Then she called a cab and got in. I was lucky enough to get
another and so to follow her. She got down at last at No. 36
Poultney Square, Brixton. I drove past, left my cab at the corner
of the square, and watched the house."
"Did you see anyone?"
"The windows were all in darkness save one on the lower
floor. The blind was down, and I could not see in. I was
standing there, wondering what I should do next, when a cov-
ered van drove up with two men in it. They descended, took
something out of the van, and carried it up the steps to the hall
door. Mr. Holmes, it was a coffin."
"Ah!"
"For an instant I was on the point of rushing in. The door had
been opened to admit the men and their burden. It was the
woman who had opened it. But as I stood there she caught a
glimpse of me, and I think that she recognized me. I saw her
start, and she hastily closed the door. I remembered my promise
to you, and here I am."
"You have done excellent work," said Holmes, scribbling a
few words upon a half-sheet of paper. "We can do nothing legal
without a warrant, and you can serve the cause best by taking
this note down to the authorities and getting one. There may be
some difficulty, but I should think that the sale of the jewellery
should be sufficient. Lestrade will see to all details."
"But they may murder her in the meanwhile. What could the
coffin mean, and for whom could it be but for her?"
"We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a moment
will be lost. Leave it in our hands. Now, Watson," he added as
our client hurried away, "he will set the regular forces on the
move. We are, as usual, the irregulars, and we must take our
own line of action. The situation strikes me as so desperate that
the most extreme measures are justified. Not a moment is to be
lost in getting to Poultney Square.
"Let us try to reconstruct the situation," said he as we drove
swiftly past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster
Bridge. "These villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to Lon-
don, after first alienating her from her faithful maid. If she has
written any letters they have been intercepted. Through some
confederate they have engaged a furnished house. Once inside it,
they have made her a prisoner, and they have become possessed
of the valuable jewellery which has been their object from the
first. Already they have begun to sell part of it, which seems safe
enough to them, since they have no reason to think that anyone
is interested in the lady's fate. When she is released she will, of
course, denounce them. Therefore, she must not be released. But
they cannot keep her under lock and key forever. So murder is
their only solution."
"That seems very clear."
"Now we will take another line of reasoning. When you
follow two separate chains of thought, Watson, you will find
some point of intersection which should approximate to the truth.
We will start now, not from the lady but from the coffin and
argue backward. That incident proves, I fear, beyond all doubt
that the lady is dead. It points also to an orthodox burial with
proper accompaniment of medical certificate and official sanc-
tion. Had the lady been obviously murdered, they would have
buried her in a hole in the back garden. But here all is open and
regular. What does that mean? Surely that they have done her to
death in some way which has deceived the doctor and simulated
a natural end -- poisoning, perhaps. And yet how strange that they
should ever let a doctor approach her unless he were a confeder-
ate, which is hardly a credible proposition."
"Could they have forged a medical certificate?"
"Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see them
doing that. Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the undertaker's, for
we have just passed the pawnbroker's. Would you go in, Wat-
son? Your appearance inspires confidence. Ask what hour the
Poultney Square funeral takes place to-morrow."
The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it
was to be at eight o'clock in the morning. "You see, Watson, no
mystery; everything aboveboard! In some way the legal forms
have undoubtedly been complied with, and they think that they
have little to fear. Well, there's nothing for it now but a direct
frontal attack. Are you armed?"
"My stick!"
"Well, well, we shall be strong enough. 'Thrice is he armed
who hath his quarrel just.' We simply can't afford to wait for the
police or to keep within the four corners of the law. You can
drive off, cabby. Now, Watson, we'll just take our luck to-
gether, as we have occasionally done in the past."
He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the
centre of Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and the
figure of a tall woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.
"Well, what do you want?" she asked sharply, peering at us
through the darkness.
"I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger," said Holmes.
"There is no such person here," she answered, and tried to
close the door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.
"Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he
may call himself," said Holmes firmly.
She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. "Well, come
in!" said she. "My husband is not afraid to face any man in the
world." She closed the door behind us and showed us into a
sitting-room on the right side of the hall, turning up the gas as
she left us. "Mr. Peters will be with you in an instant," she
said.
Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look
around the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found
ourselves before the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-
headed man stepped lightly into the room. He had a large red
face, with pendulous cheeks, and a general air of superficial
benevolence which was marred by a cruel, vicious mouth.
"There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen," he said in
an unctuous, make-everything-easy voice. "I fancy that you
have been misdirected. Possibly if you tried farther down the
street --"
"That will do; we have no time to waste," said my compan-
ion firmly. "You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev.
Dr. Shlessinger, of Baden and South America. I am as sure of
that as that my own name is Sherlock Holmes."
Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at
his formidable pursuer. "I guess your name does not frighten
me, Mr. Holmes," said he coolly. "When a man's conscience
is easy you can't rattle him. What is your business in my
house?"
"I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances
Carfax, whom you brought away with you from Baden."
"I'd be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may
be," Peters answered coolly. "I've a bill against her for nearly a
hundred pounds, and nothing to show for it but a couple of
trumpery pendants that the dealer would hardly look at. She
attached herself to Mrs. Peters and me at Baden -- it is a fact that
I was using another name at the time -- and she stuck on to us
until we came to London. I paid her bill and her ticket. Once in
London, she gave us the slip, and, as I say, left these out-of-date
jewels to pay her bills. You find her, Mr. Holmes, and I'm your
debtor."
"I mean to find her," said Sherlock Holmes. "I'm going
through this house till I do find her."
"Where is your warrant?"
Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. "This will have
to serve till a better one comes."
"Why, you are a common burglar."
"So you might describe me," said Holmes cheerfully. "My
companion is also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are
going through your house."
Our opponent opened the door.
"Fetch a policeman, Annie!" said he. There was a whisk of
feminine skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened
and shut.
"Our time is limited, Watson," said Holmes. "If you try to
stop us, Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that
coffin which was brought into your house?"
"What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a
body in it."
"I must see that body."
"Never with my consent."
"Then without it." With a quick movement Holmes pushed
the fellow to one side and passed into the hall. A door half
opened stood immediately before us. We entered. It was the
dining-room. On the table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin
was lying. Holmes turned up the gas and raised the lid. Deep
down in the recesses of the coffin lay an emaciated figure. The
glare from the lights above beat down upon an aged and withered
face. By no possible process of cruelty, starvation, or disease
could this worn-out wreck be the still beautiful Lady Frances.
Holmes's face showed his amazement, and also his relief.
"Thank God!" he muttered. "It's someone else."
"Ah, you've blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,"
said Peters, who had followed us into the room.
"Who is this dead woman?"
"Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my
wife's, Rose Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton
Workhouse Infirmary. We brought her round here, called in Dr.
Horsom, of 13 Firbank Villas -- mind you take the address, Mr.
Holmes -- and had her carefully tended, as Christian folk should.
On the third day she died -- certificate says senile decay -- but
that's only the doctor's opinion, and of course you know better.
We ordered her funeral to be carried out by Stimson and Co., of
the Kennington Road, who will bury her at eight o'clock to-
morrow morning. Can you pick any hole in that, Mr. Holmes?
You've made a silly blunder, and you may as well own up to it.
I'd give something for a photograph of your gaping, staring face
when you pulled aside that lid expecting to see the Lady Frances
Carfax and only found a poor old woman of ninety."
Holmes's expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers
of his antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute
annoyance.
"I am going through your house," said he.
"Are you, though!" cried Peters as a woman's voice and
heavy steps sounded in the passage. "We'll soon see about that.
This way, officers, if you please. These men have forced their
way into my house, and I cannot get rid of them. Help me to put
them out."
A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes
drew his card from his case.
"This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr. Watson."
"Bless you, sir, we know you very well," said the sergeant,
"but you can't stay here without a warrant."
"Of course not. I quite understand that."
"Arrest him!" cried Peters.
"We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is
wanted," said the sergeant majestically, "but you'll have to go,
Mr. Holmes."
"Yes, Watson, we shall have to go."
A minute later we were in the street once more. Holmes was
as cool as ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation. The
sergeant had followed us.
"Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that's the law."
"Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise."
"I expect there was good reason for your presence there. If
there is anything I can do --"
"It's a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that
house. I expect a warrant presently."
"Then I'll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes. If any-
thing comes along, I will surely let you know."
It was only nine o'clock, and we were off full cry upon the
trail at once. First we drove to Brixton Workhouse Infirmary,
where we found that it was indeed the truth that a charitable
couple had called-some days before, that they had claimed an
imbecile old woman as a former servant, and that they had
obtained permission to take her away with them. No surprise was
expressed at the news that she had since died.
The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in, had
found the woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her
pass away, and had signed the certificate in due form. "I assure
you that everything was perfectly normal and there was no room
for foul play in the matter," said he. Nothing in the house had
struck him as suspicious save that for people of their class it was
remarkable that they should have no servant. So far and no
farther went the doctor.
Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There had been
difficulties of procedure in regard to the warrant. Some delay
was inevitable. The magistrate's signature might not be obtained
until next morning. If Holmes would call about nine he could go
down with Lestrade and see it acted upon. So ended the day,
save that near midnight our friend, the sergeant, called to say
that he had seen flickering lights here and there in the windows
of the great dark house, but that no one had left it and none
had entered. We could but pray for patience and wait for the
morrow.
Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too
restless for sleep. I left him smoking hard, with his heavy, dark
brows knotted together, and his long, nervous fingers tapping
upon the arms of his chair, as he turned over in his mind every
possible solution of the mystery. Several times in the course of
the night I heard him prowling about the house. Finally, just
after I had been called in the morning, he rushed into my room.
He was in his dressing-gown, but his pale, hollow-eyed face told
me that his night had been a sleepless one.
"What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?" he asked
eagerly. "Well, it is 7:20 now. Good heavens, Watson, what has
become of any brains that God has given me? Quick, man, quick!
It's life or death -- a hundred chances on death to one on life. I'll
never forgive myself, never, if we are too late!"
Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a
hansom down Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five to
eight as we passed Big Ben, and eight struck as we tore down
the Brixton Road. But others were late as well as we. Ten
minutes after the hour the hearse was still standing at the door of
the house, and even as our foaming horse came to a halt the
coffin, supported by three men, appeared on the threshold. Holmes
darted forward and barred their way.
"Take it back!" he cried, laying his hand on the breast of the
foremost. "Take it back this instant!"
"What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask you, where is
your warrant?" shouted the furious Peters, his big red face
glaring over the farther erid of the coffin.
"The warrant is on its way. This coffin shall remain in the
house until it comes."
The authority in Holmes's voice had its effect upon the bear-
ers. Peters had suddenly vanished into the house, and they
obeyed these new orders. "Quick, Watson, quick! Here is a
screw-driver!" he shouted as the coffin was replaced upon the
table. "Here's one for you, my man! A sovereign if the lid
comes off in a minute! Ask no questions -- work away! That's
good! Another! And another! Now pull all together! It's giving!
It's giving! Ah, that does it at last."
With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid. As we did so
there came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smell
of chloroform. A body lay within, its head all wreathed in
cotton-wool, which had been soaked in the narcotic. Holmes
plucked it off and disclosed the statuesque face of a hand-
some and spiritual woman of middle age. In an instant he had
passed his arm round the figure and raised her to a sitting
position.
"Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left? Surely we are not
too late!"
For half an hour it seemed that we were. What with actual
suffocation, and what with the poisonous fumes of the chloro-
form, the Lady Frances seemed to have passed the last point of
recall. And then, at last, with artificial respiration, with injected
ether, with every device that science could suggest, some flutter
of life, some quiver of the eyelids, some dimming of a mirror,
spoke of the slowly returning life. A cab had driven up, and
Holmes, parting the blind, looked out at it. "Here is Lestrade
with his warrant," said he. "He will find that his birds have
flown. And here," he added as a heavy step hurried along the
passage, "is someone who has a better right to nurse this lady than
we have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I think that the sooner we
can move the Lady Frances the better. Meanwhile, the funeral
may proceed, and the poor old woman who still lies in that
coffin may go to her last resting-place alone."
"Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear
Watson," said Holmes that evening, "it can only be as an
example of that temporary eclipse to which even the best-balanced
mind may be exposed. Such slips are common to all mortals,
and the greatest is he who can recognize and repair them. To this
modified credit I may, perhaps, make some claim. My night was
haunted by the thought that somewhere a clue, a strange sen-
tence, a curious observation, had come under my notice and had
been too easily dismissed. Then, suddenly, in the gray of the
morning, the words came back to me. It was the remark of the
undertaker's wife, as reported by Philip Green. She had said, 'It
should be there before now. It took longer, being out of the
ordinary.' It was the coffin of which she spoke. It had been out
of the ordinary. That could only mean that it had been made to
some special measurement. But why? Why? Then in an instant I
remembered the deep sides, and the little wasted figure at the
bottom. Why so large a coffin for so small a body? To leave
room for another body. Both would be buried under the one
certificate. It had all been so clear, if only my own sight had not
been dimmed. At eight the Lady Frances would be buried. Our
one chance was to stop the coffin before it left the house.
"It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it
was a chance, as the result showed. These people had never, to
my knowledge, done a murder. They might shrink from actual
violence at the last. They could bury her with no sign of how she
met her end, and even if she were exhumed there was a chance
for them. I hoped that such considerations might prevail with
them. You can reconstruct the scene well enough. You saw the
horrible den upstairs, where the poor lady had been kept so
long. They rushed in and overpowered her with their chloro-
form, carried her down, poured more into the coffin to insure
against her waking, and then screwed down the lid. A clever
device, Watson. It is new to me in the annals of crime. If
our ex-missionary friends escape the clutches of Lestrade, I
shall expect to hear of some brilliant incidents in their future
career."
==========================
The Man with the Twisted Lip
Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal
of the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted
to opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some
foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De Quincey's
description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his
tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same ef-
fects. He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is
easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years he
continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror
and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with
yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all hud-
dled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.
One night -- it was in June, '89 -- there came a ring to my bell,
about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at
the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work
down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.
"A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."
I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.
We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick
steps upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady,
clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the
room.
"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then,
suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms
about my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm
in such trouble!" she cried; "I do so want a little help."
"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whit-
ney. How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were
when you came in."
"I didn't know what to do, so l came straight to you." That
was always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife
like birds to a light-house.
"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have
some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all
about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?"
"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's
about Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so fright-
ened about him!"
It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her
husband's trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend
and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such
words as we could find. Did she know where her husband was?
Was it possible that we could bring him back to her?
It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late
he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in
the farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been
confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and
shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him
eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the
dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the
effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar
of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How
could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a
place and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who
surrounded him?
There was the case, and of course there was but one way out
of it. Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second
thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's
medical adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could
manage it better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that
I would send him home in a cab within two hours if he were
indeed at the address which she had given me. And so in ten
minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind
me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange errand,
as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could
show how strange it was to be.
