The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor

The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have

long ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles in

which the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have

eclipsed it, and their more piquant details have drawn the gossips

away from this four-year-old drama. As I have reason to believe,

however, that the full facts have never been revealed to the

general public, and as my friend Sherlock Holmes had a consid-

erable share in clearing the matter up, I feel that no memoir of

him would be complete without some little sketch of this remark-

able episode.

It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days

when I was still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that

he came home from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the

table waiting for him. I had remained indoors all day, for the

weather had taken a sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal

winds, and the Jezail bullet which I had brought back in one of

my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign throbbed with dull

persistence. With my body in one easy-chair and my legs upon

another, I had surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers

until at last, saturated with the news of the day, I tossed them all

aside and lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram

upon the envelope upon the table and wondering lazily who my

friend's noble correspondent could be.

"Here is a very fashionable epistle," I remarked as he en-

tered. "Your morning letters, if I remember right, were from a

fish-monger and a tide-waiter."

"Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety,"

he answered, smiling, "and the humbler are usually the more

interesting. This looks like one of those unwelcome social sum-

monses which call upon a man either to be bored or to lie."

He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.

"Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after

all."

"Not social, then?"

"No, distinctly professional."

"And from a noble client?"

"One of the highest in England."

"My dear fellow. I congratulate you."

"I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of

my client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of

his case. It is just possible, however, that that also may not be

wanting in this new investigation. You have been reading the

papers diligently of late, have you not?"

"It looks like it," said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in

the corner. "I have had nothing else to do."

"It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I

read nothing except the criminal news and the agony column.

The latter is always instructive. But if you have followed recent

events so closely you must have read about Lord St. Simon and

his wedding?"

"Oh, yes, with the deepest interest."

"That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from

Lord St. Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn

over these papers and let me have whatever bears upon the

matter. This is what he says:

 

MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES:

"Lord Backwater tells me that I may place implicit reliance

upon your judgment and discretion. I have determined,

therefore, to call upon you and to consult you in reference

to the very painful event which has occurred in connection

with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is acting

already in the matter, but he assures me that he sees no

objection to your cooperation, and that he even thinks that it

might be of some assistance. I will call at four o'clock in

the afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement

at that time, I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter

is of paramount importance.

"Yours faithfully,

"ST. SIMON.

"It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill

pen, and the noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of

ink upon the outer side of his right little finger," remarked

Holmes as he folded up the epistle.

"He says four o'clock. It is three now. He will be here in an

hour."

"Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon

the subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in

their order of time, while I take a glance as to who our client

is." He picked a red-covered volume from a line of books of

reference beside the mantelpiece. "Here he is," said he, sitting

down and flattening it out upon his knee. "Lord Robert

Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second son of the Duke of

Balmoral. Hum! Arms: Azure, three caltrops in chief over a fess

sable. Born in 1846. He's forty-one years of age, which is

mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a

late administration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secre-

tary for Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct

descent, and Tudor on the distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing

very instructive in all this. I think that I must turn to you

Watson, for something more solid."

"I have very little difficulty in finding what I want," said I,

"for the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as

remarkable. I feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew

that you had an inquiry on hand and that you disliked the

intrusion of other matters."

"Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square

furniture van. That is quite cleared up now -- though, indeed, it

was obvious from the first. Pray give me the results of your

newspaper selections."

"Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal

column of the Morning Post, and dates, as you see, some weeks

back:

 

"A marriage has been arranged [it says] and will, if rumour

is correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St.

Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty

Doran, the only daughter of Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San

Francisco, Cal., U. S. A.

 

That is all."

"Terse and to the point," remarked Holmes, stretching his

long, thin legs towards the fire.

"There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society

papers of the same week. Ah, here it is:

 

"There will soon be a call for protection in the marriage

market, for the present free-trade principle appears to tell

heavily against our home product. One by one the manage-

ment of the noble houses of Great Britain is passing into the

hands of our fair cousins from across the Atlantic. An

important addition has been made during the last week to

the list of the prizes which have been borne away by these

charming invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown himself

for over twenty years proof against the little god's arrows,

has now definitely announced his approaching marriage with

Miss Hatty Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California

millionaire. Miss Doran, whose graceful figure and striking

face attracted much attention at the Westbury House festivi-

ties, is an only child, and it is currently reported that her

dowry will run to considerably over the six figures, with

expectancies for the future. As it is an open secret that the

Duke of Balmoral has been compelled to sell his pictures within

the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon has no property of

his own save the small estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious

that the Californian heiress is not the only gainer by an

alliance which will enable her to make the easy and com-

mon transition from a Republican lady to a British peeress."

 

"Anything else?" asked Holmes, yawning.

"Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the Morning

Post to say that the mariage would be an absolutely quiet one,

that it would be at St. George's, Hanover Square, that only half

a dozen intimate friends would be invited, and that the party

would return to the furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has

been taken by Mr. Aloysius Doran. Two days later -- that is, on

Wednesday last -- there is a curt announcement that the wedding

had taken place, and that the honeymoon would be passed at

Lord Backwater's place, near Petersfield. Those are all the no-

tices which appeared before the disappearance of the bride."

"Before the what?" asked Holmes with a start.

"The vanishing of the lady."

"When did she vanish, then?"

"At the wedding breakfast."

"Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite

dramatic, in fact."

"Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common."

"They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally

during the honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite

so prompt as this. Pray let me have the details."

"I warn you that they are very incomplete."

"Perhaps we may make them less so."

"Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a

morning paper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is

headed, 'Singular Occurrence at a Fashionable Wedding':

 

"The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown

into the greatest consternation by the strange and painful

episodes which have taken place in connection with his

wedding. The ceremony, as shortly announced in the papers

of yesterday, occurred on the previous morning; but it is

only now that it has been possible to confirm the strange

rumours which have been so persistently floating about. In

spite of the attempts of the friends to hush the matter up, so

much public attention has now been drawn to it that no

good purpose can be served by affecting to disregard what

is a common subject for conversation.

"The ceremony, which was performed at St. George's,

Hanover Square, was a very quiet one, no one being present

save the father of the bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duch-

ess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater, Lord Eustace, and Lady

Clara St. Simon (the younger brother and sister of the

bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The whole party

proceeded afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran,

at Lancaster Gate, where breakfast had been prepared. It

appears that some little trouble was caused by a woman,

whose name has not been ascertained, who endeavoured to

force her way into the house after the bridal party, alleging

that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was only

after a painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by

the butler and the footman. The bride, who had fortunately

entered the house before this unpleasant interruption, had

sat down to breakfast with the rest, when she complained of

a sudden indisposition and retired to her room. Her pro-

longed absence having caused some comment, her father

followed her, but learned from her maid that she had only

come up to her chamber for an instant, caught up an ulster

and bonnet, and hurried down to the passage. One of the

footmen declared that he had seen a lady leave the house

thus apparelled, but had refused to credit that it was his

mistress, believing her to be with the company. On ascer-

taining that his daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius

Doran, in conjunction with the bridegroom, instantly put

themselves in communication with the police, and very

energetic inquiries are being made, which will probably

result in a speedy clearing up of this very singular business.

Up to a late hour last night, however, nothing had tran-

spired as to the whereabouts of the missing lady. There are

rumours of foul play in the matter, and it is said that the

police have caused the arrest of the woman who had caused

the original disturbance, in the belief that, from jealousy or

some other motive, she may have been concerned in the

strange disappearance of the bride."

 

"And is that all?"

"Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it

is a suggestive one."

"And it is --"

"That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the distur-

bance, has actually been arrested. It appears that she was for-

merly a danseuse at the Allegro, and that she has known the

bridegroom for some years. There are no further particulars, and

the whole case is in your hands now -- so far as it has been set

forth in the public press."

"And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would

not have missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell,

Watson, and as the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I

have no doubt that this will prove to be our noble client. Do not

dream of going, Watson, for I very much prefer having a wit-

ness, if only as a check to my own memory."

"Lord Robert St. Simon," announced our page-boy, throwing

open the door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured

face, high-nosed and pale, with something perhaps of petulance

about the mouth, and with the steady, well-opened eye of a man

whose pleasant lot it had ever been to command and to be

obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet his general appearance

gave an undue impression of age, for he had a slight forward

stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His hair, too,

as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled round

the edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was careful to

the verge of foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat,

white waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-

coloured gaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his

head from left to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord

which held his golden eyeglasses.

"Goodday, Lord St. Simon," said Holmes, rising and bow-

ing. "Pray take the basket-chair. This is my friend and col-

league, Dr. Watson. Draw up a little to the fire, and we will talk

this matter over."

"A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily

imagine, Mr. Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand

that you have already managed several delicate cases of this sort

sir, though I presume that they were hardly from the same class

of society."

"No, I am descending."

"I beg pardon."

"My last client of the sort was a king."

"Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?"

"The King of Scandinavia."

"What! Had he lost his wife?"

"You can understand," said Holmes suavely, "that I extend

to the affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I

promise to you in yours."

"Of course! Very right! very right! I'm sure I beg pardon. As

to my own case, I am ready to give you any information which

may assist you in forming an opinion."

"Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public

prints, nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct --

this article, for example, as to the disappearance of the bride."

Lord St. Simon glanced over it. "Yes, it is correct, as far as it

goes."

"But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone

could offer an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most

directly by questioning you."

"Pray do so."

"When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?"

"In San Francisco, a year ago."

"You were travelling in the States?"

"Yes."

"Did you become engaged then?"

"No."

"But you were on a friendly footing?"

"I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was

amused."

"Her father is very rich?"

"He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope."

"And how did he make his money?"

"In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck

gold, invested it, and came up by leaps and bounds."

"Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady's --

your wife's character?"

The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down

into the fire. "You see, Mr. Holmes," said he, "my wife was

twenty before her father became a rich man. During that time she

ran free in a mining camp and wandered through woods or

mountains, so that her education has come from Nature rather

than from the schoolmaster. She is what we call in England a

tomboy, with a strong nature, wild and free, unfettered by any

sort of traditions. She is impetuous -- volcanic, I was about to

say. She is swift in making up her mind and fearless in cartying

out her resolutions. On the other hand, I would not have given

her the name which I have the honour to bear" -- he gave a little

stately cough -- "had not I thought her to be at bottom a noble

woman. I believe that she is capable of heroic self-sacrifice and

that anything dishonourable would be repugnant to her."

"Have you her photograph?"

"I brought this with me." He opened a locket and showed us

the full face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but

an ivory miniature, and the artist had brought out the full effect

of the lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite

mouth. Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he closed

the locket and handed it back to Lord St. Simon.

"The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed

your acquaintance?"

"Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season.

I met her several times, became engaged to her, and have now

married her."

"She brought. I understand. a considerable dowry?"

"A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family."

"And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a

fait accompli?"

"I really have made no inquiries on the subject."

"Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day

before the wedding?"

"Yes."

"Was she in good spirits?"

"Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our

future lives."

"Indeed! That is vety interesting. And on the morning of the

wedding?"

"She was as bright as possible -- at least until after the

ceremony."

"And did you observe any change in her then?"

"Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had

ever seen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident

however, was too trivial to relate and can have no possible

bearing upon the case."

"Pray let us have it, for all that."

"Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went

towards the vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time,

and it fell over into the pew. There was a moment's delay, but

the gentleman in the pew handed it up to her again, and it did not

appear to be the worse for the fall. Yet when I spoke to her of

the matter, she answered me abruptly; and in the carriage, on our

way home, she seemed absurdly agitated over this trifling cause."

"Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew.

Some of the general public were present, then?"

"Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is

open."

"This gentleman was not one of your wife's friends?"

"No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite

a common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But

really I think that we are wandering rather far from the point."

"Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less

cheerful frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do

on reentering her father's house?"

"I saw her in conversation with her maid."

"And who is her maid?"

"Alice is her name. She is an American and came from

California with her."

"A confidential servant?"

"A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress

allowed her to take great liberties. Still, of course, in America

they look upon these things in a different way."

"How long did she speak to this Alice?"

"Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of."

"You did not overhear what they said?"

"Lady St. Simon said something about 'jumping a claim.' She

was accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she

meant."

"American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did

your wife do when she finished speaking to her maid?"

"She walked into the breakfast-room."

"On your arm?"

"No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like

that. Then, after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose

hurriedly, muttered some words of apology, and left the room.

She never came back."

"But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went

to her room, covered her bride's dress with a long ulster, put on

a bonnet, and went out."

"Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde

Park in company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in

custody, and who had already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran's

house that morning."

"Ah, yes. I should like a few patticulars as to this young lady,

and your relations to her."

Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eye-

brows. "We have been on a friendly footing for some years -- I

may say on a very friendly footing. She used to be at the

Allegro. I have not treated her ungenerously, and she had no just

cause of complaint against me, but you know what women are,

Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear little thing, but exceedingly

hot-headed and devotedly attached to me. She wrote me dreadful

letters when she heard that I was about to be married, and, to tell

the truth, the reason why I had the marriage celebrated so quietly

was that I feared lest there might be a scandal in the church. She

came to Mr. Doran's door just after we returned, and she en-

deavoured to push her way in, uttering very abusive expressions

towards my wife, and even threatening her, but I had foreseen

the possibility of something of the sort, and I had two police

fellows there in private clothes, who soon pushed her out again.

She was quiet when she saw that there was no good in making a

row."

"Did your wife hear all this?"

"No, thank goodness, she did not."

"And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?"

"Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks

upon as so serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out

and laid some terrible trap for her."

"Well, it is a possible supposition."

"You think so, too?"

"l did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look

upon this as likely?"

"I do not think Flora would hurt a fly."

"Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray

what is your own theory as to what took place?"

"Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I

have given you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may

say that it has occurred to me as possible that the excitement of

this affair, the consciousness that she had made so immense a

social stride, had the effect of causing some little nervous distur-

bance in my wife."

"In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?"

"Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back -- I

will not say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired

to without success -- I can hardly explain it in any other fashion."

"Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis," said

Holmes, smiling. "And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have

nearly all my data. May I ask whether you were seated at the

breakfast-table so that you could see out of the window?"

"We could see the other side of the road and the Park."

"Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you

longer. I shall communicate with you."

"Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem," said

our client, rising.

"I have solved it."

"Eh? What was that?"

"I say that I have solved it."

"Where, then, is my wife?"

"That is a detail which I shall speedily supply."

Lord St. Simon shook his head. "I am afraid that it will take

wiser heads than yours or mine," he remarked, and bowing in a

stately, old-fashioned manner he departed.

"It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by

putting it on a level with his own," said Sherlock Holmes,

laughing. "I think that I shall have a whisky and soda and a

cigar after all this cross-questioning. I had formed my conclu-

sions as to the case before our client came into the room."

"My dear Holmes!"

"I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I

remarked before, which were quite as prompt. My whole exami-

nation served to turn my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstan-

tial evidence is occasionally very convincing, as when you find a

trout in the milk, to quote Thoreau's example."

"But I have heard all that you have heard."

"Without, however, the knowledge of preexisting cases which

serves me so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen

some years back, and something on very much the same lines at

Munich the year after the Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these

cases -- but, hello, here is Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade!

You will find an extra tumbler upon the sideboard,.and there are

cigars in the box."

The official detective was attired in a peajacket and cravat,

which gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried

a black canvas bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated

himself and lit the cigar which had been offered to him.

"What's up, then?" asked Holmes with a twinkle in his eye.

"You look dissatisfied."

"And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage

case. I can make neither head nor tail of the business."

"Really! You surprise me."

"Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue seems to

slip through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day."

"And very wet it seems to have made you," said Holmes

laying his hand upon the arm of the peajacket.

"Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine."

"In heaven's name, what for?"

"In search of the body of Lady St. Simon."

Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

"Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?"

he asked.

"Why? What do you mean?"

"Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady

in the one as in the other."

Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. "I suppose you

know all about it," he snarled.

"Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made

up."

"Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part

in the maner?"

"I think it very unlikely."

"Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found

this in it?" He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the

floor a wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes

and a bride's wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in

water. "There," said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the

top of the pile. "There is a little nut for you to crack, Master

Holmes."

"Oh, indeed!" said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air.

"You dragged them from the Serpentine?"

"No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-

keeper. They have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed

to me that if the clothes were there the body would not be far

off."

"By the same brilliant reasoning, every man's body is to be

found in the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did

you hope to arrive at through this?"

"At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disap-

pearance."

"I am afraid that you will find it difficult."

"Are you, indeed, now?" cried Lestrade with some bitter-

ness. "I am afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with

your deductions and your inferences. You have made two blun-

ders in as many minutes. This dress does implicate Miss Flora

Millar."

"And how?"

"In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the

card-case is a note. And here is the very note." He slapped it

down upon the table in front of him. "Listen to this:

 

"You will see me when all is ready. Come at once.

"F. H. M.

 

Now my theory all along has been that Lady St. Simon was

decoyed away by Flora Millar, and that she, with confederates,

no doubt, was responsible for her disappearance. Here, signed

with her initials, is the very note which was no doubt quietly

slipped into her hand at the door and which lured her within

their reach."

"Very good, Lestrade," said Holmes, laughing. "You really

are very fine indeed. Let me see it." He took up the paper in a

listless way, but his attention instantly became riveted, and he

gave a little cry of satisfaction. "This is indeed important," said

he.

"Ha! you find it so?"

"Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly."

Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. "Why,"

he shrieked, "you're looking at the wrong side!"

"On the contrary, this is the right side."

"The right side? You're mad! Here is the note written in

pencil over here."

"And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel

bill, which interests me deeply."

"There's nothing in it. I looked at it before," said Lestrade.

 

"Oct. 4th, rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s.,

lunch 2s. 6d., glass sherry, 8d.

 

I see nothing in that."

"Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the

note, it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I

congratulate you again."

"I've wasted time enough," said Lestrade, rising. "I believe

in hard work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories.

Good-day, Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the

bottom of the matter first." He gathered up the garments, thrust

them into the bag, and made for the door.

"Just one hint to you, Lestrade," drawled Holmes before his

rival vanished; "I will tell you the true solution of the matter.

Lady St. Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has

been, any such person."

Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to

me, tapped his forehead three times, shook his head solemnly,

and hurried away.

He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose to

put on his overcoat. "There is something in what the fellow says

about outdoor work," he remarked, "so l think, Watson, that I

must leave you to your papers for a little."

It was after five o'clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I

had no time to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a

confectioner's man with a very large flat box. This he unpacked

with the help of a youth whom he had brought with him, and

presently, to my very great astonishment, a quite epicurean little

cold supper began to be laid out upon our humble lodging-house

mahogany. There were a couple of brace of cold woodcock, a

pheasant, a pate de foie gras pie with a group of ancient and

cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these luxuries, my two

visitors vanished away, like the genii of the Arabian Nights, with

no explanation save that the things had been paid for and were

ordered to this address.