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my
adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind
the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the
east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop,
approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap
like the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in
search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn
hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and
by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the
latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy
with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths,
like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.
Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies
lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees,
heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and
there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of
the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light,
now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in
the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some
muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange,
low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes,
and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out
his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his
neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning
charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat
a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and
his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.
As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a
pipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty
berth.
"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a
friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with
him."
There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and
peering through the gloom I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and
unkempt, staring out at me.
"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of
reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what
o'clock is it?"
"Nearly eleven."
"Of what day?"
"Of Friday, June 19th."
"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednes-
day. What d'you want to frighten the chap for?" He sank his
face onto his arms and began to sob in a high treble key.
"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting
this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"
"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only
been here a few hours, three pipes, four pipes -- I forget how
many. But I'll go home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate --
poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have you a cab?"
"Yes, I have one waiting."
"Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I
owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."
I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of
sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying
fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I
passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at
my skirt, and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and then
look back at me." The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I
glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at
my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very
wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from
between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude
from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It
took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a
cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could
see him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone,
the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire
and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock
Holmes. He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and
instantly, as he turned his face half round to the company once
more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped senility.
"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this
den?"
"As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If
you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend
of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with
you.'
"I have a cab outside."
"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him,
for he appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should
recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife
to say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait
outside, I shall be with you in five minutes."
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes's requests,
for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward
with such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when
Whitney was once confined in the cab my mission was practi-
cally accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything
better than to be associated with my friend in one of those
singular adventures which were the normal condition of his
existence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whit-
ney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through
the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged
from the opium den, and I was walking down the street with
Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent
back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he
straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have
added opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little
weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical
views."
"I was certainly surprised to find you there."
"But not more so than I to find you."
"I came to find a friend."
"And I to find an enemy."
"An enemy?"
"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural
prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable
inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent
ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been
recognized in that den my life would not have been worth an
hour's purchase; for I have used it before now for my own
purposes, and the rascally lascar who runs it has sworn to have
vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that
building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some
strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless
nights."
"What! You do not mean bodies?"
"Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had
1000 pounds for every poor devil who has been done to death in that
den. It is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear
that Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But
our trap should be here." He put his two forefingers between his
teeth and whistled shrilly -- a signal which was answered by a
similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle
of wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs.
"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up
through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow
light from its side lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?
"If I can be of use."
"Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still
more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."
"The Cedars?"
"Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I
conduct the inquiry."
"Where is it, then?"
"Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."
"But I am all in the dark."
"Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump
up here. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a
crown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her
head. So long, then!"
He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away
through the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets,
which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad
balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly be-
neath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and
mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of
the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of
revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a
star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the
clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his
breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat
beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which
seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in
upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles,
and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban
villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit
up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that
he is acting for the best.
"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. "It
makes you quite invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is
a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own
thoughts are not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should
say to this dear little woman to-night when she meets me at the
door."
"You forget that I know nothing about it."
"I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before
we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I
can get nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt,
but I can't get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state the case
clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a
spark where all is dark to me."
"Proceed, then."
"Some years ago -- to be definite, in May, 1884 -- there came
to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to
have plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds
very nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he
made friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the
daughter of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children.
He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies
and went into town as a rule in the morning, returning by the
5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now
thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good
husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular
with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the
present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain
amount to 88 pounds lOs., while he has 220 pounds standing to his credit in
the Capital and Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to
think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind.
"Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather
earlier than usual, remarking before he started that he had two
important commissions to perform, and that he would bring his
little boy home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his
wife received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly
after his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of consider-
able value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at
the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are
well up in your London, you will know that the office of the
company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper
Swandam Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair
had her lunch, started for the City, did some shopping, pro-
ceeded to the company's office, got her packet, and found
herself at exactly 4:35 walking through Swandam Lane on her
way back to the station. Have you followed me so far?"
"It is very clear."
"lf you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and
Mrs. St. Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of
seeing a cab, as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she
found herself. While she was walking in this way down Swandam
Lane, she suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck
cold to see her husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to
her, beckoning to her from a second-floor window. The window
was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she describes as
being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her,
and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to
her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from
behind. One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye
was that although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started
to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.
"Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed
down the steps -- for the house was none other than the opium den
in which you found me to-night -- and running through the front
room she attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first
floor. At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this lascar
scoundrel of whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and,
aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into
the street. Filled with the most maddening doubts and fears, she
rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno
Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on their way
to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back,
and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they
made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been
seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of
that floor there was no one to be found save a crippled wretch of
hideous aspect, who, it seems, made his home there. Both he
and the lascar stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front
room during the afternoon. So determined was their denial that
the inspector was staggered, and had almost come to believe that
Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at
a small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from
it. Out there fell a cascade of children's bricks. It was the toy
which he had promised to bring home.
"This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple
showed, made the inspector realize that the matter was serious.
The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an
abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a
sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out
upon the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the
bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but
is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water.
The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below.
On examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the window-
sill, and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden
floor of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front
room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the
exception of his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his
watch -- all were there. There were no signs of violence upon any
of these garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville
St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for
no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains
upon the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by
swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of
the tragedy.
"And now as to the villains who seemed to be immedlately
implicated in the matter. The lascar was known to be a man of
the vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was
known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few
seconds of her husband's appearance at the window, he could
hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His
defense was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he
had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger,
and that he could not account in any way for the presence of the
missing gentleman's clothes.
"So much for the lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple
who lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was
certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville
St. Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one
which is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is
a professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regula-
tions he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some little
distance down Threadneedle Street. upon the left-hand side,
there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the wall.
Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged
with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous
spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather
cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched
the fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his
professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the har-
vest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance, you
see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing
him. A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible
scar, which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of
his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark
eyes, which present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair,
all mark him out from amid the common crowd of mendicants
and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any
piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by.
This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at
the opium den, and to have been the last man to see the
gentleman of whom we are in quest."
"But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have done single-
handed against a man in the prime of life?"
"He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in
other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured
man. Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson,
that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by excep-
tional strength in the others."
"Pray continue your narrative."
"Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the
window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as
her presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.
Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very
careful examination of the premises, but without finding any-
thing which threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had
been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed
some few minutes during which he might have communicated
with his friend the lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and
he was seized and searched, without anything being found which
could incriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains
upon his right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger,
which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding
came from there, adding that he had been to the window not long
before, and that the stains which had been observed there came
doubtless from the same source. He denied strenuously having
ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of
the clothes in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the
police. As to Mrs. St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen
her husband at the window, he declared that she must have been
either mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to
the police-station, while the inspector remained upon the prem-
ises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh
clue.
"And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank
what they had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and
not Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded.
And what do you think they found in the pockets?"
"I cannot imagine."
"No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed
with pennies and half-pennies -- 421 pennies and 270 half-pennies.
It was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide.
But a human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy
between the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that
the weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been
sucked away into the river."
"But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the
room. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?"
"No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough.
Suppose that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through
the window, there is no human eye which could have seen the
deed. What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike
him that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize
the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it
would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little
time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried
to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his
lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.
There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret
hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and
he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the
pockets to make sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it out, and
would have done the same with the other garments had not he
heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the
window when the police appeared."
"It certainly sounds feasible."
"Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a
better. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the
station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before been
anything against him. He had for years been known as a profes-
sional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and
innocent one. There the matter stands at present, and the ques-
tions which have to be solved -- what Neville St. Clair was doing
in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where is he
now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance --
are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot
recall any case within my experience which looked at the first
glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties."
While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular se-
ries of events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the
great town until the last straggling houses had been left behind,
and we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us.
Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered
villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.
"We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my companion. "We
have touched on three English counties in our short drive. start-
ing in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in
Kent. See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, and
beside that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already,
I have little doubt, caught the clink of our horse's feet."
"But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?"
I asked.
"Because there are many inquiries which must be made out
here. Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my
disposal, and you may rest assured that she will have nothing but
a welcome for my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her,
Watson, when I have no news of her husband. Here we are.
Whoa, there, whoa!"
We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within
its own grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head,
and springing down I followed Holmes up the small, winding
gravel-drive which led to the house. As we approached, the door
flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad
in some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy
pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure
outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one
half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and
face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing
question.
"Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing that there were
two of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she
saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
"No good news?"
"None."
"No bad?"
"No."
"Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for
you have had a long day."
"This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use
to me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it
possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this
investigation."
"I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand
warmly. "You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be
wanting in our arrangements, when you consider the blow which
has come so suddenly upon us."
"My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and if I
were not I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can
be of any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be
indeed happy."
"Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered a
well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had
been laid out, "I should very much like to ask you one or two
plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain
answer."
"Certainly, madam."
"Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor
given to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion."
"Upon what point?"
"In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?"
Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question.
"Frankly, now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and look-
ing keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.
"Frankly, then, madam, I do not."
"You think that he is dead?"
"I do."
"Murdered?"
"I don't say that. Perhaps."
"And on what day did he meet his death?"
"On Monday."
"Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to
explain how it is that I have received a letter from him to-day."
Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been
galvanized.
"What!" he roared.
"Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of
paper in the air.
"May I see it?"
"Certainly."
He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out
upon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I
had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The
envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the
Gravesend postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather
of the day before, for it was considerably after midnight.
"Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not
your husband's writing, madam."
"No, but the enclosure is."
"I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to
go and inquire as to the address."
"How can you tell that?"
"The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried
itself. The rest is of the grayish colour, which shows that blotting-
paper has been used. If it had been written straight off, and then
blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has
written the name, and there has then been a pause before he
wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not familiar
with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important
as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has been an
enclosure here!"
"Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring."
"And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?"
"One of his hands."
"One?"
"His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual
writing, and yet I know it well."
"Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There
is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify.
Wait in patience.
"NEVILLE.
Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no
water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a
dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not
very much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco.
And you have no doubt that it is your husband's hand, madam?"
"None. Neville wrote those words."
"And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St.
Clair, the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that
the danger is over."
"But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes."
"Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent.
The ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from
him.
"No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!"
"Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday
and only posted to-day."
"That is possible."
"If so, much may have happened between."
"Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that
all is well with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that
I should know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw
him last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-
room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that
something had happened. Do you think that I would respond to
such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?"
"I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a
woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analyti-
cal reasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong
piece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband
is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away
from you?"
"I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable."
"And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?"
"No."
"And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?"
"Very much so."
"Was the window open?"
"Yes."
"Then he might have called to you?"
"He might."
"He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?"
"Yes."
"A call for help, you thought?"
"Yes. He waved his hands."
"But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the
unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?"
"It is possible."
"And you thought he was pulled back?"
"He disappeared so suddenly."
"He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in
the room?"
"No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there,
and the lascar was at the foot of the stairs."
"Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his
ordinary clothes on?"
"But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat."
"Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"
"Never."
"Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?"
"Never."
"Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points
about which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have
a little supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day
to-morrow."
A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed
at our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was
weary after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man,
however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his
mind, would go for days, and even for a week, without rest,
turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every
point of view until he had either fathomed it or convinced
himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me
that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his
coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then
wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and
cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed
a sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-
legged, with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid
out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting
there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly
upon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from
him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set
aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he
sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I
found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was
still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the
room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of
the heap of shag which I had seen upon the previous night.
"Awake, Watson?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Game for a morning drive?"
"Certainly."
"Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the
stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." He
chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he
seemed a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous
night.
As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no
one was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had
hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy
was putting in the horse.
"I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on his
boots. "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the
presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve
to be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the
key of the affair now."
"And where is it?" I asked, smiling.
"In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not jok-
ing," he continued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just
been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this
Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it
will not fit the lock."
We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out
into the bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and
trap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both
sprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few
country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropo-
lis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless
as some city in a dream.
"It has been in some points a singular case," said Holmes,
flicking the horse on into a gallop. "I confess that I have been as
blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never
to learn it at all."
In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily
from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey
side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over
the river, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to
the right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes
was well known to the force, and the two constables at the door
saluted him. One of them held the horse's head while the other
led us in.
"Who is on duty?" asked Holmes.
"Inspector Bradstreet, sir."
"Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?" A tall, stout official had come
down the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged
jacket. "I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet."
"Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here."
It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the
table, and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector
sat down at his desk.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"
"I called about that beggarman, Boone -- the one who was
charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville
St. Clair, of Lee."
"Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries."
"So I heard. You have him here?"
"In the cells."
"Is he quiet?"
"Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel."
"Dirty?"
"Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his
face is as black as a tinker's. Well, when once his case has been
settled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you
saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it."
"I should like to see him very much."
"Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can
leave your bag."
"No, I think that I'll take it."
"Very good. Come this way, if you please." He led us down a
passage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and
brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on
each side.
"The third on the right is his," said the inspector. "Here it
is!" He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door
and glanced through.
"He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very well."
We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his
face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and
heavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his
calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his
tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty,
but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its
repulsive ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran right
across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned up
one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a
perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over
his eyes and forehead.
"He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.
"He certainly needs a wash," remarked Holmes. "I had an
idea that he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools
with me." He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took
out, to my astonishment, a very large bath-sponge.
"He! he! You are a funny one," chuckled the inspector.
"Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door
very quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respect-
able figure."
"Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector. "He
doesn't look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?" He
slipped his key into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the
cell. The sleeper half turned, and then settled down once more
into a deep slumber. Holmes stooped to the waterjug, moistened
his sponge, and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down
the prisoner's face.
"Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. Neville St.
Clair, of Lee, in the county of Kent."
Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man's face
peeled off under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was
the coarse brown tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had
seamed it across, and the twisted lip which had given the repul-
sive sneer to the face! A twitch brought away the tangled red
hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced,
refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing
his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment. Then
suddenly realizing the exposure, he broke into a scream and
threw himself down with his face to the pillow.
"Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed, the
missing man. I know him from the photograph."
The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who aban-
dons himself to his destiny. "Be it so," said he. "And pray
what am I charged with?"
"With making away with Mr. Neville St. Oh, come, you
can't be charged with that unless they make a case of attempted
suicide of it," said the inspector with a grin. "Well, I have been
twenty-seven years in the force, but this really takes the cake."
"If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime
has been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained."
"No crime, but a very great error has been committed," said
Holmes. "You would have done better to have trusted you
wife."
"It was not the wife; it was the children," groaned the
prisoner. "God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their
father. My God! What an exposure! What can I do?"
Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted
him kindly on the shoulder.
"If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up," said
he, "of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other
hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no
possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reasoa
that the details should find their way into the papers. Inspector
Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which
you might tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The case
would then never go into court at all."
"God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately. "I would
have endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than
have left my miserable secret as a family blot to my children.
"You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father
was a school-master in Chesterfield, where I received an excel-:
lent education. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and
finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One
day my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in
the metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them. There was the
point from which all my adventures started. It was only by trying
begging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to
base my articles. When an actor I had, of course, learned all the
secrets of making up, and had been famous in the green-room for
my skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted my
face, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good
scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small
slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head of hair, and
an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business part of the
city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar. For
seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the
evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than
26s. 4d.
"I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter
until, some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ
served upon me for 25 pounds. I was at my wit's end where to get the
money, but a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight's
grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers,
and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise. In
ten days I had the money and had paid the debt.
"Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to
arduous work at 2 pounds a week when I knew that I could earn as
much in a day by smearing my face with a little paint, laying my
cap on the ground, and sitting still. It was a long fight between
my pride and the money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw
up reporting and sat day after day in the corner which I had first
chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets
with coppers. Only one man knew my secret. He was the keeper
of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I
could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the
evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town.
This fellow, a lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that
I knew that my secret was safe in his possession.
"Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums
of money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London
could earn 700 pounds a year -- which is less than my average takings --
but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and
also in a facility of repartee, which improved by practice and
made me quite a recognized character in the City. All day a
stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and it
was a very bad day in which I failed to take 2 pounds.
"As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the
country, and eventually married, without anyone having a suspi-
cion as to my real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had
business in the City. She little knew what.
"Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in
my room above the opium den when I looked out of my window
and saw, to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was
standing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a
cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing
to my confidant, the lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone
from coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew
that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled
on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a
wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it
occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that
the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopen-
ing by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself
in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was
weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from
the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of
the window, and it disappered into the Thames. The other
clothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a
rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found,
rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as
Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer.
"I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I
was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and
hence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife
would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it
to the lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me,
together with a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause
to fear."
"That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes.
"Good God! What a week she must have spent!"
"The police have watched this lascar," said Inspector Brad-
street, "and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult
to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor
customer of his, who forgot all about it for some days."
"That was it," said Holmes, nodding approvingly; "I have no
doubt of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?"
"Many times; but what was a fine to me?"
"It must stop here, however," said Bradstreet. "If the police
are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh
Boone."
"I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can
take."
"In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps
may be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come
out. I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very moch indebted to
you for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you
reach your results."
"I reached this one," said my friend, "by sitting upon five
pillows and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if
we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast."
============================
The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter
We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at
Baker Street, but I have a particular recollection of one which
reached us on a gloomy February morning, some seven or eight
years ago, and gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of
an hour. It was addressed to him, and ran thus:
Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-
quarter missing, indispensable to-morrow.
OVERTON.
"Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six," said Holmes,
reading it over and over. "Mr. Overton was evidently considera-
bly excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in conse-
quence. Well, well, he will be here, I daresay, by the time I
have looked through the Times, and then we shall know all about
it. Even the most insignificant problem would be welcome in
these stagnant days."
Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned
to dread such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that
my companion's brain was so abnormally active that it was
dangerous to leave it without material upon which to work. For
years I had gradually weaned him from that drug mania which
had threatened once to check his remarkable career. Now I knew
that under ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this
artificial stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was not
dead but sleeping, and I have known that the sleep was a light
one and the waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen
the drawn look upon Holmes's ascetic face, and the brooding of
his deep-set and inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr.
Overton, whoever he might be, since he had come with his
enigmatic message to break that dangerous calm which brought
more peril to my friend than all the storms of his tempestuous
life.
As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its
sender, and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College,
Cambridge, announced the arrival of an enormous young man,
sixteen stone of solid bone and muscle, who spanned the door-
way with his broad shoulders, and looked from one of us to the
other with a comely face which was haggard with anxiety.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
My companion bowed.
"I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw In-
spector Stanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said
the case, so far as he could see, was more in your line than in
that of the regular police."
"Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter."
"It's awful, Mr. Holmes -- simply awful! I wonder my hair
isn't gray. Godfrey Staunton -- you've heard of him, of course?
He's simply the hinge that the whole team turns on. I'd rather
spare two from the pack, and have Godfrey for my three-quarter
line. Whether it's passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there's no
one to touch him, and then, he's got the head, and can hold us
all together. What am I to do? That's what I ask you, Mr.
Holmes. There's Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trained as a
half, and he always edges right in on to the scrum instead of
keeping out on the touchline. He's a fine place-kick, it's true
but then he has no judgment, and he can't sprint for nuts. Why,
Morton or Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him.
Stevenson is fast enough, but he couldn't drop from the twenty-
five line, and a three-quarter who can't either punt or drop isn't
worth a place for pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done
unless you can help me to find Godfrey Staunton."
My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long
speech, which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and
earnestness, every point being driven home by the slapping of a
brawny hand upon the speaker's knee. When our visitor was
silent Holmes stretched out his hand and took down letter "S"
of his commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that
mine of varied information.
"There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger," said
he, "and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but
Godfrey Staunton is a new name to me."
It was our visitor's turn to look surprised.
"Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things," said he. "I
suppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton,
you don't know Cyril Overton either?"
Holmes shook his head good humouredly.
"Great Scott!" cried the athlete. "Why, I was first reserve for
England against Wales, and I've skippered the 'Varsity all this
year. But that's nothing! I didn't think there was a soul in
England who didn't know Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-
quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and five Internationals. Good
Lord! Mr. Holmes, where have you lived?"
Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment.
"You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton -- a sweeter
and healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sec-
tions of society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur
sport, which is the best and soundest thing in England. However,
your unexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that
world of fresh air and fair play, there may be work for me to do.
So now, my good sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me,
slowly and quietly, exactly what it is that has occurred, and how
you desire that I should help you."
Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the man
who is more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but
by degrees, with many repetitions and obscurities which I may
omit from his narrative, he laid his strange story before us.
"It's this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper
of the Rugger team of Cambridge 'Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton
is my best man. To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all
came up, and we settled at Bentley's private hotel. At ten
o'clock I went round and saw that all the fellows had gone to
roost, for I believe in strict training and plenty of sleep to keep a
team fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned in.
He seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked him what was
the matter. He said he was all right -- just a touch of headache. I
bade him good-night and left him. Half an hour later, the porter
tells me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a note
for Godfrey. He had not gone to bed, and the note was taken to
his room. Godfrey read it, and fell back in a chair as if he had
been pole-axed. The porter was so scared that he was going to
fetch me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water, and
pulled himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few
words to the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of
them went off together. The last that the porter saw of them,
they were almost running down the street in the direction of the
Strand. This morning Godfrey's room was empty, his bed had
never been slept in, and his things were all just as I had seen
them the night before. He had gone off at a moment's notice
with this stranger, and no word has come from him since. I don't
believe he will ever come back. He was a sportsman, was
Godfrey, down to his marrow, and he wouldn't have stopped his
training and let in his skipper if it were not for some cause that
was too strong for him. No: I feel as if he were gone for good,
and we should never see him again."
Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this
singular narrative.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of
him there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him."
"Could he have got back to Cambridge?"
"Yes, there is a late train -- quarter-past eleven."
"But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it?"
"No, he has not been seen."
"What did you do next?"
"I wired to Lord Mount-James."
"Why to Lord Mount-James?"
"Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest
relative -- his uncle, I believe."
"Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-
James is one of the richest men in England."
"So I've heard Godfrey say."
"And your friend was closely related?"
"Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty -- cram
full of gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with
his knuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life. for
he is an absolute miser, but it will all come to him right
enough."
"Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?"
"No."
"What motive could your friend have in going to Lord
Mount-James?"
"Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it
was to do with money it is possible that he would make for his
nearest relative, who had so much of it, though from all I have
heard he would not have much chance of getting it. Godfrey was
not fond of the old man. He would not go if he could help it."
"Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going
to his relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the
visit of this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the
agitation that was caused by his coming."
Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. "I can make
nothing of it," said he.
"Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look
into the matter," said Holmes. "I should strongly recommend
you to make your preparations for your match without reference
to this young gentleman. It must, as you say, have been an
overpowering necessity which tore him away in such a fashion,
and the same necessity is likely to hold him away. Let us step
round together to the hotel, and see if the porter can throw any
fresh light upon the matter."
Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a
humble witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of
Godfrey Staunton's abandoned room, he had extracted all that
the porter had to tell. The visitor of the night before was not a
gentleman, neither was he a workingman. He was simply what
the porter described as a "medium-looking chap," a man of
fifty, beard grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed. He seemed
himself to be agitated. The porter had observed his hand trembling
when he had held out the note. Godfrey Staunton had crammed
the note into his pocket. Staunton had not shaken hands with the
man in the hall. They had exchanged a few sentences, of which
the porter had only distinguished the one word "time." Then
they had hurried off in the manner described. It was just half-
past ten by the hall clock.
"Let me see," said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton's
bed. "You are the day porter. are you not?"
"Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven."
"The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?"
"No, sir, one theatre party came in late. No one else."
"Were you on duty all day yesterday?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?"
"Yes, sir, one telegram."
"Ah! that's interesting. What o'clock was this?"
"About six."
"Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?"
"Here in his room."
"Were you present when he opened it?"
"Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer."
"Well, was there?"
"Yes, sir, he wrote an answer."
"Did you take it?"
"No, he took it himself."
"But he wrote it in your presence?"
"Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back
turned to that table. When he had written it he said: 'All right,
porter. I will take this myself.' "
"What did he write it with?"
"A pen, sir."
"Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?"
"Yes, sir, it was the top one."
Holmes rose. Taking the forms. he carried them over to the
window and carefully examined that which was uppermost.
"It is a pity he did not write in pencil," said he, throw-
ing them down again with a shrug of disappointment. "As
you have no doubt frequently observed, Watson, the impres-
sion usually goes through -- a fact which has dissolved many
a happy marriage. However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice,
however to perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed
quill pen, and I can hardly doubt that we will find some
impression upon this blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the
very thing!"
He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us
the following hieroglyphic:
Cyril Overton was much excited. "Hold it to the glass!" he
cried.
"That is unnecessary," said Holmes. "The paper is thin, and
the reverse will give the message. Here it is." He turned it over,
and we read:
"So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton
dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at
least six words of the message which have escaped us; but what
remains -- 'Stand by us for God's sake!' -- proves that this young
man saw a formidable danger which approached him, and from
which someone else could protect him. 'Us,' mark you! Another
person was involved. Who should it be but the pale-faced,
bearded man, who seemed himself in so nervous a state? What,
then, is the connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded
man? And what is the third source from which each of them
sought for help against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already
narrowed down to that."
"We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed," I
suggested.
"Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound,
had already crossed my mind. But I daresay it may have come to
your notice that, if you walk into a postoffice and demand to see
the counterfoil of another man's message, there may be some
disinclination on the part of the officials to oblige you. There is
so much red tape in these matters. However, I have no doubt that
with a little delicacy and finesse the end may be attained.
Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr. Overton, to go
through these papers which have been left upon the table."
There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks, which
Holmes turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers
and darting, penetrating eyes. "Nothing here," he said, at last.
"By the way, I suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow --
nothing amiss with him?"
"Sound as a bell."
"Have you ever known him ill?"
"Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he
slipped his knee-cap, but that was nothing."
"Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think
he may have had some secret trouble. With your assent, I will
put one or two of these papers in my pocket, in case they should
bear upon our future inquiry."
"One moment -- one moment!" cried a querulous voice, and
we looked up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching
in the doorway. He was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad-
brimmed top-hat and a loose white necktie -- the whole effect
being that of a very rustic parson or of an undertaker's mute.
Yet, in spite of his shabby and even absurd appearance, his voice
had a sharp crackle, and his manner a quick intensity which
commanded attention.
"Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this
gentleman's papers?" he asked.
"I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain
his disappearance."
"Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?"
"This gentleman, Mr. Staunton's friend, was referred to me
by Scotland Yard."
"Who are you, sir?"
"I am Cyril Overton."
"Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord
Mount-James. I came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus
would bring me. So you have instructed a detective?"
"Yes, sir."
"And are you prepared to meet the cost?"
"I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find
him, will be prepared to do that."
"But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!"
"In that case. no doubt his family --"
"Nothing of the sort, sir!" screamed the little man. "Don't
look to me for a penny -- not a penny! You understand that, Mr.
Detective! I am all the family that this young man has got, and I
tell you that I am not responsible. If he has any expectations it is
due to the fact that I have never wasted money, and I do not
propose to begin to do so now. As to those papers with which
you are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should
be anything of any value among them, you will be held strictly
to account for what you do with them."
"Very good, sir," said Sherlock Holmes. "May I ask, in the
meanwhile, whether you have yourself any theory to account for
this young man's disappearance?"
"No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look
after himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I entirely
refuse to accept the responsibility of hunting for him."
"I quite understand your position," said Holmes, with a
mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Perhaps you don't quite un-
derstand mine. Godfrey Staunton appears to have been a poor
man. If he has been kidnapped, it could not have been for
anything which he himself possesses. The fame of your wealth
has gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible
that a gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain
from him some information as to your house, your habits, and
your treasure."
The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his
neckcloth.
"Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy!
What inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a
fine lad -- a staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his
old uncle away. I'll have the plate moved over to the bank this
evening. In the meantime spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg
you to leave no stone unturned to bring him safely back. As to
money, well, so far as a fiver or even a tenner goes you can
always look to me."
Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble miser could
give us no information which could help us, for he knew little of
the private life of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated
telegram, and with a copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to
find a second link for his chain. We had shaken off Lord
Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with the other
members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen
them.
There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel.
We halted outside it.
"It's worth trying, Watson," said Holmes. "Of course, with
a warrant we could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have
not reached that stage yet. I don't suppose they remember faces
in so busy a place. Let us venture it."
"I am sorry to trouble you," said he, in his blandest manner,
to the young woman behind the grating; "there is some small
mistake about a telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer,
and I very much fear that I must have omitted to put my name at
the end. Could you tell me if this was so?"
The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.
"What o'clock was it?" she asked.
"A little after six."
"Whom was it to?"
Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. "The last
words in it were 'for God's sake,' " he whispered, confidentially;
"I am very anxious at getting no answer."
The young woman separated one of the forms.
"This is it. There is no name," said she, smoothing it out
upon the counter.
"Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer,"
said Holmes. "Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure!
Good-morning, miss, and many thanks for having relieved my
mind." He chuckled and rubbed his hands when we found
ourselves in the street once more.
"Well?" I asked.
"We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven
different schemes for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I
could hardly hope to succeed the very first time."
"And what have you gained?"
"A starting-point for our investigation." He hailed a cab.
"King's Cross Station," said he.
"We have a journey, then?"
"Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All
the indications seem to me to point in that direction."
"Tell me," I asked, as we rattled up Gray's Inn Road, "have
you any suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I
don't think that among all our cases I have known one where the
motives are more obscure. Surely you don't really imagine that
he may be kidnapped in order to give information against his
wealthy uncle?"
"I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me
as a very probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being
the one which was most likely to interest that exceedingly un-
pleasant old person."
"It certainly did that; but what are your alternatives?"
"I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious
and suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this
important match, and should involve the only man whose pres-
ence seems essential to the success of the side. It may, of course,
be a coincidence. but it is interesting. Amateur sport is free from
betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on among the
public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone's while
to get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a race-horse.
There is one explanation. A second very obvious one is that this
young man really is the heir of a great property, however modest
his means may at present be, and it is not impossible that a plot to
hold him for ransom might be concocted."
"These theories take no account of the telegram."
"Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid
thing with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our
attention to wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the
purpose of this telegram that we are now upon our way to
Cambridge. The path of our investigation is at present obscure,
but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have not
cleared it up, or made a considerable advance along it."
It was already dark when we reached the old university city.
Holmes took a cab at the station and ordered the man to drive to
the house of Dr. Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later, we had
stopped at a large mansion on the busiest thoroughfare. We were
shown in, and after a long wait were at last admitted into the
consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind his
table.
It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my
profession that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to
me. Now I am aware that he is not only one of the heads of the
medical school of the university, but a thinker of European
reputation in more than one branch of science. Yet even without
knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by
a mere glance at the man, the square, massive face, the brooding
eyes under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the
inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert
mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable -- so I read Dr.
Leslie Armstrong. He held my friend's card in his hand, and
he looked up with no very pleased expression upon his dour
features.
"I have heard your name. Mr. Sherlock Holmes. and I
am aware of your profession -- one of which I by no means
approve."
"In that, Doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with
every criminal in the country," said my friend, quietly.
"So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of
crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable
member of the community, though I cannot doubt that the offi-
cial machinery is amply sufficient for the purpose. Where your
calling is more open to criticism is when you pry into the secrets
of private individuals, when you rake up family matters which
are better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the time of
men who are more busy than yourself. At the present moment
for example, I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing
with you."
"No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more
important than the treatise. Incidentally, I may tell you that we
are doing the reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we
are endeavouring to prevent anything like public exposure of
private matters which must necessarily follow when once the
case is fairly in the hands of the official police. You may look
upon me simply as an irregular pioneer, who goes in front of the
regular forces of the country. I have come to ask you about Mr.
Godfrey Staunton."
"What about him?"
"You know him, do you not?"
"He is an intimate friend of mine."
"You are aware that he has disappeared?"
"Ah, indeed!" There was no change of expression in the
rugged features of the doctor.
"He left his hotel last night -- he has not been heard of."
"No doubt he will return."
"To-morrow is the 'Varsity football match."
"I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young
man's fate interests me deeply, since I know him and like him.
The football match does not come within my horizon at all."
"I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr.
Staunton's fate. Do you know where he is?"
"Certainly not."
"You have not seen him since yesterday?"
"No, I have not."
"Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?"
"Absolutely."
"Did you ever know him ill?"
"Never."
Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor's eyes.
"Then perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen
guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie
Armstrong, of Cambridge. I picked it out from among the papers
upon hls desk."
The doctor flushed with anger.
"I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an
explanation to you, Mr. Holmes."
Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook. "If you prefer a
public explanation, it must come sooner or later," said he. "I
have already told you that I can hush up that which others will be
bound to publish, and you would really be wiser to take me into
your complete confidence."
"I know nothing about it."
"Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?"
"Certainly not."
"Dear me, dear me -- the postoffice again!" Holmes sighed,
wearily. "A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from
London by Godfrey Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening -- a
telegram which is undoubtedly associated with his disappearance --
and yet you have not had it. It is most culpable. I shall certainly
go down to the office here and register a complaint."
Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his
dark face was crimson with fury.
"I'll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir," said he.
"You can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not
wish to have anything to do either with him or with his agents.
No, sir -- not another word!" He rang the bell furiously. "John,
show these gentlemen out!" A pompous butler ushered us se-
verely to the door, and we found ourselves in the street. Holmes
burst out laughing.
"Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and
character," said he. "I have not seen a man who, if he turns his
talents that way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by the
illustrious Moriarty. And now, my poor Watson, here we are,
stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town, which we
cannot leave without abandoning our case. This little inn just
opposite Armstrong's house is singularly adapted to our needs. If
you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries for
the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries."
These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy
proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to
the inn until nearly nine o'clock. He was pale and dejected,
stained with dust, and exhausted with hunger and fatigue. A cold
supper was ready upon the table, and when his needs were
satisfied and his pipe alight he was ready to take that half comic
and wholly philosophic view which was natural to him when his
affairs were going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused
him to rise and glance out of the window. A brougham and pair
of grays, under the glare of a gas-lamp, stood before the doctor's
door.
"It's been out three hours," said Holmes, "started at half-past
six, and here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or
twelve miles, and he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day."
"No unusual thing for a doctor in practice."
"But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a
lecturer and a consultant, but he does not care for general
practice, which distracts him from his literary work. Why, then,
does he make these long journeys, which must be exceedingly
irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?"
"His coachman --"
"My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first
applied? I do not know whether it came from his own innate
depravity or from the promptings of his master, but he was rude
enough to set a dog at me. Neither dog nor man liked the look of
my stick, however, and the matter fell through. Relations were
strained after that, and further inquiries out of the question. All
that I have learned I got from a friendly native in the yard of our
own inn. It was he who told me of the doctor's habits and of his
daily journey. At that instant, to give point to his words, the
carriage came round to the door."
"Could you not follow it?"
"Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this evening. The
idea did cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a
bicycle shop next to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a
bicycle, and was able to get started before the carriage was quite
out of sight. I rapidly overtook it, and then, keeping at a discreet
distance of a hundred yards or so,l followed its lights until we
were clear of the town. We had got well out on the country road
when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred. The carriage
stopped, the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I had
also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that he
feared the road was narrow, and that he hoped his carriage did
not impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have been
more admirable than his way of putting it. I at once rode past the
carriage, and, keeping to the main road, I went on for a few
miles, and then halted in a convenient place to see if the carriage
passed. There was no sign of it, however, and so it became
evident that it had turned down one of several side roads which I
had observed. I rode back, but again saw nothing of the carriage,
and now, as you perceive, it has returned after me. Of course, I
had at the outset no particular reason to connect these journeys
with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and was only in-
clined to investigate them on the general grounds that everything
which concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest to us, but,
now that I find he keeps so keen a look-out upon anyone who
may follow him on these excursions, the affair appears more
important, and I shall not be satisfied until I have made the
matter clear."
"We can follow him tomorrow."
"Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You are not
familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend
itself to concealment. All this country that I passed over to-night
is as flat and clean as the palm of your hand, and the man we are
following is no fool, as he very clearly showed to-night. I have
wired to Overton to let us know any fresh London developments
at this address, and in the meantime we can only concentrate our
attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name the obliging young
lady at the office allowed me to read upon the counterfoil of
Staunton's urgent message. He knows where the young man
is -- to that I'll swear, and if he knows, then it must be our own
fault if we cannot manage to know also. At present it must be
admitted that the odd trick is in his possession, and, as you are
aware, Watson, it is not my habit to leave the game in that
condition."
And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of
the mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes
passed across to me with a smile.
SIR [it ran]:
I can assure you that you are wasting your time in dogging
my movements. I have, as you discovered last night, a
window at the back of my brougham, and if you desire a
twenty-mile ride which will lead you to the spot from which
you started, you have only to follow me. Meanwhile, I can
inform you that no spying upon me can in any way help Mr.
Godfrey Staunton, and I am convinced that the best service
you can do to that gentleman is to return at once to London
and to report to your employer that you are unable to trace
him. Your time in Cambridge will certainly be wasted.
Yours faithfully,
LESLIE ARMSTRONG
"An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor," said Holmes.
"Well, well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know
before I leave him."
"His carriage is at his door now," said I. "There he is
stepping into it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so.
Suppose I try my luck upon the bicycle?"
"No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your natural
acumen, I do not think that you are quite a match for the worthy
doctor. I think that possibly I can attain our end by some
independent explorations of my own. I am afraid that I must
leave you to your own devices, as the appearance of two inquir-
ing strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more gossip
than I care for. No doubt you will find some sights to amuse you
in this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a more favour-
able report to you before evening."
Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disap-
pointed. He came back at night weary and unsuccessful.
"I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the doctor's
general direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon
that side of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and
other local news agencies. I have covered some ground. Chester-
ton, Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington have each been ex-
plored, and have each proved disappointing. The daily appearance
of a brougham and pair could hardly have been overlooked in
such Sleepy Hollows. The doctor has scored once more. Is there
a telegram for me?"
"Yes, I opened it. Here it is:
"Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.
I don't understand it."
"Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is in
answer to a question from me. I'll just send round a note to Mr.
Jeremy Dixon, and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn.
By the way, is there any news of the match?"
"Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its
last edition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last
sentences of the description say:
"The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed
to the unfortunate absence of the crack International, God-
frey Staunton, whose want was felt at every instant of the
game. The lack of combination in the three-quarter line and
their weakness both in attack and defence more than neutral-
ized the efforts of a heavy and hard-working pack."
"Then our friend Overton's forebodings have been justified,"
said Holmes. "Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Arm-
strong, and football does not come within my horizon. Early to
bed to-night, Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an
eventful day."
I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning,
for he sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I
associated that instrument with the single weakness of his nature,
and I feared the worst when I saw it glittering in his hand. He
laughed at my expression of dismay and laid it upon the table.
"No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not
upon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather prove
to be the key which will unlock our mystery. On this syringe I
base all my hopes. I have just returned from a small scouting
expedition, and everything is favourable. Eat a good breakfast,
Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong's trail to-day,
and once on it I will not stop for rest or food until I run him to
his burrow."
"In that case," said I, "we had best carry our breakfast with
us, for he is making an early start. His carriage is at the door."
"Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can drive
where I cannot follow him. When you have finished, come
downstairs with me, and I will introduce you to a detective who
is a very eminent specialist in the work that lies before us."
When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard,
where he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat,
lop-eared, white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a
foxhound .
"Let me introduce you to Pompey," said he. "Pompey is the
pride of the local draghounds -- no very great flier, as his build
will show, but a staunch hound on a scent. Well, Pompey, you
may not be fast, but I expect you will be too fast for a couple of
middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of
fastening this leather leash to your collar. Now, boy, come
along, and show what you can do." He led him across to the
doctor's door. The dog sniffed round for an instant, and then
with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street,
tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. In half an hour, we
were clear of the town and hastening down a country road.
"What have you done, Holmes?" I asked.
"A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occa-
sion. I walked into the doctor's yard this morning, and shot my
syringe full of aniseed over the hind wheel. A draghound will
follow aniseed from here to John o' Groat's, and our friend,
Armstrong, would have to drive through the Cam before he
would shake Pompey off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal! This
is how he gave me the slip the other night."
The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a
grass-grown lane. Half a mile farther this opened into another
broad road, and the trail turned hard to the right in the direction
of the town, which we had just quitted. The road took a sweep to
the south of the town, and continued in the opposite direction to
that in which we started.
"This detour has been entirely for our benefit, then?" said
Holmes. "No wonder that my inquiries among those villagers
led to nothing. The doctor has certainly played the game for all it
is worth, and one would like to know the reason for such
elaborate deception. This should be the village of Trumpington
to the right of us. And, by Jove! here is the brougham coming
round the corner. Quick, Watson -- quick, or we are done!"
He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctant
Pompey after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of the
hedge when the carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse, of Dr.
Armstrong within, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his
hands, the very image of distress. I could tell by my compan-
ion's graver face that he also had seen.
"I fear there is some dark ending to our quest," said he. "It
cannot be long before we know it. Come, Pompey! Ah, it is the
cottage in the field!"
There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our
journey. Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate,
where the marks of the brougham's wheels were still to be seen.
A footpath led across to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog
to the hedge, and we hastened onward. My friend knocked at the
little rustic door, and knocked again without response. And yet
the cottage was not deserted, for a low sound came to our
ears -- a kind of drone of misery and despair which was inde-
scribably melancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then he
glanced back at the road which he had just traversed. A brougham
was coming down it, and there could be no mistaking those gray
horses .
"By Jove, the doctor is coming back!" cried Holmes. "That
settles it. We are bound to see what it means before he comes."
He opened the door, and we stepped into the hall. The droning
sound swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long,
deep wail of distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up,
and I followed him. He pushed open a half-closed door, and we
both stood appalled at the sight before us.
A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed.
Her calm, pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked
upward from amid a great tangle of golden hair. At the foot of
the bed, half sitting, half kneeling, his face buried in the clothes,
was a young man, whose frame was racked by his sobs. So
absorbed was he by his bitter grief, that he never looked up until
Holmes's hand was on his shoulder.
"Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?"
"Yes, yes, I am -- but you are too late. She is dead."
The man was so dazed that he could not be made to under-
stand that we were anything but doctors who had been sent to his
assistance. Holmes was endeavouring to utter a few words of
consolation and to explain the alarm which had been caused to
his friends by his sudden disappearance when there was a step
upon the stairs, and there was the heavy, stern, questioning face
of Dr. Armstrong at the door.
"So, gentlemen," said he, "you have attained your end and
have certainly chosen a particularly delicate moment for your
intrusion. I would not brawl in the presence of death, but I can
assure you that if I were a younger man your monstrous conduct
would not pass with impunity."
"Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little at cross-
purposes," said my friend, with dignity. "If you could step
downstairs with us, we may each be able to give some light to
the other upon this miserable affair."
A minute later, the grim doctor and ourselves were in the
sitting-room below.
"Well, sir?" said he.
"I wish you to understand, in the first place, that I am not
employed by Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this
matter are entirely against that nobleman. When a man is lost it
is my duty to ascertain his fate, but having done so the matter
ends so far as I am concerned, and so long as there is nothing
criminal I am much more anxious to hush up private scandals
than to give them publicity. If, as I imagine, there is no breach
of the law in this matter, you can absolutely depend upon my
discretion and my cooperation in keeping the facts out of the
papers."
Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung Holmes
by the hand.
"You are a good fellow," said he. "I had misjudged you. I
thank heaven that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all
alone in this plight caused me to turn my carriage back and so to
make your acquaintance. Knowing as much as you do, the
situation is very easily explained. A year ago Godfrey Staunton
lodged in London for a time and became passionately attached to
his landlady's daughter, whom he married. She was as good as
she was beautiful and as intelligent as she was good. No man
need be ashamed of such a wife. But Godfrey was the heir to this
crabbed old nobleman, and it was quite certain that the news of
his marriage would have been the end of his inheritance. I knew
the lad well, and I loved him for his many excellent qualities. I
did all I could to help him to keep things straight. We did our
very best to keep the thing from everyone, for, when once such a
whisper gets about, it is not long before everyone has heard it.