Just before nine o'clock Sherlock Holmes stepped briskly into

the room. His features were gravely set, but there was a light in

his eye which made me think that he had not been disappointed

in his conclusions.

"They have laid the supper, then," he said, rubbing his

hands.

"You seem to expect company. They have laid for five."

"Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in," said

he. "I am surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived.

Ha! I fancy that I hear his step now upon the stairs."

It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who came bustling

in, dangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and with a

very perturbed expression upon his aristocratic features.

"My messenger reached you, then?" asked Holmes.

"Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me beyond

measure. Have you good authority for what you say?"

"The best possible."

Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand over his

forehead.

"What will the Duke say," he murmured, "when he hears

that one of the family has been subjected to such humiliation?"

"It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there is any

humiliation. "

"Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint."

"I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly see how the

lady could have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of

doing it was undoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, she

had no one to advise her at such a crisis."

"It was a slight, sir, a public slight," said Lord St. Simon,

tapping his fingers upon the table.

"You must make allowance for this poor girl, placed in so

unprecedented a position."

"I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed, and I

have been shamefully used."

"I think that I heard a ring," said Holmes. "Yes, there are

steps on the landing. If I cannot persuade you to take a lenient

view of the matter, Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate

here who may be more successful." He opened the door and

ushered in a lady and gentleman. "Lord St. Simon," said he

"allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hay

Moulton. The lady, I think, you have already met."

At the sight of these newcomers our client had sprung from his

seat and stood very erect, with his eyes cast down and his hand

thrust into the breast of his frock-coat, a picture of offended

dignity. The lady had taken a quick step forward and had held

out her hand to him, but he still refused to raise his eyes. It was

as well for his resolution, perhaps, for her pleading face was one

which it was hard to resist.

"You're angry, Robert," said she. "Well, I guess you have

every cause to be."

"Pray make no apology to me," said Lord St. Simon bitterly.

"Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad and that I

should have spoken to you before I went; but I was kind of

rattled, and from the time when I saw Frank here again I just

didn't know what I was doing or saying. I only wonder I didn't

fall down and do a faint right there before the altar."

"Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me to

leave the room while you explain this matter?"

"If I may give an opinion," remarked the strange gentleman,

"we've had just a little too much secrecy over this business

already. For my part, I should like all Europe and America to

hear the rights of it." He was a small, wiry, sunburnt man,

clean-shaven, with a sharp face and alert manner.

"Then I'll tell our story right away," said the lady. "Frank

here and I met in '84, in McQuire's camp, near the Rockies,

where pa was working a claim. We were engaged to each other,

Frank and I; but then one day father struck a rich pocket and

made a pile, while poor Frank here had a claim that petered out

and came to nothing. The richer pa grew the poorer was Frank;

so at last pa wouldn't hear of our engagement lasting any longer,

and he took me away to 'Frisco. Frank wouldn't throw up his

hand, though; so he followed me there, and he saw me without

pa knowing anything about it. It would only have made him mad

to know, so we just fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said that

he would go and make his pile, too, and never come back to

claim me until he had as much as pa. So then I promised to wait

for him to the end of time and pledged myself not to marry

anyone else while he lived. 'Why shouldn't we be married right

away, then,' said he, 'and then I will feel sure of you; and I

won't claim to be your husband until I come back?' Well, we

talked it over, and he had fixed it all up so nicely, with a

clergyman all ready in waiting, that we just did it right there; and

then Frank went off to seek his fortune, and I went back to pa.

"The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and

then he went prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him

from New Mexico. After that came a long newspaper story about

how a miners' camp had been attacked by Apache Indians, and

there was my Frank's name among the killed. I fainted dead

away, and I was very sick for months after. Pa thought I had a

decline and took me to half the doctors in 'Frisco. Not a word of

news came for a year and more, so that I never doubted that

Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to 'Frisco,

and we came to London, and a marriage was arranged, and pa

was very pleased, but I felt all the time that no man on this earth

would ever take the place in my heart that had been given to my

poor Frank.

"Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I'd have

done my duty by him. We can't command our love, but we can

our actions. I went to the altar with him with the intention to

make him just as good a wife as it was in me to be. But you may

imagine what I felt when, just as I came to the altar rails, I

glanced back and saw Frank standing and looking at me out of

the first pew. I thought it was his ghost at first; but when I

looked again there he was still, with a kind of question in his

eyes, as if to ask me whether I were glad or sorry to see him. I

wonder I didn't drop. I know that everything was turning round,

and the words of the clergyman were just like the buzz of a bee

in my ear. I didn't know what to do. Should I stop the service

and make a scene in the church? I glanced at him again, and he

seemed to know what I was thinking, for he raised his finger to

his lips to tell me to be still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece

of paper, and I knew that he was writing me a note. As I passed

his pew on the way out I dropped my bouquet over to him, and

he slipped the note into my hand when he returned me the

flowers. It was only a line asking me to join him when he made

the sign to me to do so. Of course I never doubted for a moment

that my first duty was now to him, and I determined to do just

whatever he might direct.

"When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in

California, and had always been his friend. I ordered her to say

nothing, but to get a few things packed and my ulster ready. I

know I ought to have spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was

dreadful hard before his mother and all those great people. I just

made up my mind to run away and explain afterwards. I hadn't

been at the table ten minutes before I saw Frank out of the

window at the other side of the road. He beckoned to me and

then began walking into the Park. I slipped out, put on my

things, and followed him. Some woman came talking something

or other about Lord St. Simon to me -- seemed to me from the

little I heard as if he had a little secret of his own before

marriage also -- but I managed to get away from her and soon

overtook Frank. We got into a cab together, and away we drove

to some lodgings he had taken in Gordon Square, and that was

my true wedding after all those years of waiting. Frank had been

a prisoner among the Apaches, had escaped, came on to 'Frisco,

found that I had given him up for dead and had gone to England,

followed me there, and had come upon me at last on the very

morning of my second wedding."

"I saw it in a paper," explained the American. "It gave the

name and the church but not where the lady lived."

"Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was

all for openness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I

should like to vanish away and never see any of them again --

just sending a line to pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive.

It was awful to me to think of all those lords and ladies sitting

round that breakfast-table and waiting for me to come back. So

Frank took my wedding-clothes and things and made a bundle of

them, so that I should not be traced, and dropped them away

somewhere where no one could find them. It is likely that we

should have gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that this good

gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to us this evening, though

how he found us is more than I can think, and he showed us very

clearly and kindly that I was wrong and that Frank was right, and

that we should be putting ourselves in the wrong if we were so

secret. Then he offered to give us a chance of talking to Lord St.

Simon alone, and so we came right away round to his rooms at

once. Now, Robert, you have heard it all, and I am very sorry if

I have given you pain, and I hope that you do not think very

meanly of me."

Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid attitude, but

had listened with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to this

long narrative.

"Excuse me," he said, "but it is not my custom to discuss

my most intimate personal affairs in this public manner."

"Then you won't forgive me? You won't shake hands before

I go?"

"Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure." He put out

his hand and coldly grasped that which she extended to him.

"I had hoped," suggested Holmes, "that you would have

joined us in a friendly supper."

"I think that there you ask a little too much," responded his

Lordship. "I may be forced to acquiesce in these recent develop-

ments, but I can hardly be expected to make merry over them. I

think that with your permission I will now wish you all a very

good-night." He included us all in a sweeping bow and stalked

out of the room.

"Then I trust that you at least will honour me with your

company," said Sherlock Holmes. "It is always a joy to meet an

American, Mr. Moulton, for I am one of those who believe that

the folly of a monarch and the blundering of a minister in

far-gone years will not prevent our children from being some day

citizens of the same world-wide country under a flag which shall

be a quartering of the Union Jack with the Stars and Stripes."

"The case has been an interesting one," remarked Holmes

when our visitors had left us, "because it serves to show very

clearly how simple the explanation may be of an affair which at

first sight seems to be almost inexplicable. Nothing could be

more natural than the sequence of events as narrated by this lady,

and nothing stranger than the result when viewed, for instance

by Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard."

"You were not yourself at fault at all, then?"

"From the first, two facts were very obvious to me, the one

that the lady had been quite willing to undergo the wedding

ceremony, the other that she had repented of it within a few

minutes of returning home. Obviously something had occurred

during the morning, then, to cause her to change her mind. What

could that something be? She could not have spoken to anyone

when she was out, for she had been in the company of the

bridegroom. Had she seen someone, then? If she had, it must be

someone from America because she had spent so short a time in

this country that she could hardly have allowed anyone to ac-

quire so deep an influence over her that the mere sight of him

would induce her to change her plans so completely. You see we

have already arrived, by a process of exclusion, at the idea that

she might have seen an American. Then who could this Ameri-

can be, and why should he possess so much influence over her?

It might be a lover; it might be a husband. Her young woman-

hood had, I knew, been spent in rough scenes and under strange

conditions. So far I had got before I ever heard Lord St. Simon's

narrative. When he told us of a man in a pew, of the change in

the bride's manner, of so transparent a device for obtaining a

note as the dropping of a bouquet, of her resort to her confiden-

tial maid, and of her very significant allusion to claimjumping --

which in miners' parlance means taking possession of that which

another person has a prior claim to -- the whole situation became

absolutely clear. She had gone off with a man, and the man was

either a lover or was a previous husband -- the chances being in

favour of the latter."

"And how in the world did you find them?"

"It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade held infor-

mation in his hands the value of which he did not himself know.

The initials were, of course, of the highest importance, but more

valuable still was it to know that within a week he had settled his

bill at one of the most select London hotels."

"How did you deduce the select?"

"By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and eightpence

for a glass of sherry pointed to one of the most expensive hotels.

There are not many in London which charge at that rate. In the

second one which I visited in Northumberland Avenue, I learned

by an inspection of the book that Francis H. Moulton, an Ameri-

can gentleman, had left only the day before, and on looking over

the entries against him, I came upon the very items which I had

seen in the duplicate bill. His letters were to be forwarded to 226

Gordon Square; so thither I travelled, and being fortunate enough

to find the loving couple at home, l ventured to give them some

paternal advice and to point out to them that it would be better in

every way that they should make their position a little clearer

both to the general public and to Lord St. Simon in particular. I

invited them to meet him here, and, as you see, I made him keep

the appointment."

"But with no very good result," I remarked. "His conduct

was certainly not very gracious."

"Ah, Watson," said Holmes, smiling, "perhaps you would

not be very gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and

wedding, you found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and

of fortune. I think that we may judge Lord St. Simon very

mercifully and thank our stars that we are never likely to find

ourselves in the same position. Draw your chair up and hand me

my violin, for the only problem we have still to solve is how to

while away these bleak autumnal evenings."

 

==========================

The Adventure of the Norwood Builder

 

"From the point of view of the criminal expert," said Mr.

Sherlock Holmes, "London has become a singularly uninterest-

ing city since the death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty."

"I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens

to agree with you," I answered.

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

he pushed back his chair from the breakfast-table. "The commu-

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

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

man in the field, one's morning paper presented infinite possibil-

ities. Often it was only the smallest trace, Watson, the faintest

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

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

the web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in the centre.

Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage -- to the man

who held the clue all could be worked into one connected whole.

To the scientific student of the higher criminal world, no capital

in Europe offered the advantages which London then possessed.

But now --" He shrugged his shoulders in humorous deprecation

of the state of things which he had himself done so much to

produce.

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

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

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

Vemer, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and given

with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I ventured to

ask -- an incident which only explained itself some years later,

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

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

Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he

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

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

the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship Friesland, which so

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

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

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

further word of himself, his methods, or his successes -- a prohi-

bition which, as I have explained, has only now been removed.

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

whimsical protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a

leisurely fashion, when our attention was arrested by a tremen-

dous ring at the bell, followed immediately by a hollow drum-

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

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

rapid feet clattered up the stair, and an instant later a wild-eyed

and frantic young man, pale, dishevelled, and palpitating, burst

into the room. He looked from one to the other of us, and under

our gaze of inquiry he became conscious that some apology was

needed for this unceremonious entry.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," he cried. "You mustn't blame me.

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

McFarlane."

He made the announcement as if the name alone would ex-

plain both his visit and its manner, but I could seel by my

companion's unresponsive face, that it meant no more to him

than to me.

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

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

Watson here would prescribe a sedative. The weather has been

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

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

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

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

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

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

know nothing whatever about you."

Familiar as I was with my friend's methods, it was not diffi-

cult for me to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidi-

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

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

in amazement.

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

most unfortunate man at this moment in London. For heaven's

sake, don't abandon me, Mr. Holmes! If they come to arrest me

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

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

knew that you were working for me outside."

"Arrest you!" said Holmes. "This is really most grati -- most

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

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

Norwood."

My companion's expressive face showed a sympathy which

was not, I am afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.

"Dear me," said he, "it was only this moment at breakfast

that I was saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational

cases had disappeared out of our papers."

Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up

the Daily Telegraph, which still lay upon Holmes's knee.

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Holmes. The headlines are: 'Mysterious Affair at Lower

Norwood. Disappearance of a Well Known Builder. Suspicion of

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

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

it leads infallibly to me. I have been followed from London

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

warrant to arrest me. It will break my mother's heart -- it will

break her heart!" He wrung his hands in an agony of apprehen-

sion, and swayed backward and forward in his chair.

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

being the perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was flaxen-

haired and handsome, in a washed-out negative fashion, with

frightened blue eyes, and a clean-shaven face, with a weak,

sensitive mouth. His age may have been about twenty-seven, his

dress and bearing that of a gentleman. From the pocket of his

light summer overcoat protruded the bundle of endorsed papers

which proclaimed his profession.

"We must use what time we have," said Holmes. "Watson,

would you have the kindness to take the paper and to read the

paragraph in question?"

Underneath the vigorous headlines which our client had quoted,

I read the following suggestive narrative:

 

"Late last night, or early this morning, an incident oc-

curred at Lower Norwood which points, it is feared, to a

serious crime. Mr. Jonas Oldacre is a well known resident

of that suburb, where he has carried on his business as a

builder for many years. Mr. Oldacre is a bachelor, fifty-two

years of age, and lives in Deep Dene House, at the Sydenham

end of the road of that name. He has had the reputation of

being a man of eccentric habits, secretive and retiring. For

some years he has practically withdrawn from the business,

in which he is said to have massed considerable wealth. A

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

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

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

soon upon the spot, but the dry wood burned with great

fury, and it was impossible to arrest the conflagration until

the stack had been entirely consumed. Up to this point the

incident bore the appearance of an ordinary accident, but

fresh indications seem to point to serious crime. Surprise

was expressed at the absence of the master of the establish-

ment from the scene of the fire, and an inquiry followed,

which showed that he had disappeared from the house. An

examination of his room revealed that the bed had not been

slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open, that a

number of important papers were scattered about the room,

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

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

oaken walking-stick, which also showed stains of blood

upon the handle. It is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had

received a late visitor in his bedroom upon that night, and

the stick found has been identified as the property of this

person, who is a young London solicitor named John Hector

McFarlane, junior partner of Graham and McFarlane, of

426 Gresham Buildings. E. C. The police believe that they

have evidence in their possession which supplies a very

convincing motive for the crime, and altogether it cannot be

doubted that sensational developments will follow.

"LATER. -- It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John

Hector McFarlane has actually been arrested on the charge

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

a warrant has been issued. There have been further and

sinister developments in the investigation at Norwood. Be-

sides the signs of a struggle in the room of the unfortunate

builder it is now known that the French windows of his

bedroom (which is on the ground floor) were found to be

open, that there were marks as if some bulky object had

been dragged across to the wood-pile, and, finally, it is

asserted that charred remains have been found among the

charcoal ashes of the fire. The police theory is that a most

sensational crime has been committed, that the victim was

clubbed to death in his own bedroom, his papers rifled, and

his dead body dragged across to the wood-stack, which was

then ignited so as to hide all traces of the crime. The

conduct of the criminal investigation has been left in the

experienced hands of Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard,

who is following up the clues with his accustomed energy

and sagacity."

 

Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and fingertips to-

gether to this remarkable account.

"The case has certainly some points of interest," said he, in

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

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

enough evidence to justify your arrest?"

"I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents,

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

Mr. Jonas Oidacre, I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to

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

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

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

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

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

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

what is that?"

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

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

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

two uniformed policemen outside.

"Mr. John Hector McFarlane?" said LestMde.

Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

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

Lower Norwood."

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

into his chair once more like one who is crushed.

"One moment. Lestrade," said Holmes. "Half an hour more

or less can make no difference to you, and the gentleman was

about to give us an account of this very interesting affair, which

might aid us in clearing it up."

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

Lestrade, grimly.

"None the less, with your permission, I should be much

interested to hear his account."

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

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

the past, and we owe you a good turn at Scotland Yard," said

Lestrade. "At the same time I must remain with my prisoner

and I am bound to warn him that anything he may say will

appear in evidence against him."

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

should hear and recognize the absolute truth."

Lestrade looked at his watch. "I'll give you half an hour,"

said he.

"I must explain first," said McFarlane, "that I knew nothing

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

years ago my parents were acquainted with him, but they drifted

apart. I was very much surprised, therefore, when yesterday,

about three o'clock in the afternoon, he walked into my office in

the city. But I was still more astonished when he told me the

object of his visit. He had in his hand several sheets of a

notebook, covered with scribbled writing -- here they are -- and

he laid them on my table.

" 'Here is my will,' said he. 'I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to

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

"I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonish-

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

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

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

gray eyes fixed upon me with an amused expression. I could

hardly believe my own senses as I read the terms of the will, but

he explained that he was a bachelor with hardly any living

relation, that he had known my parents in his youth, and that he

had always heard of me as a very deserving young man, and was

assured that his money would be in worthy hands. Of course, I

could only stammer out my thanks. The will was duly finished,

signed, and witnesscd by my clerk. This is it on the blue paper.

and these slips, as I have explained. are the rough draft. Mr.

Jonas Oldacre then informed me that there were a number of

documents -- building leases, title-deeds, mortgages, scrip, and

so forth -- which it was necessary that I should see and understand.

He said that his mind would not be easy until the whole thing

was settled, and he begged me to come out to his house at

Norwood that night, bringing the will with me, and to arrange

matters. 'Remember, my boy, not one word to your parents

about the affair until everything is settled. We will keep it as a

little surprise for them.' He was very insistent upon this point,

and made me promise it faithfully.

"You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to

refuse him anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor,

and all my desire was to carry out his wishes in every particular.