Thanks to this lonely cottage and his own discretion, Godfrey
has up to now succeeded. Their secret was known to no one save
to me and to one excellent servant, who has at present gone for
assistance to Trumpington. But at last there came a terrible blow
in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It was consumption
of the most virulent kind. The poor boy was half crazed with
grief, and yet he had to go to London to play this match, for
he could not get out of it without explanations which would
expose his secret. I tried to cheer him up by wire, and he sent
me one in reply, imploring me to do all I could. This was the
telegram which you appear in some inexplicable way to have
seen. I did not tell him how urgent the danger was, for I
knew that he could do no good here, but I sent the truth to
the girl's father, and he very injudiciously communicated it
to Godfrey. The result was that he came straight away in a
state bordering on frenzy, and has remained in the same state.
kneeling at the end of her bed, until this morning death put
an end to her sufferings. That is all, Mr. Holmes, and I am
sure that I can rely upon your discretion and that of your
friend."
Holmes grasped the doctor's hand.
"Come, Watson,'' said he, and we passed from that house of
grief into the pale sunlight of the winter day.
=============================
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 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 patnotic 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, tbe 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 commonplace 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 mur-
ders, and the case of Vamberry, the wine merchant, and the
adventure of the old Russian woman, and the singular affair of
the aluminum 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 recherche."
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 discs 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 con-
tained 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 recog-
nized 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 bv 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 an 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 birth-place 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 gray archways and mullioned win-
dows 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 estate 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. Al-
together there are eight maids, the cook, the butler, two foot-
men, 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 game-keeper. 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 cafe' 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 af 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 biilliard-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 burglar. 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 foot-
men, 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 wit's 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 deter-
mining 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
has developed. Over the low, heavy-lintelled door, in the centre
of this old part, is chiselled 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.'
"Here was one of my fixed points secured.
" '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 trigo-
nometry, 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, Wat-
son. 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
gray 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 calculations.
" '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 sum-
moned 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 upward, 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 recognized that distorted liver-coloured counte-
nance; 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 precau-
tions. 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 unnec-
essary 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 someone 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 thc 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 be-
come 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 debris 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 onginal 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 cava-
lier and the right-hand man of Charles the Second in his wander-
ings,' 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 a 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."
================================
The Naval Treaty
The July which immediately succeeded my marriage was made
memorable by three cases of interest, in which I had the privi-
lege of being associated with Sherlock Holmes and of studying
his methods. I find them recorded in my notes under the head-
ings of "The Adventure of the Second Stain," "The Adventure
of the Naval Treaty," and "The Adventure of the Tired Cap-
tain." The first of these, however, deals with interests of such
importance and implicates so many of the first families in the
kingdom that for many years it will be impossible to make it
public. No case, however, in which Holmes was engaged has
ever illustrated the value of his analytical methods so clearly or
has impressed those who were associated with him so deeply. I
still retain an almost verbatim report of the interview in which he
demonstrated the true facts of the case to Monsieur Dubugue of
the Paris police, and Fritz von Waldbaum, the well-known spe-
cialist of Dantzig, both of whom had wasted their energies upon
what proved to be side-issues. The new century will have come,
however, before the story can be safely told. Meanwhile I pass
on to the second on my list, which promised also at one time to
be of national importance and was marked by several incidents
which give it a quite unique character.
During my school-days I had been intimately associated with a
lad named Percy Phelps, who was of much the same age as
myself, though he was two classes ahead of me. He was a very
brilliant boy and carried away every prize which the school had
to offer, finishing his exploits by winning a scholarship which
sent him on to continue his triumphant career at Cambridge. He
was, I remember, extremely well connected, and even when we
were all little boys together we knew that his mother's brother
was Lord Holdhurst, the great conservative politician. This gaudy
relationship did him little good at school. On the contrary, it
seemed rather a piquant thing to us to chevy him about the
playground and hit him over the shins with a wicket. But it was
another thing when he came out into the world. I heard vaguely
that his abilities and the influences which he commanded had won
him a good position at the Foreign Office, and then he passed
completely out of my mind until the following letter recalled his
existence:
Briarbrae, Woking.
MY DEAR WATSON:
I have no doubt that you can remember "Tadpole" Phelps,
who was in the fifth form when you were in the third. It is
possible even that you may have heard that through my
uncle's influence I obtained a good appointment at the
Foreign Office, and that I was in a situation of trust and
honour until a horrible misfortune came suddenly to blast
my career.
There is no use writing the details of that dreadful event.
In the event of your acceding to my request it is probable
that I shall have to narrate them to you. I have only just
recovered from nine weeks of brain-fever and am still
exceedingly weak. Do you think that you could bring your
friend Mr. Holmes down to see me? I should like to have
his opinion of the case, though the authorities assure me
that nothing more can be done. Do try to bring him down,
and as soon as possible. Every minute seems an hour while
I live in this state of horrible suspense. Assure him that if I
have not asked his advice sooner it was not because I did
not appreciate his talents, but because I have been off my
head ever since the blow fell. Now I am clear again, though
I dare not think of it too much for fear of a relapse. I am
still so weak that I have to write, as you see, by dictating.
Do try to bring him.
Your old school-fellow,
PERCY PHELPS.
There was something that touched me as I read this-letter,
something pitiable in the reiterated appeals to bring Holmes. So
moved was I that even had it been a difficult matter I should
have tried it, but of course I knew well that Holmes loved his
art, so that he was ever as ready to bring his aid as his client
could be to receive it. My wife agreed with me that not a
moment should be lost in laying the matter before him, and so
within an hour of breakfast-time I found myself back once more
in the old rooms in Baker Street.
Holmes was seated at his side-table clad in his dressing-gown
and working hard over a chemical investigation. A large curved
retort was boiling furiously in the bluish flame of a Bunsen
burner, and the distilled drops were condensing into a two-litre
measure. My friend hardly glanced up as I entered, and I, seeing
that his investigation must be of importance, seated myself in an
armchair and waited. He dipped into this bottle or that, drawing
out a few drops of each with his glass pipette, and finally
brought a test-tube containing a solution over to the table. In his
right hand he held a slip of litmus-paper.
"You come at a crisis, Watson," said he. "If this paper
remains blue, all is well. If it turns red, it means a man's life."
He dipped it into the test-tube and it flushed at once into a dull,
dirty crimson. "Hum! I thought as much!" he cried. "I will be
at your service in an instant, Watson. You will find tobacco in
the Persian slipper." He turned to his desk and scribbled off
several telegrams, which were handed over to the page-boy.
Then he threw himself down into the chair opposite and drew up
his knees until his fingers clasped round his long, thin shins.
"A very commonplace little murder," said he. "You've got
something better, I fancy. You are the stormy petrel of crime,
Watson. What is it?"
I handed him the letter, which he read with the most concen-
trated attention.
"It does not tell us very much, does it?" he remarked as he
handed it back to me.
"Hardly anything."
"And yet the writing is of interest."
"But the writing is not his own."
"Precisely. It is a woman's."
"A man's surely," I cried.
"No, a woman's, and a woman of rare character. You see, at
the commencement of an investigation it is something to know
that your client is in close contact with someone who, for good
or evil, has an exceptional nature. My interest is already awak-
ened in the case. If you are ready we will start at once for
Woking and see this diplomatist who is in such evil case and the
lady to whom he dictates his letters."
We were fortunate enough to catch an early train at Waterloo,
and in a little under an hour we found ourselves among the
fir-woods and the heather of Woking. Briarbrae proved to be a
large detached house standing in extensive grounds within a few
minutes' walk of the station. On sending in our cards we were
shown into an elegantly appointed drawing-room, where we
were joined in a few minutes by a rather stout man who received
us with much hospitality.l His age may have been nearer forty
than thirty. but his cheeks were so ruddy and his eyes so merry
that he still conveyed the impression of a plump and mischievous
boy.
"I am so glad that yau have come," said he, shaking our
hands with effusion. "Percy has been inquiring for you all
morning. Ah, poor old chap, he clings to any straw! His father
and his mother asked me to see you, for the mere mention of the
subject is very painful to them."
"We have had no details yet," observed Holmes. "I perceive
that you are not yourself a member of the family."
Our acquaintance looked surprised, and then, glancing down,
he began to laugh.
"Of course you saw the J H monogram on my locket," said
he. "For a moment I thought you had done something clever.
Joseph Harrison is my name, and as Percy is to marry my sister
Annie I shall at least be a relation by marriage. You will find my
sister in his room, for she has nursed him hand and foot this two
months back. Perhaps we'd better go in at once, for I know how
impatient he is."
The chamber into which we were shown was on the same
floor as the drawing-room It was furnished partly as a sitting and
partly as a bedroom, with flowers arranged daintily in every
nook and corner. A young man, very pale and worn, was lying
upon a sofa near the open window, through which came the rich
scent of the garden and the balmy summer air. A woman was
sitting beside him, who rase as we entered.
"Shall I leave, Percy?" she asked.
He clutched her hand to detain her. "How are you, Watson?"
said he cordially. "I should never have known you under that
moustache, and I daresay you would not be prepared to swear to
me. This I presume is your celebrated friend, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes?"
I introduced him in a few words, and we both sat down. The
stout young man had left us, but his sister still remained with her
hand in that of the invalid. She was a striking-looking woman, a
little short and thick for symmetry, but with a beautiful olive
complexion, large, dark, Italian eyes, and a wealth of deep black
hair. Her rich tints made the white face of her companion the
more worn and haggard by the contrast.
"I won't waste your time," said he, raising himself upon the
sofa. "I'll plunge into the matter without further preamble. I was
a happy and successful man, Mr. Holmes, and on the eve of
being married, when a sudden and dreadful misfortune wrecked
all my prospects in life.
"I was, as Watson may have told you, in the Foreign Office,
and through the influence of my uncle, Lord Holdhurst, I rose
rapidly to a responsible position. When my uncle became foreign
minister in this administration he gave me several missions of
trust, and as I always brought them to a successful conclusion,
he came at last to have the utmost confidence in my ability and
tact.
"Nearly ten weeks ago -- to be more accurate, on the twenty-
third of May -- he called me into his private room, and, after
complimenting me on the good work which I had done, he
informed me that he had a new commission of trust for me to
execute.
" 'This,' said he, taking a gray roll of paper from his bureau,
'is the original of that secret treaty between England and Italy of
which, I regret to say, some rumours have already got into the
public press. It is of enormous importance that nothing further
should leak out. The French or the Russian embassy would pay
an immense sum to learn the contents of these papers. They
should not leave my bureau were it not that it is absolutely
necessary to have them copied. You have a desk in your office?'
" 'Yes, sir.'
" 'Then take the treaty and lock it up there. I shall give
directions that you may remain behind when the others go, so
that you may copy it at your leisure without fear of being
overlooked. When you have finished, relock both the original
and the draft in the desk, and hand them over to me personally
to-morrow morning.'
"I took the papers and --"
"Excuse me an instant," said Holmes. "Were you alone
during this conversation?"
"Absolutely."
"In a large room?"
"Thirty feet each way."
"In the centre?"
"Yes, about it."
"And speaking low?"
"My uncle's voice is always remarkably low. I hardly spoke
at all."
"Thank you," said Holmes, shutting his eyes; "pray go on."
"I did exactly what he indicated and waited until the other
clerks had departed. One of them in my room, Charles Gorot,
had some arrears of work to make up, so I left him there and
went out to dine. When I returned he was gone. I was anxious to
hurry my work, for I knew that Joseph -- the Mr. Harrison whom
you saw just now -- was in town, and that he would travel down
to Woking by the eleven-o'clock train, and I wanted if possible
to catch it.
"When I came to examine the treaty I saw at once that it was
of such importance that my uncle had been guilty of no exagger-
ation in what he said. Without going into details, I may say that
it defined the position of Great Britain towards the Triple Alli-
ance, and foreshadowed the policy which this country would
pursue in the event of the French fleet gaining a complete
ascendency over that of Italy in the Mediterranean. The ques-
tions treated in it were purely naval. At the end were the
signatures of the high dignitaries who had signed it. I glanced
my eyes over it, and then settled down to my task of copying.
"It was a long document, written in the French language, and
containing twenty-six separate articles. I copied as quickly as I
could. but at nine o'clock I had only done nine articles, and it
seemed hopeless for me to attempt to catch my train. I was
feeling drowsy and stupid, partly from my dinner and also from
the effects of a long day's work. A cup of coffee would clear my
brain. A commissionaire remains all night in a little lodge at the
foot of the stairs and is in the habit of making coffee at his
spirit-lamp for any of the officials who may be working over-
time. I rang the bell, therefore, to summon him.
"To my surprise, it was a woman who answered the sum-
mons, a large, coarse-faced, elderly woman, in an apron. She
explained that she was the commissionaire's wife, who did the
charing, and I gave her the order for the coffee.
"I wrote two more articles. and then, feeling more drowsy
than ever, I rose and walked up and down the room to stretch my
legs. My coffee had not yet come, and I wondered what the
cause of the delay could be. Opening the door, I started down
the corridor to find out. There was a straight passage, dimly
lighted, which led from the room in which I had been working,
and was the only exit from it. It ended in a curving staircase,
with the commissionaire's lodge in the passage at the bottom.
Halfway down this staircase is a small landing, with another
passage running into it at right angles. This second one leads by
means of a second small stair to a side door, used by servants,
and also as a short cut by clerks when coming from Charles
Street. Here is a rough chart of thc place."
"Thank you. l think that I quite follow you," said Sherlock
Holmes.
"It is of the utmost importance that you should notice this
point. I went down the stairs and into the hall, where I found the
commissionaire fast asleep in his box, with the kettle boiling
furiously upon the spirit-lamp. I took off the kettle and blew out
the lamp, for the water was spurting over the floor. Then I put
out my hand and was about to shake the man, who was still
sleeping soundly, when a bell over his head rang loudly, and he
woke with a start.
" 'Mr. Phelps, sir!' said he, looking at me in bewilderment.
" 'I came down to see if my coffee was ready.'
" 'I was boiling the kettle when I fell asleep, sir.' He looked
at me and then up at the still quivering bell with an ever-growing
astonishment upon his face.
" 'If you was here, sir, then who rang the bell?' he asked.
" 'The bell!' I cried. 'What bell is it?'
" 'It's the bell of the room you were working in.'
"A cold hand seemed to close round my heart. Someone, then,
was in that room where my precious treaty lay upon the table. I
ran frantically up the stair and along the passage. There was no
one in the corridors, Mr. Holmes. There was no one in the room.