I sent a telegram home, therefore, to say that I had important

business on hand, and that it was impossible for me to say how

late I might be. Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me

to have supper with him at nine, as he might not be home before

that hour. I had some difficulty in finding his house, however,

and it was nearly half-past before I reached it. I found him --"

"One moment!" said Holmes. "Who opened the door?"

"A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose, his housekeeper."

"And it was she, I presume, who mentioned your name?"

"Exactly," said McFarlane.

"Pray proceed."

McFarlane wiped his damp brow, and then continued his

narrative:

"I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a

frugal supper was laid out. Afterwards, Mr. Jonas Oldacre led

me into his bedroom, in which there stood a heavy safe. This he

opened and took out a mass of documents, which we went over

together. It was between eleven and twelve when we finished.

He remarked that we must not disturb the housekeeper. He

showed me out through his own French window, which had been

open all this time."

"Was the blind down?" asked Holmes.

"I will not be sure. but I believe that it was only half down.

Yes, I remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the

window. I could not find my stick, and he said, 'Never mind,

my boy, I shall see a good deal of you now, I hope, and I will

keep your stick until you come back to claim it.' I left him there,

the safe open, and the papers made up in packets upon the table.

It was so latc that I could not get back to Blackheath. so I spent

the night at the Anerley Arms. and I knew nothing more until I

read of this horrible affair in the morning."

"Anything more that you would like to ask, Mr. Holmes?"

said Lestrade, whose eyebrows had gone up once or twice during

this remarkable explanation.

"Not until I have been to Blackheath."

"You mean to Norwood," said Lestrade.

"Oh, yes, no doubt that is what I must have meant," said

Holmes, with his enigmatical smile. Lestrade had learned by

more experiences than he would care to acknowledge that that

razor-like brain could cut through that which was impenetrable to

him. I saw him look curiously at my companion.

"I think I should like to have a word with you presently, Mr,

Sherlock Holmes," said he. "Now, Mr. McFarlane, two of my

constables are at the door, and there is a four-wheeler waiting."

The wretched young man arose, and with a last beseeching

glance at us walked from the room. The officers conducted him

to the cab, but Lestrade remained.

Holmes had picked up the pages which formed the rough draft

of the will, and was looking at them with the keenest interest

upon his face.

"There are some points about that document, Lestrade, are

there not?" said he, pushing them over.

The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

"I can read the first few lines, and these in the middle of the

second page, and one or two at the end. Those are as clear as

print," said he, "but the writing in between is very bad, and

there are three places where I cannot read it at all."

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

"Well, what do you make of it?"

"That it was written in a train. The good writing represents

stations, the bad writing movement, and the very bad writing

passing over points. A scientific expert would pronounce at once

that this was drawn up on a suburban line, since nowhere save in

the immediate vicinity of a great city could there be so quick a

succession of points. Granting that his whole journey was occu-

pied in drawing up the will, then the train was an express, only

stopping once between Norwood and London Bridge."

Lestrade began to laugh.

"You are too many for me when you begin to get on your

theories. Mr. Holmes," said he. "How does this bear on the

case?"

"Well, it corroborates the young man's story to the extent that

the will was drawn up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey yesterday.

It is curious -- is it not? -- that a man should draw up so important

a document in so haphazard a fashion. It suggests that he did not

think it was going to be of much practical importance. If a man

drew up a will which he did not intend ever to be effective, he

might do it so."

"Well, he drew up his own death warrant at the same time,"

said Lestrade.

"Oh, you think so?"

"Don't you?"

"Well, it is quite possible, but the case is not clear to me

yet."

"Not clear? Well, if that isn't clear, what could be clear? Here

is a young man who learns suddenly that, if a certain older man

dies, he will succeed to a fortune. What does he do? He says

nothing to anyone, but he arranges that he shall go out on some

pretext to see his client that night. He waits until the only other

person in the house is in bed, and then in the solitude of a man's

room he murders him, burns his body in the wood-pile, and

departs to a neighbouring hotel. The blood-stains in the room

and also on the stick are very slight. It is probable that he

imagined his crime to be a bloodless one, and hoped that if the

body were consumed it would hide all traces of the method of his

death -- traces which, for some reason, must have pointed to him.

Is not all this obvious?"

"It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being just a trifle too

obvious," said Holmes. "You do not add imagination to your

other great qualities, but if you could for one moment put

yourself in the place of this young man, would you choose the

very night after the will had been made to commit your crime?

Would it not seem dangerous to you to make so very close a

relation between the two incidents? Again, would you choose an

occasion when you are known to be in the house, when a servant

has let you in? And, finally, would you take the great pains to

conceal the body, and yet leave your own stick as a sign that you

were the cnminal? Confess, Lestrade, that all this is very unlikely."

"As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a

criminal is often flurried, and does such things, which a cool

man would avoid. He was very likely afraid to go back to the

room. Give me another theory that would fit the facts."

"I could very easily give you half a dozen," said Holmes.

"Here, for example, is a very possible and even probable one. I

make you a free present of it. The older man is showing docu-

ments which are of evident value. A passing tramp sees them

through the window, the blind of which is only half down. Exit

the solicitor. Enter the tramp! He seizes a stick, which he

observes there, kills Oldacre, and departs after burning the body."

"Why should the tramp burn the body?"

"For the matter of that, why should McFarlane?"

"To hide some evidence."

"Possibly the tramp wanted to hide that any murder at all had

been committed."

"And why did the tramp take nothing?"

"Because they were papers that he could not negotiate."

Lestrade shook his head, though it seemed to me that his

manner was less absolutely assured than before.

"Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for your tramp,

and while you are finding him we will hold on to our man. The

future will show which is right. Just notice this point, Mr.

Holmes: that so far as we know, none of the papers were

removed, and that the prisoner is the one man in the world who

had no reason for removing them, since he was heir-at-law, and

would come into them in any case."

My friend seemed struck by this remark.

"I don't mean to deny that the evidence is in some ways very

strongly in favour of your theory," said he. "I only wish to

point out that there are other theories possible. As you say, the

future will decide. Good-morning! I dare say that in the course

of the day I shall drop in at Norwood and see how you are

getting on."

When the detective departed, my friend rose and made his

preparations for the day's work with the alert air of a man who

has a congenial task before him.

"My first movement, Watson," said he. as he bustled into his

frockcoat, "must, as I said, be in the direction of Blackheath."

"And why not Norwood?"

"Because we have in this case one singular incident coming

close to the heels of another singular incident. The police are

making the mistake of concentrating their attention upon the

second, because it happens to be the one which is actually

criminal. But it is evident to me that the logical way to approach

the case is to begin by trying to throw some light upon the first

incident -- the curious will, so suddenly made, and to so unex-

pected an heir. It may do something to simplify what followed.

No, my dear fellow, I don't think you can help me. There is no

prospect of danger, or I should not dream of stirring out without

you. I trust that when I see you in the evening, I will be able to

report that I have been able to do something for this unfortunate

youngster, who has thrown himself upon my protection."

It was late when my friend returned, and I could see, by a

glance at his haggard and anxious face, that the high hopes with

which he had started had not been fulfilled. For an hour he

droned away upon his violin, endeavouring to soothe his own

ruffled spirits. At last he flung down the instrument, and plunged

into a detailed account of his misadventures.

"It's all going wrong, Watson -- all as wrong as it can go. I

kept a bold face before Lestrade, but, upon my soul, I believe

that for once the fellow is on the right track and we are on the

wrong. All my instincts are one way, and all the facts are the

other, and I much fear that British juries have not yet attained

that pitch of intelligence when they will give the preference to

my theories over Lestrade's facts."

"Did you go to Blackheath?"

"Yes, Watson, I went there, and I found very quickly that the

late lamented Oldacre was a pretty considerable blackguard. The

father was away in search of his son. The mother was at home -- a

little, fluffy, blue-eyed person, in a tremor of fear and indigna-

tion. Of course, she would not admit even the possibility of his

guilt. But she would not express either surprise or regret over the

fate of Oldacre. On the contrary, she spoke of him with such

bitterness that she was unconsciously considerably strengthening

the case of the police for, of course, if her son had heard her

speak of the man in this fashion, it would predispose him

towards hatred and violence. 'He was more like a malignant and

cunning ape than a human being,' said she, 'and he always was,

ever since he was a young man.'

" 'You knew him at that time?' said I.

'' 'Yes, I knew him well, in fact, he was an old suitor of

mine. Thank heaven that I had the sense to turn away from him

and to marry a better, if poorer, man. I was engaged to him. Mr.

Holmes, when I heard a shocking story of how he had turned a

cat loose in an aviary, and I was so horrified at his brutal cruelty

that I would have nothing more to do with him.' She rummaged

in a bureau, and presently she produced a photograph of a

woman, shamefully defaced and mutilated with a knife. 'That is

my own photograph.' she said. 'He sent it to me in that state,

with his curse, upon my wedding morning.'

" 'Well,' said I, 'at least he has forgiven you now, since he

has left all his property to your son.'

" 'Neither my son nor I want anything from Jonas Oldacre,

dead or alive!' she cried, with a proper spirit. 'There is a God in

heaven, Mr. Holmes, and that same God who has punished that

wicked man will show, in His own good time, that my son's

hands are guiltless of his blood.'

"Well, I tried one or two leads, but could get at nothing

which would help our hypothesis, and several points which

would make against it. I gave it up at last, and off I went to

Norwood.

"This place, Deep Dene House, is a big modern villa of

staring brick, standing back in its own grounds, with a laurel-

clumped lawn in front of it. To the right and some distance back

from the road was the timber-yard which had been the scene of

the fire. Here's a rough plan on a leaf of my notebook. This

window on the left is the one which opens into Oldacre's room.

You can look into it from the road, you see. That is about the

only bit of consolation I have had to-day. Lestrade was not there,

but his head constable did the honours. They had just found a

great treasure-trove. They had spent the morning raking among

the ashes of the burned wood-pile, and besides the charred

organic remains they had secured several discoloured metal discs.

I examined them with care, and there was no doubt that they

were trouser buttons. I even distinguished that one of them was

marked with the name of 'Hyams,' who was Oldacre's tailor. I

then worked the lawn very carefully for signs and traces, but this

drought has made everything as hard as iron. Nothing was to be

seen save that some body or bundle had been dragged through a

low privet hedge which is in a line with the wood-pile. All that,

of course, fits in with the official theory. I crawled about the

lawn with an August sun on my back, but I got up at the end of

an hour no wiser than before.

"Well, after this fiasco I went into the bedroom and examined

that also. The blood-stains were very slight, mere smears and

discolourations, but undoubtedly fresh. The stick had been re-

moved, but there also the marks were slight. There is no doubt

about the stick belonging to our client. He admits it. Footmarks

of both men could be made out on the carpet, but none of any

third person, which again is a trick for the other side. They were

piling up their score all the time and we were at a standstill.

"Only one little gleam of hope did I get -- and yet it amounted

to nothing. I examined the contents of the safe, most of which

had been taken out and left on the table. The papers had been

made up into sealed envelopes, one or two of which had been

opened by the police. They were not, so far as I could judge, of

any great value, nor did the bank-book show that Mr. Oldacre

was in such very affluent circumstances. But it seemed to me

that all the papers were not there. There were allusions to some

deeds -- possibly the more valuable -- which I could not find.

This, of course, if we could definitely prove it, would turn

Lestrade's argument against himself; for who would steal a thing

if he knew that he would shortly inherit it?

"Finally, having drawn every other cover and picked up no

scent, I tried my luck with the housekeeper. Mrs. Lexington is

her name -- a little, dark, silent person, with suspicious and

sidelong eyes. She could tell us somethirig if she would -- I am

convinced of it. But she was as close as wax. Yes, she had let

Mr. McFarlane in at half-past nine. She wished her hand had

withered before she had done so. She had gone to bed at

half-past ten. Her room was at the other end of the house, and

she could hear nothing of what passed. Mr. McFarlane had left

his hat, and to the best of her belief his stick, in the hall. She had

been awakened by the alarm of fire. Her poor, dear master had

certainly been murdered. Had he any enemies? Well, every man

had enemies, but Mr. Oldacre kept himself very much to him-

self, and only met people in the way of business. She had seen

the buttons, and was sure that they belonged to the clothes which

he had worn last night. The wood-pile was very dry, for it had

not rained for a month. It burned like tinder, and by the time she

reached the spot, nothing could be seen but flames. She and all

the firemen smelled the burned flesh from inside it. She knew

nothing of the papers, nor of Mr. Oldacre's private affairs.

"So, my dear Watson, there's my report of a failure. And

yet -- and yet --" he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm of

conviction-- "I know it's all wrong. I feel it in my bones. There

is something that has not come out, and that housekeeper knows

it. There was a sort of sulky defiance in her eyes, which only

goes with guilty knowledge. However, there's no good talking

any more about it, Watson; but unless some lucky chance comes

our way I fear that the Norwood Disappearance Case will not

figure in that chronicle of our successes which I foresee that a

patient public will sooner or later have to endure."

"Surely," said I, "the man's appearance would go far with

any jury?"

"That is a dangerous argument, my dear Watson. You re-

member that terrible murderer, Bert Stevens, who wanted us to

get him off in '87? Was there ever a more mild-mannered,

Sunday-school young man?"

"It is true."

"Unless we succeed in establishing an alternative theory, this

man is lost. You can hardly find a flaw in the case which can

now be presented against him, and all further investigation has

served to strengthen it. By the way, there is one curious little

point about those papers which may serve us as the starting-point

for an inquiry. On looking over the bank-book I found that the

low state of the balance was principally due to large checks

which have been made out during the last year to Mr. Cornelius.

I confess that I should be interested to know who this Mr.

Cornelius may be with whom a retired builder has had such very

large transactions. Is it possible that he has had a hand in the

affair? Cornelius might be a broker, but we have found no scrip

to correspond with these large payments. Failing any other in-

dication, my researches must now take the direction of an in-

quiry at the bank for the gentleman who has cashed these checks.

But I fear, my dear fellow, that our case will end ingloriously by

Lestrade hanging our client, which will certainly be a triumph

for Scotland Yard."

I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that

night, but when I came down to breakfast I found him pale and

harassed, his bright eyes the brighter for the dark shadows round

them. The carpet round his chair was littered with cigarette-ends

and with the early editions of the morning papers. An open

telegram lay upon the table.

"What do you think of this, Watson?" he asked, tossing it

across.

It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:

 

Important fresh evidence to hand. McFarlane's guilt defi-

nitely established. Advise you to abandon case.

LESTRADE.

 

"This sounds serious," said I.

"It is Lestrade's little cock-a-doodle of victory," Holmes

answered, with a bitter smile. "And yet it may be premature to

abandon the case. After all, important fresh evidence is a two-

edged thing, and may possibly cut in a very different direction to

that which Lestrade imagines. Take your breakfast, Watson, and

we will go out together and see what we can do. I feel as if I

shall need your company and your moral support to-day."

My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of his

peculiarities that in his more intense moments he would permit

himself no food, and I have known him presume upon his iron

strength until he has fainted from pure inanition. "At present I

cannot spare energy and nerve force for digestion," he would

say in answer to my medical remonstrances. I was not surprised,

therefore, when this morning he left his untouched meal behind

him, and started with me for Norwood. A crowd of morbid

sightseers were still gathered round Deep Dene House, which

was just such a suburban villa as I had pictured. Within the gates

Lestrade met us, his face flushed with victory, his manner

grossly triumphant.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to be wrong yet?

Have you found your tramp?" he cried.

"I have formed no conclusion whatever," my companion

answered.

"But we formed ours yesterday, and now it proves to be

correct, so you must acknowledge that we have been a little in

front of you this time, Mr. Holmes."

"You certainly have the air of something unusual having

occurred," said Holmes.

Lestrade laughed loudly.

"You don't like being beaten any more than the rest of us

do," said he. "A man can't expect always to have it his own

way, can he, Dr. Watson? Step this way, if you please, gentle-

men, and I think I can convince you once for all that it was John

McFarlane who did this crime."

He led us through the passage and out into a dark hall beyond.

"This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get

his hat after the crime was done," said he. "Now look at this."

With dramatic suddenness he struck a match, and by its light

exposed a stain of blood upon the whitewashed wall. As he held

the match nearer, I saw that it was more than a stain. It was the

well-marked print of a thumb.

"Look at that with your magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, I am doing so."

"You are aware that no two thumb-marks are alike?"

"I have heard something of the kind."

"Well, then, will you please compare that print with this wax

impression of young McFarlane's right thumb, taken by my

orders this morning?"

As he held the waxen print close to the blood-stain, it did not

take a magnifying glass to see that the two were undoubtedly

from the same thumb. It was evident to me that our unfortunate

client was lost.

"That is final," said Lestrade.

"Yes, that is final," I involuntarily echoed.

"It is final," said Holmes.

Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at

him. An extraordinary change had come over his face. It was

writhing with inward merriment. His two eyes were shining like

stars. It seemed to me that he was making desperate efforts to

restrain a convulsive attack of laughter.

"Dear me! Dear me!" he said at last. "Well, now, who

would have thought it? And how deceptive appearances may be,

to be sure! Such a nice young man to look at! It is a lesson to us

not to trust our own judgment, is it not, Lestrade?"

"Yes, some of us are a little too much inclined to be cock-

sure, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade. The man's insolence was

maddening, but we could not resent it.

"What a providential thing that this young man should press

his right thumb against the wall in taking his hat from the peg!

Such a very natural action, too, if you come to think if it."

Holmes was outwardly calm, but his whole body gave a wriggle

of suppressed excitement as he spoke.

"By the way, Lestrade, who made this remarkable discovery?"

"It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night

constable's attention to it."

"Where was the night constable?"

"He remained on guard in the bedroom where the crime was

committed, so as to see that nothing was touched."

"But why didn't the police see this mark yesterday?"

"Well, we had no particular reason to make a careful exami-

nation of the hall. Besides, it's not in a very prominent place, as

you see."

"No, no -- of course not. I suppose there is no doubt that the

mark was there yesterday?"

Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he was going out

of his mind. I confess that I was myself surprised both at his

hilarious manner and at his' rather wild observation.

"I don't know whether you think that McFarlane came out of

jail in the dead of the night in order to strengthen the evidence

against himself," said Lestrade. "I leave it to any expert in the

world whether that is not the mark of his thumb."

"It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb."

"There, that's enough," said Lestrade. "I am a practical

man, Mr. Holmes, and when I have got my evidence I come to

my conclusions. If you have anything to say, you will find me

writing my report in the sitting-room."

Holmes had recovered his equanimity, though I still seemed to

detect gleams of amusement in his expression.

"Dear me, this is a very sad development, Watson, is it not?"

said he. "And yet there are singular points about it which hold

out some hopes for our client."

"I am delighted to hear it," said I, heartily. "I was afraid it

was all up with him."

"I would hardly go so far as to say that, my dear Watson. The

fact is that there is one really serious flaw in this evidence to

which our friend attaches so much importance."

"Indeed, Holmes! What is it?"

"Only this: that I know that that mark was not there when I

examined the hall yesterday. And now, Watson, let us have a

little stroll round in the sunshine."

With a confused brain, but with a heart into which some

warmth of hope was returning, I accompanied my friend in a

walk round the garden. Holmes took each face of the house in

turn, and examined it with great interest. He then led the way

inside, and went over the whole building from basement to attic.

Most of the rooms were unfurnished, but none the less Holmes

inspected them all minutely. Finally, on the top corridor, which

ran outside three untenanted bedrooms, he again was seized with

a spasm of merriment.

"There are really some very unique features about this case,

Watson," said he. "I think it is time now that we took our friend

Lestrade into our confidence. He has had his little smile at our

expense, and perhaps we may do as much by him, if my reading

of this problem proves to be correct. Yes, yes, I think I see how

we should approach it."

The Scotland Yard inspector was still writing in the parlour

when Holmes interrupted him.

"I understood that you were writing a report of this case,"

said he.

"So I am."

"Don't you think it may be a little premature? I can't help

thinking that your evidence is not complete."

Lestrade knew my friend too well to disregard his words. He

laid down his pen and looked curiously at him.

"What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?"

"Only that there is an important witness whom you have not

seen."

"Can you produce him?"

"I think I can."

"Then do so."

"I will do my best. How many constables have you?"

"There are three within call."

"Excellent!" said Holmes. "May I ask if they are all large,

able-bodied men with powerful voices?"

"I have no doubt they are, though I fail to see what their

voices have to do with it."

"Perhaps I can help you to see that and one or two other

things as well," said Holmes. "Kindly summon your men, and I

will try."

Five minutes later, three policemen had assembled in the hall.

"In the outhouse you will find a considerable quantity of

straw," said Holmes. "I will ask you to carry in two bundles of it.

I think it will be of the greatest assistance in producing the

witness whom I require. Thank you very much. I believe you

have some matches in your pocket, Watson. Now, Mr. Lestrade,

I will ask you all to accompany me to the top landing."

As I have said, there was a broad corridor there, which ran

outside three empty bedrooms. At one end of the corridor we

were all marshalled by Sherlock Holmes, the constables grinning

and Lestrade staring at my friend with amazement, expectation,

and derision chasing each other across his features. Holmes

stood before us with the air of a conjurer who is performing a

trick.

"Would you kindly send one of your constables for two

buckets of water? Put the straw on the floor here. free from the

wall on either side. Now I think that we are all ready."

Lestrade's face had begun to grow red and angry.

"I don't know whether you are playing a game with us, Mr.

Sherlock Holmes," said he. "If you know anything, you can

surely say it without all this tomfoolery."

"I assure you, my good Lestrade, that I have an excellent

reason for everything that I do. You may possibly remember that

you chaffed me a little, some hours ago, when the sun seemed

on your side of the hedge, so you must not grudge me a little

pomp and ceremony now. Might I ask you, Watson, to open that

window, and then to put a match to the edge of the straw?"

I did so, and driven by the draught, a coil of gray smoke

swirled down the corridor, while the dry straw crackled and

flamed.

"Now we must see if we can find this witness for you, Lestrade.

Might I ask you all to join in the cry of 'Fire!'? Now then; one,

two, three --"

"Fire!" we all yelled.

"Thank you. I will trouble you once again."

"Fire!"

"Just once more, gentlemen, and all together."

"Fire!" The shout must have rung over Norwood.

It had hardly died away when an amazing thing happened. A

door suddenly flew open out of what appeared to be solid wall at

the end of the corridor, and a little, wizened man darted out of it

like a rabbit out of its burrow.

"Capital!" said Holmes, calmly. "Watson, a bucket of water

over the straw. That will do! Lestrade, allow me to present you

with your principal missing witness, Mr. Jonas Oldacre."

The detective stared at the newcomer with blank amazement.

The latter was blinking in the bright light of the corridor, and

peering at us and at the smouldering fire. It was an odious

face -- crafty, vicious, malignant, with shifty, light-gray eyes and

white lashes.

"What's this, then?" said Lestrade, at last. "What have you

been doing all this time, eh?"

Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh, shrinking back from the furious

red face of the angry detective.

"I have done no harm."

"No harm? You have done your best to get an innocent man

hanged. If it wasn't for this gentleman here, I am not sure that

you would not have succeeded."

The wretched creature began to whimper.

"I am sure, sir, it was only my practical joke."

"Oh! a joke, was it? You won't find the laugh on your side, I

promise you. Take him down, and keep him in the sitting-room

until I come. Mr. Holmes," he continued, when they had gone,

"I could not speak before the constables, but I don't mind

saying, in the presence of Dr. Watson, that this is the brightest

thing that you have done yet, though it is a mystery to me how

you did it. You have saved an innocent man's life, and you have

prevented a very grave scandal, which would have ruined my

reputation in the Force."

Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.

"Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your

reputation has been enormously enhanced. Just make a few

alterations in that report which you were writing, and they will

understand how hard it is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector

Lestrade."

"And you don't want your name to appear?"

"Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps I shall get

the credit also at some distant day, when I permit my zealous

historian to lay out his foolscap once more -- eh, Watson? Well,

now, let us see where this rat has been lurking."

A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across the passage

six feet from the end, with a door cunningly concealed in it. It

was lit within by slits under the eaves. A few articles of furniture

and a supply of food and water were within, together with a

number of books and papers.

"There's the advantage of being a builder," said Holmes, as we

came out. "He was able to fix up his own little hiding-place

without any confederate -- save, of course, that precious house-

keeper of his, whom I should lose no time in adding to your bag,

Lestrade."

"I'll take your advice. But how did you know of this place,

Mr. Holmes?"

"I made up my mind that the fellow was in hiding in the

house. When I paced one corridor and found it six feet shorter

than the corresponding one below, it was pretty clear where he

was. I thought he had not the nerve to lie quiet before an alarm

of fire. We could, of course, have gone in and taken him, but it

amused me to make him reveal himself. Besides, I owed you a

little mystification, Lestrade, for your chaff in the morning."

"Well, sir, you certainly got equal with me on that. But how

in the world did you know that he was in the house at all?"

"The thumb-mark, Lestrade. You said it was final; and so it

was, in a very different sense. I knew it had not been there the

day before. I pay a good deal of attention to matters of detail, as

you may have observed, and I had examined the hall, and was

sure that the wall was clear. Therefore, it had been put on during

the night."

"But how?"

"Very simply. When those packets were sealed up, Jonas

Oldacre got McFarlane to secure one of the seals by putting his

thumb upon the soft wax. It would be done so quickly and so

naturally, that I daresay the young man himself has no recollec-

tion of it. Very likely it just so happened, and Oldacre had

himself no notion of the use he would put it to. Brooding over

the case in that den of his, it suddenly struck him what abso-

lutely damning evidence he could make against McFarlane by

using that thumb-mark. It was the simplest thing in the world for

him to take a wax impression from the seal, to moisten it in as

much blood as he could get from a pin-prick, and to put the mark

upon the wall during the night, either with his own hand or with

that of his housekeeper. If you examine among those documents

which he took with him into his retreat, I will lay you a wager

that you find the seal with the thumbmark upon it."

"Wonderful!" said Lestrade. "Wonderful! It's all as clear as

crystal, as you put it. But what is the object of this deep

deception, Mr. Holmes?"

It was amusing to me to see how the detective's overbearing

manner had changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions

of its teacher.

"Well, I don't think that is very hard to explain. A very deep,

malicious, vindictive person is the gentleman who is now wait-

ing us downstairs. You know that he was once refused by

McFarlane's mother? You don't! I told you that you should go to

Blackheath first and Norwood afterwards. Well, this injury, as

he would consider it, has rankled in his wicked, scheming brain,

and all his life he has longed for vengeance, but never seen his

chance. During the last year or two, things have gone against

him -- secret speculation, I think -- and he finds himself in a bad

way. He determines to swindle his creditors, and for this purpose

he pays large checks to a certain Mr. Cornelius, who is, I

imagine, himself under another name. I have not traced these

checks yet, but I have no doubt that they were banked under that

name at some provincial town where Oldacre from time to time

led a double existence. He intended to change his name al-

together, draw this money, and vanish, starting life again

elsewhere."

"Well, that's likely enough."

"It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw all

pursuit off his track, and at the same time have an ample and

crushing revenge upon his old sweetheart, if he could give the

impression that he had been murdered by her only child. It was a

masterpiece of villainy, and he carried it out like a master. The

idea of the will, which would give an obvious motive for the

crime, the secret visit unknown to his own parents, the retention

of the stick, the blood, and the animal remains and buttons in the

wood-pile, all were admirable. It was a net from which it seemed

to me, a few hours ago, that there was no possible escape. But

he had not that supreme gift of the artist, the knowledge of when

to stop. He wished to improve that which was already perfect -- to

draw the rope tighter yet round the neck of his unfortunate victim --

and so he ruined all. Let us descend, Lestrade. There are just one

or two questions that I would ask him."

The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour, with a

policeman upon each side of him.

"It was a joke, my good sir -- a practical joke, nothing more,"

he whined incessantly. "I assure you, sir, that I simply con-

cealed myself in order to see the effect of my disappearance, and

I am sure that you would not be so unjust as to imagine that I

would have allowed any harm to befall poor young Mr.

McFarlane."

"That's for a jury to decide," said Lestrade. "Anyhow, we

shall have you on a charge of conspiracy, if not for attempted

murder."

"And you'll probably find that your creditors will impound

the banking account of Mr. Cornelius," said Holmes.

The little man started, and turned his malignant eyes upon my

friend.

"l have to thank you for a good deal," said he. "Perhaps I'll

pay my debt some day."

Holmes smiled indulgently.

"I fancy that, for some few years, you will find your time

very fully occupied," said he. "By the way, what was it you put

into the wood-pile besides your old trousers? A dead dog, or

rabbits, or what? You won't tell? Dear me, how very unkind of

you! Well, well, I daresay that a couple of rabbits would account

both for the blood and for the charred ashes. If ever you write an

account, Watson, you can make rabbits serve your turn."

 

==============================

The Adventure of the Priory School

 

We have had some dramatic entrances and exits upon our small

stage at Baker Street, but I cannot recollect anything more

sudden and startling than the first appearance of Thorneycroft

Huxtable, M.A., Ph.D., etc. His card, which seemed too small

to carry the weight of his academic distinctions, preceded him by

a few seconds, and then he entered himself -- so large, so pomp-

ous, and so dignified that he was the very embodiment of

self-possession and solidity. And yet his first action, when the

door had closed behind him, was to stagger against the table,

whence he slipped down upon the floor, and there was that

majestic figure prostrate and insensible upon our bearskin hearthrug.

We had sprung to our feet, and for a few moments we stared

in silent amazement at this ponderous piece of wreckage, which

told of some sudden and fatal storm far out on the ocean of life.

Then Holmes hurried with a cushion for his head. and I with

brandy for his lips. The heavy, white face was seamed with lines

of trouble, the hanging pouches under the closed eyes were

leaden in colour, the loose mouth drooped dolorously at the

corners, the rolling chins were unshaven. Collar and shirt bore

the grime of a long journey, and the hair bristled unkempt from

the well-shaped head. It was a sorely stricken man who lay

before us.

"What is it, Watson?" asked Holmes.

"Absolute exhaustion -- possibly mere hunger and fatigue,"

said I, with my finger on the thready pulse, where the stream of

life trickled thin and small.

"Return ticket from Mackleton, in the north of England,"

said Holmes, drawing it from the watch-pocket. "It is not twelve

o'clock yet. He has certainly been an early starter."

The puckered eyelids had begun to quiver, and now a pair of

vacant gray eyes looked up at us. An instant later the man had

scrambled on to his feet, his face crimson with shame.

"Forgive this weakness, Mr. Holmes, I have been a little

overwrought. Thank you, if I might have a glass of milk and a

biscuit, I have no doubt that I should be better. I came person-

ally, Mr. Holmes, in order to insure that you would return with

me. I feared that no telegram would convince you of the absolute

urgency of the case."

"When you are quite restored --"

"I am quite well again. I cannot imagine how I came to be so

weak. I wish you, Mr. Holmes, to come to Mackleton with me

by the next train."

My friend shook his head.

"My colleague, Dr. Watson, could tell you that we are very

busy at present. I am retained in this case of the Ferrers Docu-

ments, and the Abergavenny murder is coming up for trial. Only

a very important issue could call me from London at present."

"Important!" Our visitor threw up his hands. "Have you

heard nothing of the abduction of the only son of the Duke of

Holdernesse?"

"What! the late Cabinet Minister?"

"Exactly. We had tried to keep it out of the papers, but there

was some rumor in the Globe last night. I thought it might have

reached your ears."

Holmes shot out his long, thin arm and picked out Volume

"H" in his encyclopaedia of reference.

" 'Holdernesse, 6th Duke, K.G., P.C.' -- half the alphabet!

'Baron Beverley, Earl of Carston' -- dear me, what a list! 'Lord

Lieutenant of Hallamshire since 1900. Married Edith, daughter

of Sir Charles Appledore, 1888. Heir and only child, Lord

Saltire. Owns about two hundred and fifty thousand acres. Min-

erals in Lancashire and Wales. Address: Carlton House Terrace;

Holdernesse Hall, Hallamshire; Carston Castle, Bangor, Wales.

Lord of the Admiralty, 1872; Chief Secretary of State for --'

Well, well, this man is certainly one of the greatest subjects of

the Crown!"

"The greatest and perhaps the wealthiest. I am aware, Mr.

Holmes, that you take a very high line in professional matters,

and that you are prepared to work for the work's sake. I may tell

you, however, that his Grace has already intimated that a check

for five thousand pounds will be handed over to the person who

can tell him where his son is, and another thousand to him who

can name the man or men who have taken him."

"It is a princely offer," said Holmes. "Watson, I think that

we shall accompany Dr. Huxtable back to the north of England.

And now, Dr. Huxtable, when you have consumed that milk,

you will kindly tell me what has happened, when it happened,

how it happened, and, finally, what Dr. Thorneycroft Huxtable,

of the Priory School, near Mackleton, has to do with the matter,

and why he comes three days after an event -- the state of your

chin gives the date -- to ask for my humble services."

Our visitor had consumed his milk and biscuits. The light had

come back to his eyes and the colour to his cheeks, as he set

himself with great vigour and lucidity to explain the situation.

"I must inform you, gentlemen, that the Priory is a prepara-

tory school, of which I am the founder and principal. Huxtable's

Sidelights on Horace may possibly recall my name to your

memories. The Priory is, without exception, the best and most

select preparatory school in England. Lord Leverstoke, the Earl

of Blackwater, Sir Cathcart Soames -- they all have intrusted

their sons to me. But I felt that my school had reached its zenith

when, three weeks ago, the Duke of Holdernesse sent Mr. James

Wilder, his secretary, with the intimation that young Lord Sal-

tire, ten years old, his only son and heir, was about to be

committed to my charge. Little did I think that this would be the

prelude to the most crushing misfortune of my life.

"On May 1st the boy arrived, that being the beginning of the

summer term. He was a charming youth, and he soon fell into

our ways. I may tell you -- I trust that I am not indiscreet, but

half-confidences are absurd in such a case -- that he was not

entirely happy at home. It is an open secret that the Duke's

married life had not been a peaceful one, and the matter had

ended in a separation by mutual consent, the Duchess taking up

her residence in the south of France. This had occurred very

shortly before, and the boy's sympathies are known to have been

strongly with his mother. He moped after her departure from

Holdernesse Hall, and it was for this reason that the Duke

desired to send him to my establishment. In a fortnight the boy

was quite at home with us and was apparently absolutely happy.

"He was last seen on the night of May 13th -- that is, the night

of last Monday. His room was on the second floor and was

approached through another larger room, in which two boys

were sleeping. These boys saw and heard nothing, so that it is

certain that young Saltire did not pass out that way. His window

was open, and there is a stout ivy plant leading to the ground.

We could trace no footmarks below, but it is sure that this is the

only possible exit.

"His absence was discovered at seven o'clock on Tuesday

morning. His bed had been slept in. He had dressed himself

fully, before going off, in his usual school suit of black Eton

jacket and dark gray trousers. There were no signs that anyone

had entered the room, and it is quite certain that anything in the

nature of cries or a struggle would have been heard, since

Caunter, the elder boy in the inner room, is a very light sleeper.

"When Lord Saltire's disappearance was discovered, I at once

called a roll of the whole establishment -- boys, masters, and

servants. It was then that we ascertained that Lord Saltire had not

been alone in his flight. Heidegger, the German master, was

missing. His room was on the second floor, at the farther end of

the building, facing the same way as Lord Saltire's. His bed had

also been slept in, but he had apparently gone away partly

dressed, since his shirt and socks were lying on the floor. He had

undoubtedly let himself down by the ivy, for we could see the

marks of his feet where he had landed on the lawn. His bicycle

was kept in a small shed beside this lawn, and it also was gone.

"He had been with me for two years, and came with the best

references, but he was a silent, morose man, not very popular

either with masters or boys. No trace could be found of the

fugitives, and now, on Thursday morning, we are as ignorant as

we were on Tuesday. Inquiry was, of course, made at once at

Holdernese Hall. It is only a few miles away, and we imagined

that, in some sudden attack of homesickness, he had gone back

to his father, but nothing had been heard of him. The Duke is

greatly agitated, and, as to me, you have seen yourselves the

state of nervous prostration to which the suspense and the re-

sponsibility have reduced me. Mr. Holmes, if ever you put

forward your full powers, I implore you to do so now, for never

in your life could you have a case which is more worthy of

them."

Sherlock Holmes had listened with the utmost intentness to the

statement of the unhappy schoolmaster. His drawn brows and the

deep furrow between them showed that he needed no exhortation

to concentrate all his attention upon a problem which, apart from

the tremendous interests involved, must appeal so directly to his

love of the complex and the unusual. He now drew out his

notebook and jotted down one or two memoranda.

"You have been very remiss in not coming to me sooner,"

said he, severely. "You start me on my investigation with a very

serious handicap. It is inconceivable for example, that this ivy

and this lawn would have yielded nothing to an expert observer."

"I am not to blame, Mr. Holmes. His Grace was extremely

desirous to avoid all public scandal. He was afraid of his family

unhappiness being dragged before the world. He has a deep

horror of anything of the kind."

"But there has been some official investigation?"