All was exactly as I left it, save only that the papers which had
been committed to my care had been taken from the desk on
which they lay. The copy was there, and the original was gone."
Holmes sat up in his chair and rubbed his hands. I could see
that the problem was entirely to his heart. "Pray what did you do
then?" he murmured.
"I recognized in an instant that the thief must have come up
the stairs from the side door. Of course I must have met him if
he had come the other way."
"You were satisfied that he could not have been concealed in
the room all the time, or in the corridor which you have just
described as dimly lighted?"
It is absolutely impossible. A rat could not conceal himself
either in the room or the corridor. There is no cover at all."
"Thank you. Pray proceed."
"The commissionaire, seeing by my pale face that something
was to be feared, had followed me upstairs. Now we both rushed
along the corridor and down the steep steps which led to Charles
Street. The door at the bottom was closed but unlocked. We
flung it open and rushed out. I can distinctly remember that as
we did so there came three chimes from a neighbouring clock. It
was a quarter to ten."
"That is of enormous importance," said Holmes, making a
note upon his shirtcuff.
"The night was very dark, and a thin, warm rain was falling.
There was no one in Charles Street, but a great traffic was going
on, as usual, in Whitehall, at the extremity. We rushed along the
pavement, bare-headed as we were, and at the far corner we
found a policeman standing.
" 'A robbery has been committed,' I gasped. 'A document of
immense value has been stolen from the Foreign Office. Has
anyone passed this way?'
" 'I have been standing here for a quarter of an hour, sir,' said
he, 'only one person has passed during that time a woman, tall
and elderly, with a Paisley shawl.'
" 'Ah, that is only my wife,' cried the commissionaire; 'has
no one else passed?'
" 'No one.'
" 'Then it must be the other way that the thief took,' cried the
fellow, tugging at my sleeve.
"But I was not satisfied, and the attempts which he made to
draw me away increased my suspicions.
" 'Which way did the woman go?' I cried.
" 'I don't know, sir. I noticed her pass. but I had no special
reason for watching her. She seemed to be in a hurry.'
" 'How long ago was it?'
" 'Oh, not very many minutes.'
" 'Within the last five?'
" 'Well, it could not be more than five.'
" 'You're only wasting your time, sir, and every minute now
is of importance,' cried the commissionaire; 'take my word for it
that my old woman has nothing to do with it and come down to
the other end of the street. Well, if you won't, I will.' And with
that he rushed off in the other direction.
"But I was after him in an instant and caught him by the
sleeve.
" 'Where do you live?' said I.
" '16 Ivy Lane, Brixton,' he answered. 'But don't let yourself
be drawn away upon a false scent, Mr. Phelps. Come to the
other end of the street and let us see if we can hear of anything.'
"Nothing was to be lost by following his advice. With the
policeman we both hurried down, but only to find the street full
of traffic, many people coming and going, but all only too eager
to get to a place of safety upon so wet a night. There was no
lounger who could tell us who had passed.
"Then we returned to the office and searched the stairs and
the passage without result. The corridor which led to the room
was laid down with a kind of creamy linoleum which shows an
impression very easily. We examined it very carefully, but found
no outline of any footmark."
"Had it been raining all evening?"
"Since about seven."
"How is it, then, that the woman who came into the room
about nine left no traces with her muddy boots?"
"I am glad you raised the point. It occurred to me at the time.
The charwomen are in the habit of taking off their boots at the
commissionaire's office, and putting on list slippers."
"That is very clear. There were no marks, then, though the
night was a wet one? The chain of events is certainly one of
extraordinary interest. What did you do next?"
"We examined the room also. There is no possibility of a
secret door, and the windows are quite thirty feet from the
ground. Both of them were fastened on the inside. The carpet
prevents any possibility of a trapdoor, and the ceiling is of the
ordinary whitewashed kind. I will pledge my life that whoever
stole my papers could only have come through the door."
"How about the fireplace?"
"They use none. There is a stove. The bell-rope hangs from
the wire just to the right of my desk. Whoever rang it must have
come right up to the desk to do it. But why should any criminal
wish to ring the bell? It is a most insoluble mystery."
"Certainly the incident was unusual. What were your next
steps? You examined the room, I presume, to see if the intruder
had left any traces -- any cigar-end or dropped glove or hairpin or
other trifle?"
"There was nothing of the sort."
"No smell?"
"Well, we never thought of that."
"Ah, a scent of tobacco would have been worth a great deal to
us in such an investigation."
"I never smoke myself, so I think I should have observed it if
there had been any smell of tobacco. There was absolutely no
clue of any kind. The only tangible fact was that the commis-
sionaire's wife -- Mrs. Tangey was the name -- had hurried out of
the place. He could give no explanation save that it was about the
time when the woman always went home. The policeman and I
agreed that our best plan would be to seize the woman before she
could get rid of the papers, presuming that she had them.
"The alarm had reached Scotland Yard by this time, and Mr.
Forbes, the detective, came round at once and took up the case
with a great deal of energy. We hired a hansom, and in half an
hour we were at the address which had been given to us. A
young woman opened the door, who proved to be Mrs. Tangey's
eldest daughter. Her mother had not come back yet, and we were
shown into the front room to wait.
"About ten minutes later a knock came at the door, and here
we made the one serious mistake for which I blame myself.
Instead of opening the door ourselves, we allowed the girl to do
so. We heard her say, 'Mother, there are two men in the house
waiting to see you,' and an instant afterwards we heard the patter
of feet rushing down the passage. Forbes flung open the door,
and we both ran into the back room or kitchen, but the woman
had got there before us. She stared at us with defiant eyes. and
then, suddenly recognizing me, an expression of absolute astonish-
ment came over her face.
" 'Why, if it isn't Mr. Phelps, of the office!' she cried.
" 'Come, come, who did you think we were when you ran
away from us?' asked my companion.
" 'I thought you were the brokers,' said she, 'we have had
some trouble with a tradesman.'
" 'That's not quite good enough.' answered Forbes. 'We have
reason to believe that you have taken a paper of importance from
the Foreign Office, and that you ran in here to dispose of it. You
must come back with us to Scotland Yard to be searched.'
"It was in vain that she protested and resisted. A four-wheeler
was brought, and we all three drove back in it. We had first
made an examination of the kitchen, and especially of the kitchen
fire, to see whether she might have made away with the papers
during the instant that she was alone. There were no signs,
however, of any ashes or scraps. When we reached Scotland
Yard she was handed over at once to the female searcher. I
waited in an agony of suspense until she came back with her
report. There were no signs of the papers.
"Then for the first time the horror of my situation came in its
full force. Hitherto I had been acting, and action had numbed
thought. I had been so confident of regaining the treaty at once
that I had not dared to think of what would be the consequence if
I failed to do so. But now there was nothing more to be done,
and I had leisure to realize my position. It was horrible. Watson
there would tell you that I was a nervous, sensitive boy at
school. It is my nature. I thought of my uncle and of his
colleagues in the Cabinet, of the shame which I had brought
upon him, upon myself, upon everyone connected with me.
What though I was the victim of an extraordinary accident? No
allowance is made for accidents where diplomatic interests are at
stake. I was ruined, shamefully, hopelessly ruined. I don't know
what I did. I fancy I must have made a scene. I have a dim
recollection of a group of officials who crowded round me,
endeavouring to soothe me. One of them drove down with me to
Waterloo, and saw me into the Woking train. I believe that he
would have come all the way had it not been that Dr. Ferrier,
who lives near me, was going down by that very train. The
doctor most kindly took charge of me, and it was well he did so,
for I had a fit in the station, and before we reached home I was
practically a raving maniac.
"You can imagine the state of things here when they were
roused from their beds by the doctor's ringing and found me in
this condition. Poor Annie here and my mother were broken-
hearted. Dr. Ferrier had just heard enough from the detective at
the station to be able to give an idea of what had happened, and
his story did not mend matters. It was evident to all that I was in
for a long illness, so Joseph was bundled out of this cheery
bedroom, and it was turned into a sickroom for me. Here I have
lain. Mr. Holmes. for over nine weeks, unconscious. and raving
with brain-fever. If it had not been for Miss Harrison here and
for the doctor's care. I should not be speaking to you now. She
has nursed me by day and a hired nurse has looked after me by
night, for in my mad fits I was capable of anything. Slowly my
reason has cleared, but it is only during the last three days that
my memory has quite returned. Sometimes I wish that it never
had. The first thing that I did was to wire to Mr. Forbes, who
had the case in hand. He came out, and assures me that, though
everything has been done, no trace of a clue has been discov-
ered. The commissionaire and his wife have been examined in
every way without any light being thrown upon the matter. The
suspicions of the police then rested upon young Gorot, who, as
you may remember, stayed over-time in the office that night. His
remaining behind and his French name were really the only two
points which could suggest suspicion; but, as a matter of fact, I
did not begin work until he had gone, and his people are of
Huguenot extraction, but as English in sympathy and tradition as
you and I are. Nothing was found to implicate him in any way,
and there the matter dropped. I turn to you, Mr. Holmes, as
absolutely my last hope. If you fail me, then my honour as well
as my position are forever forfeited."
The invalid sank back upon his cushions, tired out by this long
recital, while his nurse poured him out a glass of some stimulat-
ing medicine. Holmes sat silently, with his head thrown back
and his eyes closed, in an attitude which might seem listless to a
stranger, but which I knew betokened the most intense self-
absorption.
"Your statement has been so explicit," said he at last, "that
you have really left me very few questions to ask. There is one
of the very utmost importance, however. Did you tell anyone
that you had this special task to perform?"
"No one."
"Not Miss Harrison here, for example?"
"No. I had not been back to Woking between getting the
order and executing the commission."
"And none of your people had by chance been to see you?"
"None."
"Did any of them know their way about in the office?"
"Oh, yes, all of them had been shown over it."
"Still, of course, if you said nothing to anyone about the
treaty these inquiries are irrelevant."
"I said nothing."
"Do you know anything of the commissionaire?"
"Nothing cxcept that he is an old soldier."
"What regiment?"
"Oh, I have heard -- Goldstream Guards."
"Thank you. I have no doubt I can get details from Forbes.
The authorities are excellent at amassing facts, though they do
not always use them to advantage. What a lovely thing a rose
is!"
He walked past the couch to the open window and held up the
drooping stalk of a moss-rose, looking down at the dainty blend
of crimson and green. It was a new phase of his character to me,
for I had never before seen him show any keen interest in natural
objects.
"There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as in
religion," said he, leaning with his back against the shutters. "It
can be built up as an exact science by the reasoner. Our highest
assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in
the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food,
are all really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But
this rose is an extra. Its smell and its colour are an embellish-
ment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which
gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from
the flowers."
Percy Phelps and his nurse looked at Holmes during this
demonstration with surprise and a good deal of disappointment
written upon their faces. He had fallen into a reverie, with the
moss-rose between his fingers. It had lasted some minutes before
the young lady broke in upon it.
"Do you see any prospect of solving this mystery, Mr.
Holmes?" she asked with a touch of asperity in her voice.
"Oh, the mystery!" he answered, coming back with a start to
the realities of life. "Well, it would be absurd to deny that the
case is a very abstruse and complicated one, but I can promise
you that I will look into the matter and let you know any points
which may strike me."
"Do you see any clue?"
"You have furnished me with seven, but of course I must test
them before I can pronounce upon their value."
"You suspect someone?"
"I suspect myself."
"What!"
"Of coming to conclusions too rapidly."
"Then go to London and test your conclusions."
"Your advice is very excellent. Miss Harrison." said Holmcs
rising. "I think, Watson, we cannot do better. Do not allow
yourself to indulge in false hopes, Mr. Phelps. The affair is a
very tangled one."
"I shall be in a fever until I see you again," cried the
diplomatist .
"Well, I'll come out by the same train to-morrow, though it's
more than likely that my report will be a negative one."
"God bless you for promising to come," cried our client. "It
gives me fresh life to know that something is being done. By the
way, I have had a letter from Lord Holdhurst."
"Ha! what did he say?"
"He was cold, but not harsh, I dare say my severe illness
prevented him from being that. He repeated that the matter was
of the utmost importance, and added that no steps would be
taken about my future -- by which he means, of course, my
dismissal -- until my health was restored and I had an opportunity
of repairing my misfortune."
"Well, that was reasonable and considerate," said Holmes.
"Come, Watson, for we have a good day's work before us in
town."
Mr. Joseph Harrison drove us down to the station, and we
were soon whirling up in a Portsmouth train. Holmes was sunk
in profound thought and hardly opened his mouth until we had
passed Clapham Junction.
"It's a very cheery thing to come into London by any of these
lines which run high and allow you to look down upon the
houses like this."
I thought he was joking, for the view was sordid enough, but
he soon explained himself.
"Look at those big, isolated clumps of buildings rising up
above the slates, like brick islands in a lead-coloured sea."
"The board-schools."
"Light-houses, my boy! Beacons of the future! Capsules with
hundreds of bright little seeds in each. out of which will spring
the wiser, better England of the future. I suppose that man
Phelps does not drink?"
"I should not think so."
"Nor should I, but we are bound to take every possibility into
account. The poor devil has certainly got himself into very deep
water, and it's a question whether we shall ever be able to get
him ashore. What do you think of Miss Harrison?"
"A girl of strong character."
"Yes. but she is a good sort, or I am mistaken. She and her
brother are the only children of an iron-master somewhere up
Northumberland way. He got engaged to her when travelling last
winter, and she came down to be introduced to his people, with
her brother as escort. Then came the smash, and she stayed on to
nurse her lover, while brother Joseph, finding himself pretty
snug, stayed on, too. I've been making a few independent
inquiries, you see. But to-day must be a day of inquiries."
"My practice --" I began.
"Oh, if you find your own cases more interesting than
mine --" said Holmes with some asperity.
"I was going to say that my practice could get along very well
for a day or two, since it is the slackest time in the year."
"Excellent," said he, recovering his good-humour. "Then
we'll look into this matter together. I think that we should begin
by seeing Forbes. He can probably tell us all the details we want
until we know from what side the case is to be approached."
"You said you had a clue?"
"Well, we have several, but we can only test their value by
further inquiry. The most difficult crime to track is the one
which is purposeless. Now this is not purposeless. Who is it who
profits by it? There is the French ambassador, there is the
Russian, there is whoever might sell it to either of these, and
there is Lord Holdhurst."
"Lord Holdhurst!"
"Well, it is just conceivable that a statesman might find
himself in a position where he was not sorry to have such a
document accidentally destroyed."
"Not a statesman with the honourable record of Lord Hold-
hurst?"
"It is a possibility and we cannot afford to disregard it. We
shall see the noble lord to-day and find out if he can tell us
anything. Meanwhile I have already set inquiries on foot."