"Yes, sir, and it has proved most disappointing. An apparent

clue was at once obtained, since a boy and a young man were

reported to have been seen leaving a neighbouring station by an

early train. Only last night we had news that the couple had been

hunted down in Liverpool, and they prove to have no connection

whatever with the matter in hand. Then it was that in my despair

and disappointment, after a sleepless night, I came straight to

you by the early train."

"I suppose the local investigation was relaxed while this false

clue was being followed up?"

"It was entirely dropped."

"So that three days have been wasted. The affair has been

most deplorably handled."

"I feel it and admit it."

"And yet the problem should be capable of ultimate solution.

I shall be very happy to look into it. Have you been able to trace

any connection between the missing boy and this German master?"

"None at all."

"Was he in the master's class?"

"No, he never exchanged a word with him, so far as I

know."

"That is certainly very singular. Had the boy a bicycle?"

"No."

"Was any other bicycle missing?"

"No."

"Is that certain?"

"Quite."

"Well, now, you do not mean to seriously suggest that this

German rode off upon a bicycle in the dead of the night, bearing

the boy in his arms?"

"Certainly not."

"Then what is the theory in your mind?"

"The bicycle may have been a blind. It may have been hidden

somewhere, and the pair gone off on foot."

"Quite so, but it seems rather an absurd blind, does it not?

Were there other bicycles in this shed?"

"Several."

"Would he not have hidden a couple, had he desired to give

the idea that they had gone off upon them?"

"I suppose he would."

"Of course he would. The blind theory won't do. But the

incident is an admirable starting-point for an investigation. After

all, a bicycle is not an easy thing to conceal or to destroy. One

other question. Did anyone call to see the boy on the day before

he disappeared?"

"No."

"Did he get any letters?"

"Yes, one letter."

"From whom?"

"From his father."

"Do you open the boys' letters?"

"No."

"How do you know it was from the father?"

"The coat of arms was on the envelope, and it was addressed

in the Duke's peculiar stiff hand. Besides, the Duke remembers

having written."

"When had he a letter before that?"

"Not for several days."

"Had he ever one from France?"

"No, never."

"You see the point of my questions, of course. Either the boy

was carried off by force or he went of his own free will. In the

latter case, you would expect that some prompting from outside

would be needed to make so young a lad do such a thing. If he

has had no visitors, that prompting must have come in letters;

hence I try to find out who were his correspondents."

"I fear I cannot help you much. His only correspondent, so

far as I know, was his own father."

"Who wrote to him on the very day of his disappearance.

Were the relations between father and son very friendly?"

"His Grace is never very friendly with anyone. He is com-

pletely immersed in large public questions, and is rather inacces-

sible to all ordinary emotions. But he was always kind to the boy

in hls own way."

"But the sympathies of the latter were with the mother?"

"Yes."

"Did he say so?"

"No."

"The Duke, then?"

"Good heaven, no!"

"Then how could you know?"

"I have had some confidential talks with Mr. James Wilder,

his Grace's secretary. It was he who gave me the information

about Lord Saltire's feelings."

"I see. By the way, that last letter of the Duke's -- was it

found in the boy's room after he was gone?"

"No, he had taken it with him. I think, Mr. Holmes, it is time

that we were leaving for Euston."

"I will order a four-wheeler. In a quarter of an hour, we shall

be at your service. If you are telegraphing home, Mr. Huxtable,

it would be well to allow the people in your neighbourhood to

imagine that the inquiry is still going on in Liverpool, or wher-

ever else that red herring led your pack. In the meantime I will

do a little quiet work at your own doors, and perhaps the scent is

not so cold but that two old hounds like Watson and myself may

get a sniff of it."

That evening found us in the cold, bracing atmosphere of the

Peak country, in which Dr. Huxtable's famous school is situated.

It was already dark when we reached it. A card was lying on the

hall table, and the butler whispered something to his master, who

turned to us with agitation in every heavy feature.

"The Duke is here," said he. "The Duke and Mr. Wilder are

in the study. Come, gentlemen, and I will introduce you."

I was, of course, familiar with the pictures of the famous

statesman, but the man himself was very different from his

representation. He was a tall and stately person, scrupulously

dressed, with a drawn, thin face, and a nose which was grotes-

quely curved and long. His complexion was of a dead pallor,

which was more startling by contrast with a long, dwindling

beard of vivid red, which flowed down over his white waistcoat,

with his watch-chain gleaming through its fringe. Such was the

stately presence who looked stonily at us from the centre of Dr.

Huxtable's hearthrug. Beside him stood a very young man,

whom I understood to be Wilder, the private secretary. He was

small, nervous, alert, with intelligent light-blue eyes and mobile

features. It was he who at once, in an incisive and positive tone,

opened the conversation.

"I called this morning, Dr. Huxtable, too late to prevent you

from starting for London. I learned that your object was to invite

Mr. Sherlock Holmes to undertake the conduct of this case. His

Grace is surprised, Dr. Huxtable, that you should have taken

such a step without consulting him."

"When I learned that the police had failed --"

"His Grace is by no means convinced that the police have

failed."

"But surely, Mr. Wilder --"

"You are well aware, Dr. Huxtable, that his Grace is particu-

larly anxious to avoid all public scandal. He prefers to take as

few people as possible into his confidence."

"The matter can be easily remedied," said the browbeaten

doctor; "Mr. Sherlock Holmes can return to London by the

morning train."

"Hardly that, Doctor, hardly that," said Holmes, in his blandest

voice. "This northern air is invigorating and pleasant, so I

propose to spend a few days upon your moors, and to occupy my

mind as best I may. Whether I have the shelter of your roof or of

the village inn is, of course, for you to decide."

I could see that the unfortunate doctor was in the last stage of

indecision, from which he was rescued by the deep, sonorous

voice of the red-bearded Duke, which boomed out like a

dinner-gong.

"I agree with Mr. Wilder, Dr. Huxtable, that you would have

done wisely to consult me. But since Mr. Holmes has already

been taken into your confidence, it would indeed be absurd that

we should not avail ourselves of his services. Far from going to

the inn, Mr. Holmes, I should be pleased if you would come and

stay with me at Holdernesse Hall."

"I thank your Grace. For the purposes of my investigation, I

think that it would be wiser for me to remain at the scene of the

mystery."

"Just as you like, Mr. Holmes. Any information which Mr.

Wilder or I can give you is, of course, at your disposal."

"It will probably be necessary for me to see you at the Hall,"

said Holmes. "I would only ask you now, sir, whether you have

formed any explanation in your own mind as to the mysterious

disappearance of your son?"

"No, sir, I have not."

"Excuse me if I allude to that which is painful to you. but I

have no alternative. Do you think that the Duchess had anything

to do with the matter?"

The great minister showed perceptible hesitation.

"I do not think so," he said, at last.

"The other most obvious explanation is that the child has been

kidnapped for the purpose of levying ransom. You have not had

any demand of the sort?"

"No, sir."

"One more question, your Grace. I understand that you wrote

to your son upon the day when this incident occurred."

"No, I wrote upon the day before."

"Exactly. But he received it on that day?"

"Yes."

"Was there anything in your letter which might have unbal-

anced him or induced him to take such a step?"

"No, sir, cenainly not."

"Did you post that letter yourself?"

The nobleman's reply was interrupted by his secretary, who

broke in with some heat.

"His Grace is not in the habit of posting letters himself," said

he. "This letter was laid with others upon the study table, and I

myself put them in the post-bag."

"You are sure this one was among them?"

"Yes, I observed it."

"How many letters did your Grace write that day?"

"Twenty or thirty. I have a large correspondence. But surely

this is somewhat irrelevant?"

"Not entirely," said Holmes.

"For my own part," the Duke continued, "I have advised the

police to turn their attention to the south of France. I have

already said that I do not believe that the Duchess would encour-

age so monstrous an action. but the lad had the most wrong-

headed opinions, and it is possible that he may have fled to her,

aided and abetted by this German. I think, Dr. Huxtable, that we

will now return to the Hall."

I could see that there were other questions which Holmes

would have wished to put, but the nobleman's abrupt manner

showed that the interview was at an end. It was evident that to

his intensely aristocratic nature this discussion of his intimate

family affairs with a stranger was most abhorrent. and that he

feared lest every fresh question would throw a fiercer light into

the discreetly shadowed corners of his ducal history.

When the nobleman and his secretary had left, my friend

flung himself at once with characteristic eagerness into the

investigation.

The boy's chamber was carefully examined, and yielded noth-

ing save the absolute conviction that it was only through the

window that he could have escaped. The German master's room

and effects gave no further clue. In his case a trailer of ivy

had given way under his weight, and we saw by the light of a

lantern the mark on the lawn where his heels had come down.

That one dint in the short, green grass was the only material

witness left of this inexplicable nocturnal flight.

Sherlock Holmes left the house alone, and only returned after

eleven. He had obtained a large ordnance map of the neighbour-

hood, and this he brought into my room, where he laid it out on

the bed, and, having balanced the lamp in the middle of it, he

began to smoke over it, and occasionally to point out objects of

interest with the reeking amber of his pipe.

"This case grows upon me, Watson," said he. "There are

decidedly some points of interest in connection with it. In this

early stage, I want you to realize those geographical features

which may have a good deal to do with our investigation.

"Look at this map. This dark square is the Priory School. I'll

put a pin in it. Now, this line is the main road. You see that it

runs east and west past the school, and you see also that there is

no side road for a mile either way. If these two folk passed away

by road, it was this road."

"Exactly."

"By a singular and happy chance, we are able to some extent

to check what passed along this road during the night in ques-

tion. At this point, where my pipe is now resting, a county

constable was on duty from twelve to six. It is, as you perceive,

the first cross-road on the east side. This man declares that he

was not absent from his post for an instant, and he is positive

that neither boy nor man could have gone that way unseen. I

have spoken with this policeman to-night, and he appears to me

to be a perfectly reliable person. That blocks this end. We have

now to deal with the other. There is an inn here, the Red Bull,

the landlady of which was ill. She had sent to Mackleton for a

doctor, but he did not arrive until morning, being absent at

another case. The people at the inn were alert all night, awaiting

his coming, and one or other of them seems to have continually

had an eye upon the road. They declare that no one passed. If

their evidence is good, then we are fortunate enough to be able

to block the west, and also to be able to say that the fugitives did

not use the road at all."

"But the bicycle?" I objected.

"Quite so. We will come to the bicycle presently. To continue

our reasoning: if these people did not go by the road, they must

have traversed the country to the north of the house or to the

south of the house. That is certain. Let us weigh the one against

the other. On the south of the house is, as you perceive, a large

district of arable land, cut up into small fields, with stone walls

between them. There, I admit that a bicycle is impossible. We

can dismiss the idea. We turn to the country on the north. Here

there lies a grove of trees, marked as the 'Ragged Shaw,' and on

the farther side stretches a great rolling moor, Lower Gill Moor,

extending for ten miles and sloping gradually upward. Here, at

one side of this wilderness, is Holdernesse Hall, ten miles by

road, but only six across the moor. It is a peculiarly desolate

plain. A few moor farmers have small holdings, where they rear

sheep and cattle. Except these, the plover and the curlew are the

only inhabitants until you come to the Chesterfield high road.

There is a church there, you see, a few cottages, and an inn.

Beyond that the hills become precipitous. Surely it is here to the

north that our quest must lie."

"But the bicycle?" I persisted.

"Well, well!" said Holmes, impatiently. "A good cyclist does

not need a high road. The moor is intersected with paths, and the

moon was at the full. Halloa! what is this?"

There was an agitated knock at the door, and an instant

afterwards Dr. Huxtable was in the room. In his hand he held a

blue cricket-cap with a white chevron on the peak.

"At last we have a clue!" he cried. "Thank heaven! at last we

are on the dear boy's track! It is his cap."

"Where was it found?"

"In the van of the gipsies who camped on the moor. They left

on Tuesday. To-day the police traced them down and examined

their caravan. This was found."

"How do they account for it?"

"They shuffled and lied -- said that they found it on the moor

on Tuesday morning. They know where he is. the rascals! Thank

goodness, they are all safe under lock and key. Either the fear of

the law or the Duke's purse will certainly get out of them all that

they know."

"So far, so good," said Holmes, when the doctor had at last

left the room. "It at least bears out the theory that it is on the

side of the Lower Gill Moor that we must hope for results. The

police have really done nothing locally, save the arrest of these

gipsies. Look here, Watson! There is a watercourse across the

moor. You see it marked here in the map. In some parts it

widens into a morass. This is particularly so in the region

between Holdernesse Hall and the school. It is vain to look

elsewhere for tracks in this dry weather, but at that point there is

certainly a chance of some record being left. I will call you early

to-morrow morning, and you and I will try if we can throw some

little light upon the mystery."

The day was just breaking when I woke to find the long, thin

form of Holmes by my bedside. He was fully dressed, and had

apparently already been out.

"I have done the lawn and the bicycle shed," said he. "I have

also had a ramble through the Ragged Shaw. Now, Watson

there is cocoa ready in the next room. I must beg you to hurry, for

we have a great day before us."

His eyes shone, and his cheek was flushed with the exhilara-

tion of the master workman who sees his work lie ready before

him. A very different Holmes, this active, alert man, from the

introspective and pallid dreamer of Baker Street. I felt, as I

looked upon that supple figure, alive with nervous energy, that it

was indeed a strenuous day that awaited us.

And yet it opened in the blackest disappointment. With high

hopes we struck across the peaty, russet moor, intersected with a

thousand sheep paths, until we came to the broad, light-green

belt which marked the morass between us and Holdernesse.

Certainly, if the lad had gone homeward, he must have passed

this, and he could not pass it without leaving his traces. But no

sign of him or the German could be seen. With a darkening face

my friend strode along the margin, eagerly observant of every

muddy stain upon the mossy surface. Sheep-marks there were in

profusion, and at one place, some miles down, cows had left

their tracks. Nothing more.

"Check number one," said Holmes, looking gloomily over

the rolling expanse of the moor. "There is another morass down

yonder, and a narrow neck between. Halloa! halloa! halloa! what

have we here?"

We had come on a small black ribbon of pathway. In the

middle of it, clearly marked on the sodden soil, was the track of

a bicycle.

"Hurrah!" I cried. "We have it."

But Holmes was shaking his head, and his face was puzzled

and expectant rather than joyous.

"A bicycle, certainly, but not the bicycle " said he. "I am

familiar with forty-two different impressions left by tyres. This

as you perceive, is a Dunlop, with a patch upon the outer cover.

Heidegger's tyres were Palmer's, leaving longitudinal stripes.

Aveling, the mathematical master, was sure upon the point.

Therefore, it is not Heidegger's track."

"The boy's then?"

"Possibly, if we could prove a bicycle to have been in his

possession. But this we have utterly failed to do. This track, as

you perceive, was made by a rider who was going from the

direction of the school."

"Or towards it?"

"No, no, my dear Watson. The more deeply sunk impression

is, of course, the hind wheel, upon which the weight rests. You

perceive several places where it has passed across and obliterated

the more shallow mark of the front one. It was undoubtedly

heading away from the school. It may or may not be connected

with our inquiry, but we will follow it backwards before we go

any farther."

We did so, and at the end of a few hundred yards lost the

tracks as we emerged from the boggy portion of the moor.

Following the path backwards, we picked out another spot,

where a spring trickled across it. Here, once again, was the mark

of the bicycle, though nearly obliterated by the hoofs of cows.

After that there was no sign, but the path ran right on into

Ragged Shaw, the wood which backed on to the school. From

this wood the cycle must have emerged. Holmes sat down on a

boulder and rested his chin in his hands. I had smoked two

cigarettes before he moved.

"Well, well," said he, at last. "It is, of course, possible that

a cunning man might change the tyres of his bicycle in order to

leave unfamiliar tracks. A criminal who was capable of such a

thought is a man whom I should be proud to do business with.

We will leave this question undecided and hark back to our

morass again, for we have left a good deal unexplored."

We continued our systematic survey of the edge of the sodden

portion of the moor, and soon our perseverance was gloriously

rewarded. Right across the lower part of the bog lay a miry path.

Holmes gave a cry of delight as he approached it. An impression

like a fine bundle of telegraph wires ran down the centre of it. It

was the Palmer tyres.

"Here is Herr Heidegger, sure enough!" cried Holmes, exul-

tantly. "My reasoning seems to have been pretty sound, Watson."

"I congratulate you."

"But we have a long way still to go. Kindly walk clear of the

path. Now let us follow the trail. I fear that it will not lead very

far."

We found, however, as we advanced that this portion of the

moor is intersected with soft patches, and, though we frequently

lost sight of the track, we always succeeded in picking it up once

more.

"Do you observe," said Holmes, "that the rider is now

undoubtedly forcing the pace? There can be no doubt of it. Look

at this impression, where you get both tyres clear. The one is as

deep as the other. That can only mean that the rider is throwing

his weight on to the handle-bar, as a man does when he is

sprinting. By Jove! he has had a fall."

There was a broad, irregular smudge covering some yards of

the track. Then there were a few footmarks, and the tyres

reappeared once more.

"A side-slip," I suggested.

Holmes held up a crumpled branch of flowering gorse. To my

horror I perceived that the yellow blossoms were all dabbled

with crimson. On the path, too, and among the heather were

dark stains of clotted blood.

"Bad!" said Holmes. "Bad! Stand clear, Watson! Not an

unnecessary footstep! What do I read here? He fell wounded -- he

stood up -- he remounted -- he proceeded. But there is no other

track. Cattle on this side path. He was surely not gored by a

bull? Impossible! But I see no traces of anyone else. We must

push on, Watson. Surely, with stains as well as the track to

guide us, he cannot escape us now."

Our search was not a very long one. The tracks of the tyre

began to curve fantastically upon the wet and shining path.

Suddenly, as I looked ahead, the gleam of metal caught my eye

from amid the thick gorse-bushes. Out of them we dragged a

bicycle, Palmer-tyred, one pedal bent, and the whole front of it

horribly smeared and slobbered with blood. On the other side of

the bushes, a shoe was projecting. We ran round, and there lay

the unfortunate rider. He was a tall man, full-bearded, with

spectacles, one glass of which had been knocked out.The cause

of his death was a frightful blow upon the head, which had

crushed in part of his skull. That he could have gone on after

receiving such an injury said much for the vitality and courage of

the man. He wore shoes, but no socks, and his open coat

disclosed a nightshirt beneath it. It was undoubtedly the German

master.

Holmes turned the body over reverently, and examined it with

great attention. He then sat in deep thought for a time, and I

could see by his ruffled brow that this grim discovery had not, in

his opinion, advanced us much in our inquiry.

"It is a little difficult to know what to do, Watson," said he,

at last. "My own inclinations are to push this inquiry on, for we

have already lost so much time that we cannot afford to waste

another hour. On the other hand, we are bound to inform the

police of the discovery, and to see that this poor fellow's body is

looked after."

"I could take a note back."

"But I need your company and assistance. Wait a bit! There is

a fellow cutting peat up yonder. Bring him over here, and he will

guide the police."

I brought the peasant across, and Holmes dispatched the fright-

ened man with a note to Dr. Huxtable.

"Now, Watson," said he, "we have picked up two clues this

morning. One is the bicycle with the Palmer tyre, and we see

what that has led to. The other is the bicycle with the patched

Dunlop. Before we start to investigate that, let us try to realize

what we do know, so as to make the most of it, and to separate

the essential from the accidental."

"First of all, I wish to impress upon you that the boy certainly

left of his own free-will. He got down from his window and he

went off, either alone or with someone. That is sure."

I assented.

"Well, now, let us turn to this unfortunate German master.

The boy was fully dressed when he fled. Therefore he foresaw

what he would do. But the German went without his socks. He

certainly acted on very short notice."

"Undoubtedly."

"Why did he go? Because, from his bedroom window, he saw

the flight of the boy because he wished to overtake him and

bring him back. He seized his bicycle, pursued the lad, and in

pursuing him met his death."

"So it would seem."

"Now I come to the critical part of my argument. The natural

action of a man in pursuing a little boy would be to run after

him. He would know that he could overtake him. But the

German does not do so. He turns to his bicycle. I am told that he

was an excellent cyclist. He would not do this, if he did not see

that the boy had some swift means of escape."

"The other bicycle."

"Let us continue our reconstruction. He meets his death five

miles from the school -- not by a bullet, mark you, which even a

lad might conceivably discharge, but by a savage blow dealt by a

vigorous arm. The lad, then, had a companion in his flight. And

the flight was a swift one, since it took five miles before an

expert cyclist could overtake them. Yet we survey the ground

round the scene of the tragedy. What do we find? A few cattle-

tracks, nothing more. I took a wide sweep round, and there is no

path within fifty yards. Another cyclist could have had nothing

to do with the actual murder, nor were there any human

footmarks."

"Holmes," I cried, "this is impossible."

"Admirable!" he said. "A most illuminating remark. It is

impossible as I state it, and therefore I must in some respect have

stated it wrong. Yet you saw for yourself. Can you suggest any

fallacy?"

"He could not have fractured his skull in a fall?"

"In a morass, Watson?"

"I am at my wit's end."

"Tut, tut, we have solved some worse problems. At least we

have plenty of material, if we can only use it. Come, then, and,

having exhausted the Palmer, let us see what the Dunlop with the

patched cover has to offer us."

We picked up the track and followed it onward for some

distance, but soon the moor rose into a long, heather-tufted

curve, and we left the watercourse behind us. No further help

from tracks could be hoped for. At the spot where we saw the

last of the Dunlop tyre it might equally have led to Holdernesse

Hall, the stately towers of which rose some miles to our left, or

to a low, gray village which lay in front of us and marked the

position of the Chesterfield high road.

As we approached the forbidding and squalid inn, with the

sign of a game-cock above the door, Holmes gave a sudden

groan, and clutched me by the shoulder to save himself from

falling. He had had one of those violent strains of the ankle

which leave a man helpless. With difficulty he limped up to the

door, where a squat, dark, elderly man was smoking a black clay

pipe.

"How are you, Mr. Reuben Hayes?" said Holmes.

"Who are you, and how do you get my name so pat?" the

countryman answered, with a suspicious flash of a pair of cun-

ning eyes.

"Well, it's printed on the board above your head. It's easy to

see a man who is master of his own house. I suppose you

haven't such a thing as a carriage in your stables?"

"No, I have not."

"I can hardly put my foot to the ground."

"Don't put it to the ground."

"But I can't walk."

"Well, then, hop."

Mr. Reuben Hayes's manner was far from gracious, but Holmes

took it with admirable good-humour.

"Look here, my man," said he. "This is really rather an

awkward fix for me. I don't mind how I get on."

"Neither do I," said the morose landlord.

"The matter is very important. I would offer you a sovereign

for the use of a bicycle."

The landlord pricked up his ears.

"Where do you want to go?"

"To Holdernesse Hall."

"Pals of the Dook, I suppose?" said the landlord, surveying

our mud-stained garments with ironical eyes.

Holmes laughed good-naturedly.

"He'll be glad to see us, anyhow."

"Why?"

"Because we bring him news of his lost son."

The landlord gave a very visible start.

"What, you're on his track?"

"He has been heard of in Liverpool. They expect to get him

every hour."

Again a swift change passed over the heavy, unshaven face.

His manner was suddenly genial.

"I've less reason to wish the Dook well than most men,"

said he, "for I was his head coachman once, and cruel bad he

treated me. It was him that sacked me without a character on the

word of a lying corn-chandler. But I'm glad to hear that the

young lord was heard of in Liverpool, and I'll help you to take

the news to the Hall."

"Thank you," said Holmes. "We'll have some food first.

Then you can bring round the bicycle."

"I haven't got a bicycle."

Holmes held up a sovereign.

"I tell you, man, that I haven't got one. I'll let you have two

horses as far as the Hall."

"Well, well," said Holmes, "we'll talk about it when we've

had something to eat."

When we were left alone in the stone-flagged kitchen, it was

astonishing how rapidly that sprained ankle recovered. It was

nearly nightfall, and we had eaten nothing since early morning,

so that we spent some time over our meal. Holmes was lost in

thought, and once or twice he walked over to the window and

stared earnestly out. It opened on to a squalid courtyard. In the

far corner was a smithy, where a grimy lad was at work. On the

other side were the stables. Holmes had sat down again after one

of these excursions, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair

with a loud exclamation.

"By heaven, Watson, I believe that I've got it!" he cried.

"Yes, yes, it must be so. Watson, do you remember seeing any

cow-tracks to-day?"

"Yes, several."

"Where?"

"Well, everywhere. They were at the morass, and again on

the path, and again near where poor Heidegger met his death."

"Exactly. Well, now, Watson, how many cows did you see

on the moor?"

"I don't remember seeing any."

"Strange, Watson, that we should see tracks all along our

line, but never a cow on the whole moor. Very strange, Watson,

eh?"

"Yes, it is strange."

"Now, Watson, make an effort, throw your mind back. Can

you see those tracks upon the path?"

"Yes, I can."

"Can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that,

Watson" -- he arranged a number of bread-crumbs in this fashion -- :

: : : : -- "and sometimes like this" -- : . : . : . : . -- "and

occasionally like this" -- . ' . ' . ' . ' "Can you remember that?"

"No, I cannot."

"But I can. I could swear to it. However, we will go back at

our leisure and verify it. What a blind beetle I have been, not to

draw my conclusion."

"And what is your conclusion?"

"Only that it is a remarkable cow which walks, canters, and

gallops. By George! Watson, it was no brain of a country

publican that thought out such a blind as that. The coast seems to

be clear, save for that lad in the smithy. Let us slip out and see

what we can see."

There were two rough-haired, unkempt horses in the tumble-

down stable. Holmes raised the hind leg of one of them and

laughed aloud.

"Old shoes, but newly shod -- old shoes, but new nails. This

case deserves to be a classic. Let us go across to the smithy."

The lad continued his work without regarding us. I saw Holmes's

eye darting to right and left among the litter of iron and wood

which was scattered about the floor. Suddenly, however, we

heard a step behind us, and there was the landlord, his heavy

eyebrows drawn over his savage eyes, his swarthy features con-

vulsed with passion. He held a short, metal-headed stick in his

hand, and he advanced in so menacing a fashion that I was right

glad to feel the revolver in my pocket.

"You infernal spies!" the man cried. "What are you doing

there?"

"Why, Mr. Reuben Hayes," said Holmes, coolly, "one might

think that you were afraid of our finding something out."

The man mastered himself with a violent effort, and his grim

mouth loosened into a false laugh, which was more menacing

than his frown.

"You're welcome to all you can find out in my smithy," said

he. "But look here, mister, I don't care for folk poking about

my place without my leave, so the sooner you pay your score

and get out of this the better I shall be pleased."

"All right, Mr. Hayes, no harm meant," said Holmes. "We

have been having a look at your horses, but I think I'll walk,

after all. It's not far, I believe."

"Not more than two miles to the Hall gates. That's the road to

the left." He watched us with sullen eyes until we had left his

premises.

We did not go very far along the road, for Holmes stopped the

instant that the curve hid us from the landlord's view.

"We were warm, as the children say, at that inn," said he. "I

seem to grow colder every step that I take away from it. No, no,

I can't possibly leave it."

"I am convinced," said I, "that this Reuben Hayes knows all

about it. A more self-evident villain I never saw."

"Oh! he impressed you in that way, did he? There are the

horses, there is the smithy. Yes, it is an interesting place, this

Fighting Cock. I think we shall have another look at it in an

unobtrusive way."

A long, sloping hillside, dotted with gray limestone boulders,

stretched behind us. We had turned off the road, and were

making our way up the hill, when, looking in the direction of

Holdemesse Hall, I saw a cyclist coming swiftly along.

"Get down, Watson!" cried Holmes, with a heavy hand upon

my shoulder. We had hardly sunk from view when the man flew

past us on the road. Amid a rolling cloud of dust, I caught a

glimpse of a pale, agitated face -- a face with horror in every

lineament, the mouth open, the eyes staring wildly in front. It

was like some strange caricature of the dapper James Wilder

whom we had seen the night before.

"The Duke's secretary!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson, let

us see what he does."

We scrambled from rock to rock, until in a few moments we

had made our way to a point from which we could see the front

door of the inn. Wilder's bicycle was leaning against the wall

beside it. No one was moving about the house, nor could we

catch a glimpse of any faces at the windows. Slowly the twilight

crept down as the sun sank behind the high towers of Holdemesse

Hall. Then, in the gloom, we saw the two side-lamps of a trap

light up in the stable-yard of the inn, and shortly afterwards

heard the rattle of hoofs, as it wheeled out into the road and tore

off at a furious pace in the direction of Chesterfield.

"What do you make of that, Watson?" Holmes whispered.

"It looks like a flight."

"A single man in a dog-cart, so far as I could see. Well, it

cedrtnainly was not Mr. James Wilder, for there he is at the door."

A red square of light had sprung out of the darkness. In the

middle of it was the black figure of the secretary, his head

advanced, peering out into the night. It was evident that he was

expecting someone. Then at last there were steps in the road, a

second figure was visible for an instant against the light, the door

shut, and all was black once more. Five minutes later a lamp was

lit in a room upon the first floor.

"It seems to be a curious class of custom that is done by the

Fighting Cock," said Holmes.

"The bar is on the other side."

"Quite so. These are what one may call the private guests.

Now, what in the world is Mr. James Wilder doing in that den at

this hour of night, and who is the companion who comes to meet

him there? Come, Watson, we must really take a risk and try to

investigate this a little more closely."

Together we stole down to the road and crept across to the

door of the inn. The bicycle still leaned against the wall. Holmes

struck a match and held it to the back wheel, and I heard him

chuckle as the light fell upon a patched Dunlop tyre. Up above

us was the lighted window.

"I must have a peep through that, Watson. If you bend your

back and support yourself upon the wall, I think that I can

manage."

An instant later, his feet were on my shoulders, but he was

hardly up before he was down again.

"Come, my friend," said he, "our day's work has been quite

long enough. I think that we have gathered all that we can. It's a

long walk to the school, and the sooner we get started the

better."

He hardly opened his lips during that weary trudge across the

moor, nor would he enter the school when he reached it, but

went on to Mackleton Station, whence he could send some

telegrams. Late at night I heard him consoling Dr. Huxtable,

prostrated by the tragedy of his master's death, and later still he

entered my room as alen and vigorous as he had been when he

started in the morning. "All goes well, my friend," said he. "I

promise that before to-morrow evening we shall have reached the

solution of the mystery."

 

At eleven o'clock next morning my friend and I were walking

up the famous yew avenue of Holdemesse Hall. We were ush-

ered through the magnificent Elizabethan doorway and into his

Grace's study. There we found Mr. James Wilder, demure and

courtly, but with some trace of that wild terror of the night

before still lurking in his furtive eyes and in his twitching

features.

"You have come to see his Grace? I am sorry, but the fact is

that the Duke is far from well. He has been very much upset by

the tragic news. We received a telegram from Dr. Huxtable

yesterday afternoon, which told us of your discovery."

"I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder."

"But he is in his room."

"Then I must go to his room."

"I believe he is in his bed."

"I will see him there."

Holmes's cold and inexorable manner showed the secretary

that it was useless to argue with him.

"Very good, Mr. Holmes, I will tell him that you are here."

After an hour's delay, the great nobleman appeared. His face

was more cadaverous .than ever, his shoulders had rounded, and

he seemed to me to be an altogether older man than he had been

the morning before. He greeted us with a stately courtesy and

seated himself at his desk, his red beard streaming down on the

table.

"Well, Mr. Holmes?" said he.

But my friend's eyes were fixed upon the secretary, who stood

by his master's chair.

"I think, your Grace, that I could speak more freely in Mr.

Wilder's absence."

The man turned a shade paler and cast a malignant glance at

Holmes.

"If your Grace wishes --"

"Yes, yes, you had better go. Now, Mr. Holmes, what have

you to say?"

My friend waited until the door had closed behind the retreat-

ing secretary.

"The fact is, your Grace," said he, "that my colleague, Dr.

Watson, and myself had an assurance from Dr. Huxtable that a

reward had been offered in this case. I should like to have this

confirmed from your own lips."

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes."

"It amounted, if I am correctly informed, to five thousand

pounds to anyone who will tell you where your son is?"

"Exactly."

"And another thousand to the man who will name the person

or persons who keep him in custody?"

"Exactly."

"Under the latter heading is included, no doubt, not only

those who may have taken him away, but also those who con-

spire to keep him in his present position?"

"Yes, yes," cried the Duke, impatiently. "If you do your

work well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you will have no reason to

complain of niggardly treatment."

My friend rubbed his thin hands together with an appearance

of avidity which was a surprise to me, who knew his frugal

tastes.

"I fancy that I see your Grace's check-book upon the table,"

said he. "I should be glad if you would make me out a check for

six thousand pounds. It would be as well, perhaps, for you to

cross it. The Capital and Counties Bank, Oxford Street branch

are my agents."

His Grace sat very stern and upright in his chair and looked

stonily at my friend.

"Is this a joke, Mr. Holmes? It is hardly a subject for

pleasantry."

"Not at all, your Grace. I was never more earnest in my life."

"What do you mean, then?"

"I mean that I have earned the reward. I know where your son

is, and I know some, at least, of those who are holding him."

The Duke's beard had turned more aggressively red than ever

against his ghastly white face.

"Where is he?" he gasped.

"He is, or was last night, at the Fighting Cock Inn, about two

miles from your park gate."

The Duke fell back in his chair.

"And whom do you accuse?"

Sherlock Holmes's answer was an astounding one. He stepped

swiftly forward and touched thc Duke upon the shoulder.

"I accuse you," said he. "And now, your Grace, I'll trouble

you for that check."

Never shall I forget the Duke's appearance as he sprang up

and clawed with his hands, like one who is sinking into an

abyss. Then, with an extraordinary effort of aristocratic self-

command, he sat down and sank his face in his hands. It was

some minutes before he spoke.

"How much do you know?" he asked at last, without raising

his head.

"I saw you together last night."

"Does anyone else beside your friend know?"

"I have spoken to no one."

The Duke took a pen in his quivering fingers and opened his

check-book.

"I shall be as good as my word, Mr. Holmes. I am about to

write your check, however unwelcome the information which

you have gained may be to me. When the offer was first made, I

little thought the turn which events might take. But you and your

friend are men of discretion, Mr. Holmes?"

"I hardly understand your Grace."

"I must put it plainly, Mr. Holmes. If only you two know of

this incident, there is no reason why it should go any farther. I

think twelve thousand pounds is the sum that I owe you, is it

not?"

But Holmes smiled and shook his head.

"I fear, your Grace, that matters can hardly be arranged so

easily. There is the death of this schoolmaster to be accounted

for."

"But James knew nothing of that. You cannot hold him

responsible for that. It was the work of this brutal ruffian whom

he had the misfonune to employ."

"I must take the view, your Grace, that when a man embarks

upon a crime, he is morally guilty of any other crime which may

spring from it."

"Morally, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. But surely

not in the eyes of the law. A man cannot be condemned for a

murder at which he was not present, and which he loathes and

abhors as much as you do. The instant that he heard of it he

made a complete confession to me, so filled was he with horror

and remorse. He lost not an hour in breaking entirely with the

murderer. Oh, Mr. Holmes, you must save him -- you must save

him! I tell you that you must save him!" The Duke had dropped

the last attempt at self-command. and was pacing the room with

a convulsed face and with his clenched hands raving in the air.

At last he mastered himself and sat down once more at his desk.

"I appreciate your conduct in coming here before you spoke to

anyone else," said he. "At least, we may take counsel how far

we can minimize this hideous scandal."

"Exactly," said Holmes. "I think, your Grace, that this can

only be done by absolute frankness between us. I am disposed to

help your Grace to the best of my ability, but, in order to do so,

I must understand to the last detail how the matter stands. I

realize that your words applied to Mr. James Wilder, and that he

is not the murderer."

"No, the murderer has escaped."

Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.

"Your Grace can hardly have heard of any small reputation

which I possess, or you would not imagine that it is so easy to

escape me. Mr. Reuben Hayes was arrested at Chesterfield, on

my information, at eleven o'clock last night. I had a telegram

from the head of the local police before I left the school this

morning."

The Duke leaned back in his chair and stared with amazement

at my friend.

"You seem to have powers that are hardly human," said he.

"So Reuben Hayes is taken? I am right glad to hear it, if it will

not react upon the fate of James."

"Your secretary?"

"No, sir, my son."

It was Holmes's turn to look astonished.

"I confess that this is entirely new to me, your Grace. I must

beg you to be more explicit."

"I will conceal nothing from you. I agree with you that

complete frankness, however painful it may be to me, is the best

policy in this desperate situation to which James's folly and

jealousy have reduced us. When I was a very young man, Mr.

Holmes, I loved with such a love as comes only once in a

lifetime. I offered the lady marriage, but she refused it on the

grounds that such a match might mar my career. Had she lived. I

would certainly never have married anyone else. She died, and

left this one child, whom for her sake I have cherished and cared

for. I could not acknowledge the paternity to the world, but I

gave him the best of educations, and since he came to manhood I

have kept him near my person. He surprised my secret, and has

presumed ever since upon the claim which he has upon me, and

upon his power of provoking a scandal which would be abhor-

rent to me. His presence had something to do with the unhappy

issue of my marriage. Above all, he hated my young legitimate

heir from the first with a persistent hatred. You may well ask

me why, under these circumstances, I still kept James under my

roof. I answer that it was because I could see his mother's face

in his, and that for her dear sake there was no end to my

long-suffering. All her pretty ways too -- there was not one of

them which he could not suggest and bring back to my memory.