"Already?"
"Yes, I sent wires from Woking station to every evening
paper in London. This advertisement will appear in each of
them."
He handed over a sheet torn from a notebook. On it was
scribbled in pencil:
10 pounds reward. The number of the cab which dropped a fare
at or about the door of the Foreign Office in Charles Street
at quarter to ten in the evening of May 23d. Apply 22lB,
Baker Street.
"You are confident that the thief came in a cab?"
"If not, there is no harm done. But if Mr. Phelps is correct in
stating that there is no hiding-place either in the room or the
corridors, then the person must have come from outside. If he
came from outside on so wet a night, and yet left no trace of
damp upon the linoleum, which was examined within a few
minutes of his passing, then it is exceedingly probable that he
came in a cab. Yes, I think that we may safely deduce a cab."
"It sounds plausible."
"That is one of the clues of which I spoke. It may lead us to
something. And then, of course, there is the bell -- which is the
most distinctive feature of the case. Why should the bell ring?
Was it the thief who did it out of bravado? Or was it someone
who was with the thief who did it in order to prevent the crime?
Or was it an accident? Or was it --?" He sank back into the state
of intense and silent thought from which he had emerged; but it
seemed to me, accustomed as I was to his every mood, that some
new possibility had dawned suddenly upon him.
It was twenty past three when we reached our terminus, and after
a hasty luncheon at the buffet we pushed on at once to Scotland
Yard. Holmes had already wired to Forbes, and we found him
waiting to receive us -- a small, foxy man with a sharp but by no
means amiable expression. He was decidedly frigid in his man-
ner to us, especially when he heard the errand upon which we
had come.
"I've heard of your methods before now, Mr. Holmes," said
he tartly. "You are ready enough to use all the information that
the police can lay at your disposal, and then you try to finish the
case yourself and bring discredit on them."
"On the contrary," said Holmes, "out of my last fifty-three
cases my name has only appeared in four, and the police have
had all the credit in forty-nine. I don't blame you for not
knowing this, for you are young and inexperienced, but if you
wish to get on in your new duties you will work with me and not
against me."
"I'd be very glad of a hint or two," said the detective,
changing his manner. "I've certainly had no credit from the case
so far."
"What steps have you taken?"
"Tangey, the commissionaire, has been shadowed. He left the
Guards with a good character, and we can find nothing against
him. His wife is a bad lot, though. I fancy she knows more about
this than appears."
"Have you shadowed her?"
"We have set one of our women on to her. Mrs. Tangey
drinks. and our woman has been with her twice when she was
well on, but she could get nothing out of her."
"I understand that they have had brokers in the house?"
"Yes, but they were paid off."
"Where did the money come from?"
"That was all right. His pension was due. They have not
shown any sign of being in funds."
"What explanation did she give of having answered the bell
when Mr. Phelps rang for the coffee?"
"She said that her husband was very tired and she wished to
relieve him."
"Well, certainly that would agree with his being found a little
later asleep in his chair. There is nothing against them then but
the woman's character. Did you ask her why she hurried away
that night? Her haste attracted the attention of the police constable."
"She was later than usual and wanted to get home."
"Did you point out to her that you and Mr. Phelps, who
started at least twenty minutes after her, got home before her?"
"She explains that by the difference between a bus and a
hansom."
"Did she make it clear why, on reaching her house, she ran
into the back kitchen?"
"Because she had the money there with which to pay off the
brokers."
"She has at least an answer for everything. Did you ask her
whether in leaving she met anyone or saw anyone loitering about
Charles Street?"
"She saw no one but the constable."
"Well, you seem to have cross-examined her pretty thor-
oughly. What else have you done?"
"The clerk Gorot has been shadowed all these nine weeks, but
without result. We can show nothing against him."
"Anything else?"
"Well, we have nothing else to go upon -- no evidence of any
kind."
"Have you formed any theory about how that bell rang?"
"Well, I must confess that it beats me. It was a cool hand
whoever it was, to go and give the alarm like that."
"Yes, it was a queer thing to do. Many thanks to you for what
you have told me. If I can put the man into your hands you shall
hear from me. Come along. Watson."
"Where are we going to now?" I asked as we left the office.
"We are now going to interview Lord Holdhurst, the cabinet
minister and future premier of England."
We were fortunate in finding that Lord Holdhurst was still in
his chambers in Downing Street, and on Holmes sending in his
card we were instantly shown up. The statesman received us
with that old-fashioned courtesy for which he is remarkable and
seated us on the two luxuriant lounges on either side of the
fireplace. Standing on the rug between us, with his slight, tall
figure, his sharp features, thoughtful face, and curling hair
prematurely tinged with gray, he seemed to represent that not
too common type, a nobleman who is in truth noble
"Your name is very familiar to me, Mr. Holmes," said he,
smiling. "And of course I cannot pretend to be ignorant of the
object of your visit. There has only been one occurrence in these
offices which could call for your attention. In whose interest are
you acting, may I ask?"
"In that of Mr. Percy Phelps," answered Holmes
"Ah, my unfortunate nephew! You can understand that our
kinship makes it the more impossible for me to screen him in any
way. I fear that the incident must have a very prejudicial effect
upon his career."
"But if the document is found?"
"Ah, that, of course, would be different."
"I had one or two questions which I wished to ask you, Lord
Holdhurst."
"I shall be happy to give you any information in my power."
"Was it in this room that you gave your instructions as to the
copying of the document?"
"It was."
"Then you could hardly have been overheard?"
"It is out of the question."
"Did you ever mention to anyone that it was your intention to
give anyone the treaty to be copied?"
"Never."
"You are certain of that?"
"Absolutely."
"Well, since you never said so, and Mr. Phelps never said so,
and nobody else knew anything of the matter, then the thief's
presence in the room was purely accidental. He saw his chance
and he took it."
The statesman smiled. "You take me out of my province
there," said he.
Holmes considered for a moment. "There is another very
important point which I wish to discuss with you," said he.
"You feared, as I understand, that very grave results might
follow from the details of this treaty becoming known."
A shadow passed over the expressive face of the statesman.
"Very grave results indeed."
"And have they occurred?"
"Not yet."
"If the treaty had reached, let us say, the French or Russian
Foreign Office, you would expect to hear of it?"
"I should," said Lord Holdhurst with a wry face.
"Since nearly ten weeks have elapsed, then, and nothing has
been heard, it is not unfair to suppose that for some reason the
treaty has not reached them."
Lord Holdhurst shrugged his shoulders.
"We can hardly suppose, Mr. Holmes, that the thief took the
treaty in order to frame it and hang it up."
"Perhaps he is waiting for a better price."
"If he waits a little longer he will get no price at all. The
treaty will cease to be secret in a few months."
"That is most important," said Holmes. "Of course, it is a
possible supposition that the thief has had a sudden illness --"
"An attack of brain-fever, for example?" asked the states-
man, flashing a swift glance at him.
"I did not say so," said Holmes imperturbably. "And now
Lord Holdhurst, we have already taken up too much of your
valuable time, and we shall wish you good-day."
"Every success to your investigation, be the criminal who it
may," answered the nobleman as he bowed us out at the door.
"He's a fine fellow," said Holmes as we came out into
Whitehall. "But he has a struggle to keep up his position. He is
far from rich and has many calls. You noticed, of course, that
his boots had been resoled. Now, Watson, I won't detain you
from your legitimate work any longer. I shall do nothing more
to-day unless I have an answer to my cab advertisement. But I
should be extremely obliged to you if you would come down
with me to Woking to-morrow by the same train which we took
yesterday."
* * *
I met him accordingly next morning and we travelled down to
Woking together. He had had no answer to his advertisement, he
said, and no fresh light had been thrown upon the case. He had,
when he so willed it, the utter immobility of countenance of a
red Indian, and I could not gather from his appearance whether
he was satisfied or not with the position of the case. His conver-
sation, I remember, was about the Bertillon system of measure-
ments, and he expressed his enthusiastic admiration of the French
savant.
We found our client still under the charge of his devoted
nurse, but looking considerably better than before. He rose from
the sofa and greeted us without difficulty when we entered.
"Any news?" he asked eagerly.
"My report, as I expected, is a negative one," said Holmes.
"I have seen Forbes, and I have seen your uncle, and I have set
one or two trains of inquiry upon foot which may lead to
something."
"You have not lost heart, then?"
"By no means."
"God bless you for saying that!" cried Miss Harrison. "If we
keep our courage and our patience the truth must come out."
"We have more to tell you than you have for us," said
Phelps, reseating himself upon the couch.
"I hoped you might have something."
"Yes, we have had an adventure during the night, and one
which might have proved to be a serious one." His expression
grew very grave as he spoke, and a look of something akin to
fear sprang up in his eyes. "Do you know," said he, "that I
begin to believe that I am the unconscious centre of some
monstrous conspiracy, and that my life is aimed at as well as my
honour?"
"Ah!" cried Holmes.
"It sounds incredible, for I have not, as far as I know, an
enemy in the world. Yet from last night's experience I can come
to no other conclusion."
"Pray let me hear it."
"You must know that last night was the very first night that I
have ever slept without a nurse in the room. I was so much better
that I thought I could dispense with one. I had a night-light
burning, however. Well, about two in the morning I had sunk
into a light sleep when I was suddenly aroused by a slight noise.
It was like the sound which a mouse makes when it is gnawing a
plank, and I lay listening to it for some time under the impres-
sion that it must come from that cause. Then it grew louder, and
suddenly there came from the window a sharp metallic snick. I
sat up in amazement. There could be no doubt what the sounds
were now. The first ones had been caused by someone forcing an
instrument through the slit between the sashes and the second by
the catch being pressed back.
"There was a pause then for about ten minutes, as if the
person were waiting to see whether the noise had awakened me.
Then I heard a gentle creaking as the window was very slowly
opened. I could stand it no longer, for my nerves are not what
they used to be. I sprang out of bed and flung open the shutters.
A man was crouching at the window. I could see llttle of him,
for he was gone like a flash. He was wrapped in some sort of
cloak which came across the lower part of his face. One thing
only I am sure of, and that is that he had some weapon in his
hand. It looked to me like a long knife. I distinctly saw the
gleam of it as he turned to run."
"This is most interesting," said Holmes. "Pray what did you
do then?"
"I should have followed him through the open window if I
had been stronger. As it was, I rang the bell and roused the
house. It took some little time, for the bell rings in the kitchen
and the servants all sleep upstairs. I shouted, however, and that
brought Joseph down, and he roused the others. Joseph and the
groom found marks on the bed outside the window, but the
weather has been so dry lately that they found it hopeless to
follow the trail across the grass. There's a place, however, on
the wooden fence which skirts the road which shows signs, they
tell me, as if someone had got over, and had snapped the top of
the rail in doing so. I have said nothing to the local police yet,
for I thought I had best have your opinion first."
This tale of our client's appeared to have an extraordinary
effect upon Sherlock Holmes. He rose from his chair and paced
about the room in uncontrollable excitement.
"Misfortunes never come single," said Phelps, smiling, though
it was evident that his adventure had somewhat shaken him.
"You have certainly had your share," said Holmes. "Do you
think you could walk round the house with me?"
"Oh, yes, I should like a little sunshine. Joseph will come,
too."
"And I also," said Miss Harrison.
"I am afraid not," said Holmes, shaking his head. "I think I
must ask you to remain sitting exactly where you are."
The young lady resumed her seat with an air of displeasure.
Her brother, however, had joined us and we set off all four
together. We passed round the lawn to the outside of the young
diplomatist's window. Thcre were, as he had said, marks upon
the bed, but they were hopelessly blurred and vague. Holmes
stooped over them for an instant, and then rose shrugging his
shoulders.
"I don't think anyone could make much of this," said he.
"Let us go round the house and see why this particular room was
chosen by the burglar. I should have thought those larger win-
dows of the drawing-room and dining-room would have had
more attractions for him."
"They are more visible from the road," suggested Mr. Joseph
Harrison.
"Ah, yes, of course. There is a door here which he might
have attempted. What is it for?"
"It is the side entrance for trades-people. Of course it is
locked at night."
"Have you ever had an alarm like this before?"
"Never," said our client.
"Do you keep plate in the house, or anything to attract
burglars?"
"Nothing of value."
Holmes strolled round the house with his hands in his pockets
and a negligent air which was unusual with him.
"By the way," said he to Joseph Harrison, "you found some
place, I understand, where the fellow scaled the fence. Let us
have a look at that!"
The plump young man led us to a spot where the top of one of
the wooden rails had been cracked. A small fragment of the
wood was hanging down. Holmes pulled it off and examined it
critically.
"Do you think that was done last night? It looks rather old,
does it not?"
"Well, possibly so."
"There are no marks of anyone jumping down upon the other
side. No, I fancy we shall get no help here. Let us go back to the
bedroom and talk the matter over."
Percy Phelps was walking very slowly, leaning upon the arm
of his future brother-in-law. Holmes walked swiftly across the
lawn, and we were at the open window of the bedroom long
before the others came up.
"Miss Harrison," said Holmes, speaking with the utmost
intensity of manner, you must stay where you are all day. Let
nothing prevent you from staying where you are all day. It is of
the utmost importance."
"Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Holmes," said the girl in
astonishment .
"When you go to bed lock the door of this room on the
outside and keep the key. Promise to do this."
"But Percy?"
"He will come to London with us."
"And am I to remain here?"
"It is for his sake. You can serve him. Quick! Promise!"
She gave a quick nod of assent just as the other two came up.
"Why do you sit moping there, Annie?" cried her brother.
"Come out into the sunshine!"
"No, thank you, Joseph. I have a slight headache and this
room is deliciously cool and soothing."
"What do you propose now, Mr. Holmes?" asked our client.
"Well, in investigating this minor affair we must not lose
sight of our main inquiry. It would be a very great help to me if
you would come up to London with us."
"At once?"
"Well, as soon as you conveniently can. Say in an hour."
"I feel quite strong enough, if I can really be of any help."
"The greatest possible."
"Perhaps you would like me to stay there to-night?"
"I was just going to propose it."
"Then, if my friend of the night comes to revisit me, he will
find the bird flown. We are all in your hands, Mr. Holmes, and
you must tell us exactly what you would like done. Perhaps you
would prefer that Joseph came with us so as to look after me?"
"Oh, no, my friend Watson is a medical man, you know, and
he'll look after you. We'll have our lunch here, if you will
permit us, and then we shall all three set off for town together."
It was arranged as he suggested. though Miss Harrison ex-
cused herself from leaving the bedroom, in accordance with
Holmes's suggestion. What the object of my friend's manoeu-
vres was I could not conceive, unless it were to keep the lady
away from Phelps, who, rejoiced by his returning health and by
the prospect of action, lunched with us in the dining-room.