I could not send him away. But I feared so much lest he should

do Arthur -- that is, Lord Saltire -- a mischief, that I dispatched

him for safety to Dr. Huxtable's school.

"James came into contact with this fellow Hayes, because the

man was a tenant of mine, and James acted as agent. The fellow

was a rascal from the beginning, but, in some extraordinary way,

James became intimate with him. He had always a taste for low

company. When James determined to kidnap Lord Saltire, it was

of this man's service that he availed himself. You remember

that I wrote to Arthur upon that last day. Well, James opened the

letter and inserted a note asking Arthur to meet him in a little

wood called the Ragged Shaw, which is near to the school. He

used the Duchess's name, and in that way got the boy to come.

That evening James bicycled over -- I am telling you what he has

himself confessed to me -- and he told Arthur, whom he met in

the wood, that his mother longed to see him, that she was

awaiting him on the moor, and that if he would come back into

the wood at midnight he would find a man with a horse, who

would take him to her. Poor Arthur fell into the trap. He came to

the appointment, and found this fellow Hayes with a led pony.

Arthur mounted, and they set off together. It appears -- though

this James only heard yesterday -- that they were pursued, that

Hayes struck the pursuer with his stick, and that the man died of

his injuries. Hayes brought Arthur to his public-house. the Fight-

ing Cock, where he was confined in an upper room, under the

care of Mrs. Hayes, who is a kindly woman, but entirely under

the control of her brutal husband.

"Well, Mr. Holmes. that was the state of affairs when I first

saw you two days ago. I had no more idea of the truth than you.

You will ask me what was James's motive in doing such a deed.

I answer that there was a great deal which was unreasoning and

fanatical in the hatred which he bore my heir. In his view he

should himself have been heir of all my estates, and he deeply

resented those social laws which made it impossible. At the same

time, he had a definite motive also. He was eager that I should

break the entail, and he was of opinion that it lay in my power to

do so. He intended to make a bargain with me -- to restore Arthur

if I would break the entail, and so make it possible for the estate

to be left to him by will. He knew well that I should never

willingly invoke the aid of the police against him. I say that he

would have proposed such a bargain to me; but he did not

actually do so, for events moved too quickly for him, and he had

not time to put his plans into practice.

"What brought all his wicked scheme to wreck was your

discovery of this man Heidegger's dead body. James was seized

with horror at the news. It came to us yesterday, as we sat

together in this study. Dr. Huxtable had sent a telegram. James

was so overwhelmed with grief and agitation that my suspicions,

which had never been entirely absent, rose instantly to a cer-

tainty, and I taxed him with the deed. He made a complete

voluntary confession. Then he implored me to keep his secret for

three days longer, so as to give his wretched accomplice a

chance of saving his guilty life. I yielded -- as I have always

yielded -- to his prayers, and instantly James hurried off to the

Fighting Cock to warn Hayes and give him the means of flight. I

could not go there by daylight without provoking comment, but

as soon as night fell I hurried off to see my dear Arthur. I found

him safe and well, but horrified beyond expression by the dread-

ful deed he had witnessed. In deference to my promise, and

much against my will, I consented to leave him there for three

days, under the charge of Mrs. Hayes, since it was evident that it

was impossible to inform the police where he was without telling

them also who was the murderer, and I could not see how that

murderer could be punished without ruin to my unfortunate

James. You asked for frankness, Mr. Holmes, and I have taken

you at your word, for I have now told you everything without an

attempt at circumlocution or concealment. Do you in turn be as

frank with me."

"I will," said Holmes. "In the first place, your Grace, I am

bound to tell you that you have placed yourself in a most serious

position in the eyes of the law. You have condoned a felony, and

you have aided the escape of a murderer, for I cannot doubt that

any money which was taken by James Wilder to aid his accom-

plice in his flight came from your Grace's purse."

The Duke bowed his assent.

"This is, indeed, a most serious matter. Even more culpable

in my opinion, your Grace, is your attitude towards your young-

er son. You leave him in this den for three days."

"Under solemn promises --"

"What are promises to such people as these? You have no

guarantee that he will not be spirited away again. To humour

your guilty older son, you have exposed your innocent younger

son to imminent and unnecessary danger. It was a most un-

justifiable action."

The proud lord of Holdemesse was not accustomed to be so

rated in his own ducal hall. The blood flushed into his high

forehead, but his conscience held him dumb.

"I will help you, but on one condition only. It is that you ring

for the footman and let me give such orders as I like."

Without a word, the Duke pressed the electric bell. A servant

entered.

"You will be glad to hear," said Holmes, "that your young

master is found. It is the Duke's desire that the carriage shall go

at once to the Fighting Cock Inn to bring Lord Saltire home.

"Now," said Holmes, when the rejoicing lackey had disap-

peared, "having secured the future, we can afford to be more

lenient with the past. I am not in an official position, and there is

no reason so long as the ends of justice are served, why I should

disclose all that I know. As to Hayes, I say nothing. The gallows

awaits him, and I would do nothing to save him from it. What he

will divulge I cannot tell, but I have no doubt that your Grace

could make him understand that it is to his interest to be silent.

From the police point of view he will have kidnapped the boy for

the purpose of ransom. If they do not themselves find it out, I

see no reason why I should prompt them to take a broader point

of view. I would warn your Grace, however, that the continued

presence of Mr. James Wilder in your household can only lead to

misfonune."

"I understand that, Mr. Holmes, and it is already settled that he

shall leave me forever, and go to seek his fortune in Australia."

"In that case, your Grace, since you have yourself stated that

any unhappiness in your married life was caused by his presence,

I would suggest that you make such amends as you can to the

Duchess, and that you try to resume those relations which have

been so unhappily interrupted."

"That also I have arranged, Mr. Holmes. I wrote to the

Duchess this morning."

"In that case," said Holmes, rising, "I think that my friend

and I can congratulate ourselves upon several most happy results

from our little visit to the North. There is one other small point

upon which I desire some light. This fellow Hayes had shod his

horses with shoes which counterfeited the tracks of cows. Was it

from Mr. Wilder that he learned so extraordinary a device?"

The Duke stood in thought for a moment, with a look of

intense surprise on his face. Then he opened a door and showed

us into a large room furnished as a museum. He led the way to a

glass case in a corner, and pointed to the inscription.

"These shoes," it ran, "were dug up in the moat of Holdemesse

Hall. They are for the use of horses, but they are shaped below

with a cloven foot of iron, so as to throw pursuers off the track.

They are supposed to have belonged to some of the marauding

Barons of Holdernesse in the Middle Ages."

Holmes opened the case, and moistening his finger he passed

it along the shoe. A thin film of recent mud was left upon his

skin.

"Thank you," said he, as he replaced the glass. "It is the

second most interesting object that I have seen in the North."

"And the first?"

Holmes folded up his check and placed it carefully in his

notebook. "I am a poor man," said he, as he patted it affection-

ately, and thrust it into the depths of his inner pocket.

 

===============================

The Adventure of the Red Circle

 

"Well, Mrs. Warren, I cannot see that you have any particular

cause for uneasiness, nor do I understand why I, whose time is

of some value, should interfere in the matter. I really have other

things to engage me." So spoke Sherlock Holmes and turned

back to the great scrapbook in which he was arranging and

indexing some of his recent material.

But the landlady had the pertinacity and also the cunning of

her sex. She held her ground firmly.

"You arranged an affair for a lodger of mine last year," she

said -- "Mr. Fairdale Hobbs."

"Ah, yes -- a simple matter."

"But he would never cease talking of it -- your kindness, sir,

and the way in which you brought light into the darkness. I

remembered his words when I was in doubt and darkness myself.

I know you could if you only would."

Holmes was accessible upon the side of flattery, and also, to

do him justice, upon the side of kindliness. The two forces made

him lay down his gum-brush with a sigh of resignation and push

back his chair.

"Well, well, Mrs. Warren, let us hear about it, then. You

don't object to tobacco, I take it? Thank you, Watson -- the

matches! You are uneasy, as I understand, because your new

lodger remains in his rooms and you cannot see him. Why, bless

you, Mrs. Warren, if I were your lodger you often would not see

me for weeks on end."

"No doubt, sir; but this is different. It frightens me, Mr.

Holmes. I can't sleep for fright. To hear his quick step moving

here and moving there from early morning to late at night, and

yet never to catch so much as a glimpse of him -- it's more than I

can stand. My husband is as nervous over it as I am, but he is

out at his work all day, while I get no rest from it. What is he

hiding for? What has he done? Except for the girl, I am all alone

in the house with him, and it's more than my nerves can stand."

Holmes leaned forward and laid his long, thin fingers upon the

woman's shoulder. He had an almost hypnotic power of soothing

when he wished. The scared look faded from her eyes, and her

agitated features smoothed into their usual commonplace. She sat

down in the chair which he had indicated

"If I take it up I must understand every detail," said he.

"Take time to consider. The smallest point may be the most

essential. You say that the man came ten days ago and paid you

for a fortnight's board and lodging?"

"He asked my terms, sir. I said fifty shillings a week. There

is a small sitting-room and bedroom, and all complete, at the top

of the house."

"Well?"

"He said, 'I'll pay you five pounds a week if I can have it on

my own terms.' I'm a poor woman, sir, and Mr. Warren earns

little, and the money meant much to me. He took out a ten-

pound note, and he held it out to me then and there. 'You can

have the same every fortnight for a long time to come if you

keep the terms,' he said. 'If not, I'll have no more to do with

you.' "

"What were the terms?"

"Well, sir, they were that he was to have a key of the house.

That was all right. Lodgers often have them. Also, that he was to

be left entirely to himself and never, upon any excuse, to be

disturbed."

"Nothing wonderful in that, surely?"

"Not in reason, sir. But this is out of all reason. He has been

there for ten days, and neither Mr. Warren, nor I, nor the girl

has once set eyes upon him. We can hear that quick step of his

pacing up and down, up and down, night, morning, and noon; but

except on that first night he has never once gone out of the

house."

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

"Yes, sir, and returned very late -- after we were all in bed. He

told me after he had taken the rooms that he would do so and

asked me not to bar the door. I heard him come up the stair after

midnight."

"But his meals?"

"It was his particular direction that we should always, when

he rang, leave his meal upon a chair, outside his door. Then he

rings again when he has finished, and we take it down from the

same chair. If he wants anything else he prints it on a slip of

paper and leaves it."

"Prints it?"

"Yes, sir; prints it in pencil. Just the word, nothing more.

Here's one I brought to show you -- SOAP. Here's another -- MATCH.

This is one he left the first morning -- DAILY GAZETTE. I leave that

paper with his breakfast every morning."

"Dear me, Watson," said Holmes, staring with great curiosity

at the slips of foolscap which the landlady had handed to him,

"this is certainly a little unusual. Seclusion I can understand; but

why print? Printing is a clumsy process. Why not write? What

would it suggest, Watson?"

"That he desired to conceal his handwriting."

"But why? What can it matter to him that his landlady should

have a word of his writing? Still, it may be as you say. Then,

again, why such laconic messages?"

"I cannot imagine."

"It opens a pleasing field for intelligent speculation. The

words are written with a broad-pointed, violet-tinted pencil of a

not unusual pattern. You will observe that the paper is torn away

at the side here after the printing was done, so that the s of 'SOAP'

is partly gone. Suggestive, Watson, is it not?"

"Of caution?"

"Exactly. There was evidently some mark, some thumbprint,

something which might give a clue to the person's identity.

Now, Mrs. Warren, you say that the man was of middle size,

dark, and bearded. What age would he be?"

"Youngish, sir -- not over thirty."

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

"He spoke good English, sir, and yet I thought he was a

foreigner by his accent."

"And he was well dressed?"

"Very smartly dressed, sir -- quite the gentleman. Dark clothes --

nothing you would note."

"He gave no name?"

"No, sir."

"And has had no letters or callers?"

"None."

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

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

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

luggage?"

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

"Well, we don't seem to have much material to help us. Do

you say nothing has come out of that room -- absolutely nothing?"

The landlady drew an envelope from her bag; from it she

shook out two burnt matches and a cigarette-end upon the table.

"They were on his tray this morning. I brought them because

I had heard that you can read great things out of small ones."

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"There is nothing here," said he. "The matches have, of

course, been used to light cigarettes. That is obvious from the

shortness of the but end. Half the match is consumed in

lighting a pipe or cigar. But, dear me! this cigarette stub is

certainly remarkable. The gentleman was bearded and moustached,

you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"I don't understand that. I should say that only a clean-

shaven man could have smoked this. Why, Watson, even your

modest moustache would have been singed."

"A holder?" I suggested.

"No, no; the end is matted. I suppose there could not be two

people in your rooms, Mrs. Warren?"

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

in one."

"Well, I think we must wait for a little more material. After

all, you have nothing to complain of. You have received your

rent, and he is not a troublesome lodger, though he is certainly

an unusual one. He pays you well, and if he chooses to lie

concealed it is no direct business of yours. We have no excuse

for an intrusion upon his privacy until we have some reason to

think that there is a guilty reason for it. I've taken up the matter,

and I won't lose sight of it. Report to me if anything fresh

occurs, and rely upon my assistance if it should be needed.

"There are certainly some points of interest in this case,

Watson," he remarked when the landlady had left us. "It may,

of course, be trivial -- individual eccentricity; or it may be very

much deeper than appears on the surface. The first thing that

strikes one is the obvious possibility that the person now in the

rooms may be entirely different from the one who engaged

them."

"Why should you think so?"

"Well, apart from this cigarette-end, was it not suggestive that

the only time the lodger went out was immediately after his

taking the rooms? He came back -- or someone came back -- when

all witnesses were out of the way. We have no proof that the

person who came back was the person who went out. Then,

again, the man who took the rooms spoke English well. This

other, however, prints 'match' when it should have been 'matches.'

I can imagine that the word was taken out of a dictionary, which

would give the noun but not the plural. The laconic style may be

to conceal the absence of knowledge of English. Yes, Watson,

there are good reasons to suspect that there has been a substitu-

tion of lodgers."

"But for what possible end?"

"Ah! there lies our problem. There is one rather obvious line

of investigation." He took down the great book in which, day by

day, he filed the agony columns of the various London journals.

"Dear me!" said he, turning over the pages, "what a chorus of

groans, cries, and bleatings! What a rag-bag of singular happen-

ings! But surely the most valuable hunting-ground that ever was

given to a student of the unusual! This person is alone and

cannot be approached by letter without a breach of that absolute

secrecy which is desired. How is any news or any message to

reach him from without? Obviously by advertisement through a

newspaper. There seems no other way, and fortunately we need

concern ourselves with the one paper only. Here are the Daily

Gazette extracts of the last fortnight. 'Lady with a black boa at

Prince's Skating Club' -- that we may pass. 'Surely Jimmy will

not break his mother's heart' -- that appears to be irrelevant. 'If

the lady who fainted in the Brixton bus' -- she does not interest

me. 'Every day my heart longs --' Bleat, Watson -- unmitigated

bleat! Ah, this is a little more possible. Listen to this: 'Be

patient. Will find some sure means of communication. Mean-

while, this column. G.' That is two days after Mrs. Warren's

lodger arrived. It sounds plausible, does it not? The mysterious

one could understand English, even if he could not print it. Let

us see if we can pick up the trace again. Yes, here we are -- three

days later. 'Am making successful arrangements. Patience and

prudence. The clouds will pass. G.' Nothing for a week after

that. Then comes something much more definite: 'The path is

clearing. If I find chance signal message remember code agreed --

one A, two B, and so on. You will hear soon. G.' That was in

yesterday's paper, and there is nothing in to-day's. It's all very

appropriate to Mrs. Warren's lodger. If we wait a little, Watson,

I don't doubt that the affair will grow more intelligible."

So it proved; for in the morning I found my friend standing on

the hearthrug with his back to the fire and a smile of complete

satisfaction upon his face.

"How's this, Watson?" he cried, picking up the paper from

the table. " 'High red house with white stone facings. Third

floor. Second window left. After dusk. G.' That is definite

enough. I think after breakfast we must make a little reconnais-

sance of Mrs. Warren's neighbourhood. Ah, Mrs. Warren! what

news do you bring us this morning?"

Our client had suddenly burst into the room with an explosive

energy which told of some new and momentous development.

"It's a police matter, Mr. Holmes!" she cried. "I'll have no

more of it! He shall pack out of there with his baggage. I would

have gone straight up and told him so, only I thought it was but

fair to you to take your opinion first. But I'm at the end of my

patience, and when it comes to knocking my old man about "

"Knocking Mr. Warren about?"

"Using him roughly, anyway."

"But who used him roughly?"

"Ah! that's what we want to know! It was this morning, sir.

Mr. Warren is a timekeeper at Morton and Waylight's, in

Tottenham Court Road. He has to be out of the house before

seven. Well, this morning he had not gone ten paces down the

road when two men came up behind him, threw a coat over his

head, and bundled him into a cab that was beside the curb. They

drove him an hour, and then opened the door and shot him out.

He lay in the roadway so shaken in his wits that he never saw

what became of the cab. When he picked himself up he found he

was on Hampstead Heath; so he took a bus home, and there he

lies now on the sofa, while I came straight round to tell you what

had happened."

"Most interesting," said Holmes. "Did he observe the ap-

pearance of these men -- did he hear them talk?"

"No; he is clean dazed. He just knows that he was lifted up as

if by magic and dropped as if by magic. Two at least were in it,

and maybe three."

"And you connect this attack with your lodger?"

"Well, we've lived there fifteen years and no such happenings

ever came before. I've had enough of him. Money's not every-

thing. I'll have him out of my house before the day is done."

"Wait a bit, Mrs. Warren. Do nothing rash. I begin to think

that this affair may be very much more important than appeared

at first sight. It is clear now that some danger is threatening your

lodger. It is equally clear that his enemies, lying in wait for him

near your door, mistook your husband for him in the foggy

morning light. On discovering their mistake they released him.

What they would have done had it not been a mistake, we can

only conjecture."

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

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

Warren."

"I don't see how that is to be managed, unless you break in

the door. I always hear him unlock it as I go down the stair after

I leave the tray."

"He has to take the tray in. Surely we could conceal ourselves

and see him do it."

The landlady thought for a moment.

"Well, sir, there's the box-room opposite. I could arrange a

looking-glass, maybe, and if you were behind the door --"

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

"About one, sir."

"Then Dr. Watson and I will come round in time. For the

present, Mrs. Warren, good-bye."