Holmes had a still more startling surprise for us, however, for,
after accompanying us down to the station and seeing us into our
carriage, he calmly announced that he had no intention of leav-
ing Woking.
"There are one or two small points which I should desire to
clear up before I go," said he. "Your absence, Mr. Phelps, will
in some ways rather assist me. Watson, when you reach London
you would oblige me by driving at once to Baker Street with our
friend here, and remaining with him until I see you again. It is
fortunate that you are old school-fellows, as you must have much
to talk over. Mr. Phelps can have the spare bedroom to-night,
and I will be with you in time for breakfast, for there is a train
which will take me into Waterloo at eight."
"But how about our investigation in London?" asked Phelps
ruefully.
"We can do that to-morrow. I think that just at present I can
be of more immediate use here."
"You might tell them at Briarbrae that I hope to be back
to-morrow night," cried Phelps, as we began to move from the
platform.
"I hardly expect to go back to Briarbrae," answered Holmes,
and waved his hand to us cheerily as we shot out from the
station.
Phelps and I talked it over on our journey, but neither of us
could devise a satisfactory reason for this new development.
"I suppose he wants to find out some clues as to the burglary
last night, if a burglar it was. For myself, I don't believe it was
an ordinary thief."
"What is your own idea, then?"
"Upon my word, you may put it down to my weak nerves or
not, but I believe there is some deep political intrigue going on
around me, and that for some reason that passes my understand-
ing my life is aimed at by the conspirators. It sounds high-flown
and absurd, but consider the facts! Why should a thief try to
break in at a bedroom window where there could be no hope of
any plunder, and why should he come with a long knife in his
hand?"
"You are sure it was not a house-breaker's jimmy?"
"Oh, no, it was a knife. I saw the flash of the blade quite
distinctly."
"But why on earth should you be pursued with such animosity?"
"Ah, that is the question."
"Well, if Holmes takes the same view, that would account for
his action, would it not? Presuming that your theory is correct, if
he can lay his hands upon the man who threatened you last night
he will have gone a long way towards finding who took the naval
treaty. It is absurd to suppose that you have two enemies, one of
whom robs you, while the other threatens your life."
"But Holmes said that he was not going to Briarbrae."
"I have known him for some time," said I, "but I never knew
him do anything yet without a very good reason," and with that
our conversation drifted off on to other topics.
But it was a weary day for me. Phelps was still weak after his
long illness, and his misfortunes made him querulous and ner-
vous. In vain I endeavoured to interest him in Afghanistan, in
India, in social questions, in anything which might take his mind
out of the groove. He would always come back to his lost treaty,
wondering, guessing, speculating as to what Holmes was doing,
what steps Lord Holdhurst was taking, what news we should
have in the morning. As the evening wore on his excitement
became quite painful.
"You have implicit faith in Holmes?" he asked.
"I have seen him do some remarkable things."
"But he never brought light into anything quite so dark as
this?"
"Oh, yes, I have known him solve questions which presented
fewer clues than yours."
"But not where such large interests are at stake?"
"I don't know that. To my certain knowledge he has acted on
behalf of three of the reigning houses of Europe in very vital
matters."
"But you know him well, Watson. He is such an inscrutable
fellow that I never quite know what to make of him. Do you
think he is hopeful? Do you think he expects to make a success
of it?"
"He has said nothing."
"That is a bad sign."
"On the contrary. I have noticed that when he is off the trail
he generally says so. It is when he is on a scent and is not quite
absolutely sure yet that it is the right one that he is most taciturn.
Now, my dear fellow, we can't help matters by making our-
selves nervous about them, so let me implore you to go to bed
and so be fresh for whatever may await us to-morrow."
I was able at last to persuade my companion to take my
advice, though I knew from his excited manner that there was
not much hope of sleep for him. Indeed, his mood was infectious
for I lay tossing half the night myself, brooding over this strange
problem and inventing a hundred theories, each of which was
more impossible than the last. Why had Holmes remained at
Woking? Why had he asked Miss Harrison to remain in the
sick-room all day? Why had he been so careful not to inform the
people at Briarbrae that he intended to remain near them? I
cudgelled my brains until I fell asleep in the endeavour to find
some explanation which would cover all these facts.
It was seven o'clock when I awoke, and I set off at once for
Phelps's room to find him haggard and spent after a sleepless
night. His first question was whether Holmes had arrived yet.
"He'll be here when he promised," said I, "and not an
instant sooner or later."
And my words were true, for shortly after eight a hansom
dashed up to the door and our friend got out of it. Standing in the
window we saw that his left hand was swathed in a bandage and
that his face was very grim and pale. He entered the house, but it
was some little time before he came upstairs.
"He looks like a beaten man," cried Phelps.
I was forced to confess that he was right. "After all," said I,
"the clue of the matter lies probably here in town."
Phelps gave a groan.
"I don't know how it is," said he, "but I had hoped for so
much from his return. But surely his hand was not tied up like
that yesterday. What can be the matter?"
"You are not wounded, Holmes?" I asked as my friend
entered the room.
"Tut, it is only a scratch through my own clumsiness," he
answered, nodding his good-morning to us. "This case of yours,
Mr. Phelps, is certainly one of the darkest which I have ever
investigated."
"I feared that you would find it beyond you."
"It has been a most remarkable experience."
"That bandage tells of adventures," said I. "Won't you tell
us what has happened?"
"After breakfast, my dear Watson. Remember that I have
breathed thirty miles of Surrey air this morning. I suppose that
there has been no answer from my cabman advertisement? Well,
well, we cannot expect to score every time."
The table was all laid, and just as I was about to ring Mrs.
Hudson entered with the tea and coffee. A few minutes later she
brought in three covers, and we all drew up to the table, Holmes
ravenous, I curious, and Phelps in the gloomiest state of depression.
"Mrs. Hudson has risen to the occasion," said Holmes, un-
covering a dish of curried chicken. "Her cuisine is a little
limited, but she has as good an idea of breakfast as a Scotchwoman.
What have you there, Watson?"
"Ham and eggs," I answered.
"Good! What are you going to take, Mr. Phelps -- curried
fowl or eggs, or will you help yourself?"
"Thank you. I can eat nothing," said Phelps.
"Oh, come! Try the dish before you."
"Thank you, I would really rather not."
"Well, then," said Holmes with a mischievous twinkle, "I
suppose that you have no objection to helping me?"
Phelps raised the cover, and as he did so he uttered a scream
and sat there staring with a face as white as the plate upon which
he looked. Across the centre of it was lying a little cylinder of
blue-gray paper. He caught it up, devoured it with his eyes, and
then danced madly about the room, pressing it to his bosom and
shrieking out in his delight. Then he fell back into an armchair,
so limp and exhausted with his own emotions that we had to
pour brandy down his throat to keep him from fainting.
"There! there!" said Holmes soothingly, patting him upon the
shoulder. "It was too bad to spring it on you like this, but
Watson here will tell you that I never can resist a touch of the
dramatic."
Phelps seized his hand and kissed it. "God bless you!" he
cried. "You have saved my honour."
"Well, my own was at stake, you know," said Holmes. "I
assure you it is just as hateful to me to fail in a case as it can be
to you to blunder over a commission."
Phelps thrust away the precious document into the innermost
pocket of his coat.
"I have not the heart to interrupt your breakfast any further,
and yet I am dying to know how you got it and where it was."
Sherlock Holmes swallowed a cup of coffee and turned his
attention to the ham and eggs. Then he rose, lit his pipe, and
settled himself down into his chair.
"I'll tell you what I did first, and how I came to do it
afterwards," said he. "After leaving you at the station I went for
a charming walk through some admirable Surrey scenery to a
pretty little village called Ripley, where I had my tea at an inn
and took the precaution of filling my flask and of putting a paper
of sandwiches in my pocket. There I remained until evening,
when I set off for Woking again and found myself in the
highroad outside Briarbrae just after sunset.
"Well, I waited until thc road was clear -- it is never a very
frequented one at any time, I fancy -- and then I clambered over
the fence into the grounds."
"Surely the gate was open!" ejaculated Phelps.
"Yes, but I have a peculiar taste in these matters. I chose the
place where the three fir-trees stand, and behind their screen I
got over without the least chance of anyone in the house being
able to see me. I crouched down among the bushes on the other
side and crawled from one to the other -- witness the disreputable
state of my trouser knees -- until I had reached the clump of
rhododendrons just opposite to your bedroom window. There I
squatted down and awaited developments.
"The blind was not down in your room, and I could see Miss
Harrison sitting there reading by the table. It was quarter-past ten
when she closed her book, fastened the shutters, and retired.
"I heard her shut the door and felt quite sure that she had
turned the key in the lock."
"The key!" ejaculated Phelps.
"Yes, I had given Miss Harrison instructions to lock the door
on the outside and take the key with her when she went to bed.
She carried out every one of my injunctions to the letter, and
certainly without her cooperation you would not have that paper
in your coat-pocket. She departed then and the lights went out
and I was left squatting in the rhododendron-bush.
"The night was fine, but still it was a very weary vigil. Of
course it has the sort of excitement about it that the sportsman
feels when he lies beside the watercourse and waits for the big
game. It was very long, though -- almost as long, Watson, as
when you and I waited in that deadly room when we looked
into the little problem of the Speckled Band. There was a
church-clock down at Woking which struck the quarters, and I
thought more than once that it had stopped. At last, however,
about two in the morning, I suddenly heard the gentle sound of a
bolt being pushed back and the creaking of a key. A moment
later the servants door was opened, and Mr. Joseph Harrison
stepped out into the moonlight."
"Joseph!" ejaculated Phelps.
"He was bare-headed, but he had a black cloak thrown over
his shoulder, so that he could conceal his face in an instant if
there were any alarm. He walked on tiptoe under the shadow of
the wall, and when he reached the window he worked a long-
bladed knife through the sash and pushed back the catch. Then
he flung open the window, and putting his knife through the
crack in the shutters, he thrust the bar up and swung them open.
"From where I lay I had a perfect view of the inside of the
room and of every one of his movements. He lit the two candles
which stood upon the mantelpiece, and then he proceeded to turn
back the corner of the carpet in the neighbourhood of the door.
Presently he stooped and picked out a square piece of board,
such as is usually left to enable plumbers to get at the joints of
the gas-pipes. This one covered, as a matter of fact, the T joint
which gives off the pipe which supplies the kitchen underneath.
Out of this hiding-place he drew that little cylinder of paper,
pushed down the board, rearranged the carpet, blew out the
candles, and walked straight into my arms as I stood waiting for
him outside the window.
"Well, he has rather more viciousness than I gave him credit
for, has Master Joseph. He flew at me with his knife, and I had
to grasp him twice, and got a cut over the knuckles, before I had
the upper hand of him. He looked murder out of the only eye he
could see with when we had finished, but he listened to reason
and gave up the papers. Having got them I let my man go, but I
wired full particulars to Forbes this morning. If he is quick
enough to catch his bird, well and good. But if, as I shrewdly
suspect, he finds the nest empty before he gets there, why, all
the better for the government. I fancy that Lord Holdhurst, for
one, and Mr. Percy Phelps for another, would very much rather
that the affair never got as far as a police-court."
"My God!" gasped our client. "Do you tell me that during
these long ten weeks of agony the stolen papers were within the
very room with me all the time?"
"So it was."
"And Joseph! Joseph a villain and a thief!"
"Hum! I am afraid Joseph's character is a rather deeper and
more dangerous one than one might judge from his appearance.
From what I have heard from him this morning, I gather that he
has lost heavily in dabbling with stocks, and that he is ready to
do anything on earth to better his fortunes. Being an absolutely
selfish man, when a chance presents itself he did not allow either
his sister's happiness or your reputation to hold his hand."
Percy Phelps sank back in his chair. "My head whirls," said
he. "Your words have dazed me."
"The principal difficulty in your case," remarked Holmes in
his didactic fashion, "lay in the fact of there being too much
evidence. What was vital was overlaid and hidden by what was
irrelevant. Of all the facts which were presented to us we had to
pick just those which we deemed to be essential, and then piece
them together in their order, so as to reconstruct this very
remarkable chain of events. I had already begun to suspect
Joseph from the fact that you had intended to travel home with
him that night, and that therefore it was a likely enough thing
that he should call for you, knowing the Foreign Office well,
upon his way. When I heard that someone had been so anxious
to get into the bedroom, in which no one but Joseph could have
concealed anything -- you told us in your narrative how you had
turned Joseph out when you arrived with the doctor -- my suspi-
cions all changed to certainties, especially as the attempt was
made on the first night upon which the nurse was absent, show-
ing that the intruder was well acquainted with the ways of the
house."
"How blind I have been!"
"The facts of the case, as far as I have worked them out, are
these: This Joseph Harrison entered the office through the Charles
Street door, and knowing his way he walked straight into your
room the instant after you left it. Finding no one there he
promptly rang the bell, and at the instant that he did so his eyes
caught the paper upon the table. A glance showed him that
chance had put in his way a State document of immense value,
and in an instant he had thrust it into his pocket and was gone. A
few minutes elapsed, as you remember, before the sleepy com-
missionaire drew your attention to the bell, and those were just
enough to give the thief time to make his escape.
"He made his way to Woking by the first train, and, having
examined his booty and assured himself that it really was of
immense value, he had concealed it in what he thought was a
very safe place, with the intention of taking it out again in a day
or two, and carrying it to the French embassy, or wherever he
thought that a long price was to be had. Then came your sudden
return. He, without a moment's warning, was bundled out of his
room, and from that time onward there were always at least two
of you there to prevent him from regaining his treasure. The
situation to him must have been a maddening one. But at last he
thought he saw his chance. He tried to steal in, but was baffled
by your wakefulness. You may remember that you did not take
your usual draught that night."
"I remember."
"I fancy that he had taken steps to make that draught effica-
cious, and that he quite relied upon your being unconscious. Of
course, I understood that he would repeat the attempt whenever
it could be done with safety. Your leaving the room gave him the
chance he wanted. I kept Miss Harrison in it all day so that he
might not anticipate us. Then, having given him the idea that the
coast was clear, I kept guard as I have described. I already knew
that the papers were probably in the room, but I had no desire to
rip up all the planking and skirting in search of them. I let him
take them, therefore, from the hiding-place, and so saved myself
an infinity of trouble. Is there any other point which I can make
clear?"
"Why did he try the window on the first occasion," I asked,
"when he might have entered by the door?"
"In reaching the door he would have to pass seven bedrooms.
On the other hand, he could get out on to the lawn, with ease,
Anyt!ling else?"
"You do not think," asked Phelps, "that he had any murder-
ous intention? The knife was only meant as a tool."
"li may be so," answered Holmes, shrugging his shoulders.
"I can only say for certain that Mr. Joseph Harrison is a gentle-
man to whose mercy I should be extremely unwilling to trust."
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