At half-past twelve we found ourselves upon the steps of Mrs.

Warren's house -- a high, thin, yellow-brick edifice in Great

Orme Street, a narrow thoroughfare at the northeast side of the

British Museum. Standing as it does near the corner of the street

it commands a view down Howe Street, with its more preten-

tious houses. Holmes pointed with a chuckle to one of these, a

row of residential flats, which projected so that they could not

fail to catch the eye.

"See, Watson!" said he. " 'High red house with stone facings.'

There is the signal station all right. We know the place, and we

know the code; so surely our task should be simple. There's a 'to

let' card in that window. It is evidently an empty flat to which

the confederate has access. Well, Mrs. Warren, what now?"

"I have it all ready for you. If you will both come up and

leave your boots below on the landing, I'll put you there now."

It was an excellent hiding-place which she had arranged. The

mirror was so placed that, seated in the dark, we could very

plainly see the door opposite. We had hardly settled down in it,

and Mrs. Warren left us, when a distant tinkle announced that

our mysterious neighbour had rung. Presently the landlady ap-

peared with the tray, laid it down upon a chair beside the closed

door, and then, treading heavily, departed. Crouching together in

the angle of the door, we kept our eyes fixed upon the mirror.

Suddenly, as the landlady's footsteps died away, there was the

creak of a turning key, the handle revolved, and two thin hands

darted out and lifted the tray from the chair. An instant later it

was hurriedly replaced, and I caught a glimpse of a dark, beauti-

ful, horrified face glaring at the narrow opening of the box-

room. Then the door crashed to, the key turned once more, and

all was silence. Holmes twitched my sleeve, and together we

stole down the stair.

"I will call again in the evening," said he to the expectant

landlady. "I think, Watson, we can discuss this business better

in our own quarters."

 

"My surmise, as you saw, proved to be correct," said he,

speaking from the depths of his easy-chair. "There has been a

substitution of lodgers. What I did not foresee is that we should

find a woman, and no ordinary woman, Watson."

"She saw us."

"Well, she saw something to alarm her. That is certain. The

general sequence of events is pretty clear, is it not? A couple

seek refuge in London from a very terrible and instant danger.

The measure of that danger is the rigour of their precautions. The

man, who has some work which he must do, desires to leave the

woman in absolute safety while he does it. It is not an easy

problem, but he solved it in an original fashion, and so effec-

tively that her presence was not even known to the landlady who

supplies her with food. The printed messages, as is now evident,

were to prevent her sex being discovered by her writing. The

man cannot come near the woman, or he will guide their enemies

to her. Since he cannot communicate with her direct, he has

recourse to the agony column of a paper. So far all is clear."

"But what is at the root of it?"

"Ah, yes, Watson -- severely practical, as usual! What is at

the root of it all? Mrs. Warren's whimsical problem enlarges

somewhat and assumes a more sinister aspect as we proceed.

This much we can say: that it is no ordinary love escapade. You

saw the woman's face at the sign of danger. We have heard, too,

of the attack upon the landlord, which was undoubtedly meant

for the lodger. These alarms, and the desperate need for secrecy,

argue that the matter is one of life or death. The attack upon Mr.

Warren further shows that the enemy, whoever they are, are

themselves not aware of the substitution of the female lodger for

the male. It is very curious and complex, Watson."

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

from it?"

"What, indeed? It is art for art's sake, Watson. I suppose

when you doctored you found yourself studying cases without

though{ of a fee?"

"For my education, Holmes."

"Education never ends, Watson. It is a series of lessons with

the greatest for the last. This is an instructive case. There is

neither money nor credit in it, and yet one would wish to tidy it

up. When dusk comes we should find ourselves one stage ad-

vanced in our investigation."

When we returned to Mrs. Warren's rooms, the gloom of a

London winter evening had thickened into one gray curtain, a

dead monotone of colour, broken only by the sharp yellow

squares of the windows and the blurred haloes of the gas-lamps.

As we peered from the darkened sitting-room of the lodging-

house, one more dim light glimmered high up through the

obscurity.

"Someone is moving in that room," said Holmes in a whis-

per, his gaunt and eager face thrust forward to the window-pane.

"Yes, I can see his shadow. There he is again! He has a candle

in his hand. Now he is peering across. He wants to be sure that

she is on the lookout. Now he begins to flash. Take the message

also, Watson, that we may check each other. A single flash --

that is A, surely. Now, then. How many did you make it?

Twenty. So did I. That should mean T. AT -- that's intelligible

enough! Another T. Surely this is the beginning of a second

word. Now, then -- TENTA. Dead stop. That can't be all, Watson?

ATTENTA gives no sense. Nor is it any better as three words AT,

TEN, TA, unless T. A. are a person's initials. There it goes again!

What's that? ATTE why, it is the same message over again.

Curious, Watson, very curious! Now he is off once more! AT --

why, he is repeating it for the third time. ATTENTA three times!

How often will he repeat it? No, that seems to be the finish. He

has withdrawn from the window. What do you make of it,

Watson?"

"A cipher message, Holmes."

My companion gave a sudden chuckle of comprehension.

"And not a very obscure cipher, Watson," said he. "Why, of

course, it is Italian! The A means that it is addressed to a woman.

'Beware! Beware! Beware!' How's that, Watson?"

"I believe you have hit it."

"Not a doubt of it. It is a very urgent message, thrice repeated

to make it more so. But beware of what? Wait a bit; he is

coming to the window once more."

Again we saw the dim silhouette of a crouching man and the

whisk of the small flame across the window as the signals were

renewed. They came more rapidly than before -- so rapid that it

was hard to follow them.

"PERICOLO pericolo -- eh, what's that, Watson? 'Danger,' isn't

it? Yes, by Jove, it's a danger signal. There he goes again! PERI.

Halloa, what on earth --"

The light had suddenly gone out, the glimmering square of

window had disappeared, and the third floor formed a dark band

round the lofty building, with its tiers of shining casements. That

last warning cry had been suddenly cut short. How, and by

whom? The same thought occurred on the instant to us both.

Holmes sprang up from where he crouched by the window.

"This is serious, Watson," he cried. "There is some devilry

going forward! Why should such a message stop in such a way?

I should put Scotland Yard in touch with this business -- and yet,

it is too pressing for us to leave."

"Shall I go for the police?"

"We must define the situation a little more clearly. It may

bear some more innocent interpretation. Come. Watson, let us

go across ourselves and see what we can make of it."

 

2

 

As we walked rapidly down Howe Street I glanced back at the

building which we had left. There, dimly outlined at the top

window, I could see the shadow of a head, a woman's head,

gazing tensely, rigidly, out into the night, waiting with breath-

less suspense for the renewal of that interrupted message. At the

doorway of the Howe Street flats a man, muffled in a cravat and

greatcoat, was leaning against the railing. He started as the

hall-light fell upon our faces.

"Holmes!" he cried.

"Why, Gregson!" said my companion as he shook hands with

the Scotland Yard detective. "Journeys end with lovers' meet-

ings. What brings you here?"

"The same reasons that bring you, I expect," said Gregson.

"How you got on to it I can't imagine."

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

been taking the signals."

"Signals?"

"Yes, from that window. They broke off in the middle. We

came over to see the reason. But since it is safe in your hands I

see no object in continuing the business."

"Wait a bit!" cried Gregson eagerly. "I'll do you this justice,

Mr. Holmes, that I was never in a case yet that I didn't feel

stronger for having you on my side. There's only the one exit to

these flats, so we have him safe."

"Who is he?"

"Well, well, we score over you for once, Mr. Holmes. You

must give us best this time." He struck his stick sharply upon

the ground, on which a cabman, his whip in his hand, sauntered

over from a four-wheeler which stood on the far side of the

street. "May I introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he said

to the cabman. "This is Mr. Leverton, of Pinkerton's American

Agency."

"The hero of the Long Island cave mystery?" said Holmes.

"Sir, I am pleased to meet you."

The American, a quiet, businesslike young man, with a clean-

shaven, hatchet face, flushed up at the words of commendation.

"I am on the trail of my life now, Mr. Holmes," said he. "If I

can get Gorgiano --"

"What! Gorgiano of the Red Circle?"

"Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we've learned all

about him in America. We know he is at the bottom of fifty

murders, and yet we have nothing positive we can take him on. I

tracked him over from New York, and I've been close to him for

a week in London, waiting some excuse to get my hand on his

collar. Mr. Gregson and I ran him to ground in that big tenement

house, and there's only the one door, so he can't slip us. There's

three folk come out since he went in, but I'll swear he wasn't

one of them."

"Mr. Holmes talks of signals," said Gregson. "I expect, as

usual, he knows a good deal that we don't."

In a few clear words Holmes explained the situation as it had

appeared to us.

The American struck his hands together with vexation.

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

"Why do you think so?"

"Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he is, sending

out messages to an accomplice -- there are several of his gang in

London. Then suddenly, just as by your own account he was

telling them that there was danger, he broke short off. What

could it mean except that from the window he had suddenly

either caught sight of us in the street, or in some way come to

understand how close the danger was, and that he must act right

away if he was to avoid it? What do you suggest, Mr. Holmes?"

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

"But we have no warrant for his arrest."

"He is in unoccupied premises under suspicious circumstances,"

said Gregson. "That is good enough for the moment. When we

have him by the heels we can see if New York can't help us to

keep him. I'll take the responsibility of arresting him now."

Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelli-

gence, but never in that of courage. Gregson climbed the stair to

arrest this desperate murderer with the same absolutely quiet and

businesslike bearing with which he would have ascended the

official staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had tried

to push past him, but Gregson had firmly elbowed him back.

London dangers were the privilege of the London force.

The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing was

standing ajar. Gregson pushed it open. Within all was absolute

silence and darkness. I struck a match and lit the detective's

lantern. As I did so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame, we

all gave a gasp of surprise. On the deal boards of the carpetless

floor there was outlined a fresh track of blood. The red steps

pointed towards us and led away from an inner room, the door of

which was closed. Gregson flung it open and held his light full

blaze in front of him, while we all peered eagerly over his

shoulders.

In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddled the

figure of an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy face

grotesquely horrible in its contortion and his head encircled by a

ghastly crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad wet circle upon

the white woodwork. His knees were drawn up, his hands thrown

out in agony, and from the centre of his broad, brown, upturned

throat there projected the white haft of a knife driven blade-deep

into his body. Giant as he was, the man must have gone down

like a pole-axed ox before that terrific blow. Beside his right

hand a most formidable horn-handled, two-edged dagger lay

upon the floor, and near it a black kid glove.

"By George! it's Black Gorgiano himself!" cried the Ameri-

can detective. "Someone has got ahead of us this time."

"Here is the candle in the window, Mr. Holmes," said Gregson.

"Why, whatever are you doing?"

Holmes had stepped across, had lit the candle, and was pass-

ing it backward and forward across the window-panes. Then he

peered into the darkness, blew the candle out, and threw it on the

floor.

"I rather think that will be helpful," said he. He came over

and stood in deep thought while the two professionals were

examining the body. "You say that three people came out from

the flat while you were waiting downstairs," said he at last.

"Did you observe them closely?"

"Yes, I did."

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

middle size?"

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

"That is your man, I fancy. I can give you his description,

and we have a very excellent outline of his footmark. That

should be enough for you."

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

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

lady to your aid."

We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the

doorway, was a tall and beautiful woman -- the mysterious lodger

of Bloomsbury. Slowly she advanced, her face pale and drawn

with a frightful apprehension, her eyes fixed and staring, her

terrified gaze riveted upon the dark figure on the floor.

"You have killed him!" she muttered. "Oh, Dio mio, you

have killed him!" Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of her

breath, and she sprang into the air with a cry of joy. Round and

round the room she danced, her hands clapping, her dark eyes

gleaming with delighted wonder, and a thousand pretty Italian

exclamations pouring from her lips. It was terrible and amazing

to see such a woman so convulsed with joy at such a sight.

Suddenly she stopped and gazed at us all with a questioning

stare.

"But you! You are police, are you not? You have killed

Giuseppe Gorgiano. Is it not so?"

"We are police, madam."

She looked round into the shadows of the room.

"But where, then, is Gennaro?" she asked. "He is my hus-

band, Gennaro Lucca. I am Emilia Lucca, and we are both from

New York. Where is Gennaro? He called me this moment from

this window, and I ran with all my speed."

"It was I who called," said Holmes.

"You! How could you call?"

"Your cipher was not difficult, madam. Your presence here

was desirable. I knew that I had only to flash 'Vieni' and you

would surely come."

The beautiful Italian looked with awe at my companion.

"I do not understand how you know these things," she said.

"Giuseppe Gorgiano -- how did he --" She paused, and then

suddenly her face lit up with pride and delight. "Now I see it!

My Gennaro! My splendid, beautiful Gennaro, who has guarded

me safe from all harm, he did it, with his own strong hand he

killed the monster! Oh, Gennaro, how wonderful you are! What

woman could ever be worthy of such a man?"

"Well, Mrs. Lucca," said the prosaic Gregson, laying his

hand upon the lady's sleeve with as little sentiment as if she were

a Notting Hill hooligan, "I am not very clear yet who you are or

what you are; but you've said enough to make it very clear that

we shall want you at the Yard."

"One moment, Gregson," said Holmes. "I rather fancy that

this lady may be as anxious to give us information as we can be

to get it. You understand, madam, that your husband will be

arrested and tried for the death of the man who lies before us?

What you say may be used in evidence. But if you think that he

has acted from motives which are not criminal, and which he

would wish to have known, then you cannot serve him better

than by telling us the whole story."

"Now that Gorgiano is dead we fear nothing," said the lady.

"He was a devil and a monster, and there can be no judge in the

world who would punish my husband for having killed him."

"In that case," said Holmes, "my suggestion is that we lock

this door, leave things as we found them, go with this lady to her

room, and form our opinion after we have heard what it is that

she has to say to us."

Half an hour later we were seated, all four, in the small

sitting-room of Signora Lucca, listening to her remarkable narra-

tive of those sinister events, the ending of which we had chanced

to witness. She spoke in rapid and fluent but very unconventional

English, which, for the sake of clearness, I will make grammatical.

"I was born in Posilippo, near Naples," said she, "and was

the daughter of Augusto Barelli, who was the chief lawyer and

once the deputy of that part. Gennaro was in my father's em-

ployment, and I came to love him, as any woman must. He had

neither money nor position -- nothing but his beauty and strength

and energy -- so my father forbade the match. We fled together,

were married at Bari, and sold my jewels to gain the money

which would take us to America. This was four years ago, and

we have been in New York ever since.

"Fortune was very good to us at first. Gennaro was able to do

a service to an Italian gentleman-- he saved him from some

ruffians in the place called the Bowery and so made a powerful

friend. His name was Tito Castalotte and he was the senior

partner of the great firm of Castalotte and Zamba, who are the

chief fruit importers of New York. Signor Zamba is an invalid,

and our new friend Castalotte has all power within the firm,

which employs more than three hundred men. He took my

husband into his employment, made him head of a department,

and showed his good-will towards him in every way. Signor

Castalotte was a bachelor, and I believe that he felt as if Gennaro

was his son, and both my husband and I loved him as if he were

our father. We had taken and furnished a little house in Brook-

lyn, and our whole future seemed assured when that black cloud

appeared which was soon to overspread our sky.

"One night, when Gennaro returned from his work, he brought

a fellow-countryman back with him. His name was Gorgiano,

and he had come also from Posilippo. He was a huge man, as

you can testify, for you have looked upon his corpse. Not only

was his body that of a giant but everything about him was

grotesque, gigantic, and terrifying. His voice was like thunder in

our little house. There was scarce room for the whirl of his great

arms as he talked. His thoughts, his emotions, his passions, all

were exaggerated and monstrous. He talked, or rather roared,

with such energy that others could but sit and listen, cowed with

the mighty stream of words. His eyes blazed at you and held you

at his mercy. He was a terrible and wonderful man. I thank God

that he is dead!

"He came again and again. Yet I was aware that Gennaro was

no more happy than I was in his presence. My poor husband

would sit pale and listless, listening to the endless raving upon

politics and upon social questions which made up our visitor's

conversation. Gennaro said nothing, but I, who knew him so

well, could read in his face some emotion which I had never

seen there before. At first I thought that it was dislike. And then,

gradually, I understood that it was more than dislike. It was

fear -- a deep, secret, shrinking fear. That night -- the night that I

read his terror -- I put my arms round him and I implored him by

his love for me and by all that he held dear to hold nothing from

me, and to tell me why this huge man overshadowed him so.

"He told me, and my own heart grew cold as ice as I listened.

My poor Gennaro, in his wild and fiery days, when all the world

seemed against him and his mind was driven half mad by the

injustices of life, had joined a Neapolitan society, the Red

Circle, which was allied to the old Carbonari. The oaths and

secrets of this brotherhood were frightful, but once within its rule

no escape was possible. When we had fled to America Gennaro

thought that he had cast it all off forever. What was his horror

one evening to meet in the streets the very man who had initiated

him in Naples, the giant Gorgiano, a man who had earned the

name of 'Death' in the south of Italy, for he was red to the elbow

in murder! He had come to New York to avoid the Italian police,

and he had already planted a branch of this dreadful society in

his new home. All this Gennaro told me and showed me a

summons which he had received that very day, a Red Circle

drawn upon the head of it telling him that a lodge would be held

upon a certain date, and that his presence at it was required and

ordered.

"That was bad enough, but worse was to come. I had noticed

for some time that when Gorgiano came to us, as he constantly

did, in the evening, he spoke much to me; and even when his

words were to my husband those terrible, glaring, wild-beast eyes

of his were always turned upon me. One night his secret came

out. I had awakened what he called 'love' within him -- the love

of a brute -- a savage. Gennaro had not yet returned when he

came. He pushed his way in, seized me in his mighty arms,

hugged me in his bear's embrace, covered me with kisses, and

implored me to come away with him. I was struggling and

screaming when Gennaro entered and attacked him. He struck

Gennaro senseless and fled from the house which he was never

more to enter. It was a deadly enemy that we made that night.

"A few days later came the meeting. Gennaro returned from it

with a face which told me that something dreadful had occurred.

It was worse than we could have imagined possible. The funds

of the society were raised by blackmailing rich Italians and

threatening them with violence should they refuse the money. It

seems that Castalotte, our dear friend and benefactor, had been

approached. He had refused to yield to threats, and he had

handed the notices to the police. It was resolved now that such

an example should be made of him as would prevent any other

victim from rebelling. At the meeting it was arranged that he and

his house should be blown up with dynamite. There was a

drawing of lots as to who should carry out the deed. Gennaro

saw our enemy's cruel face smiling at him as he dipped his hand

in the bag. No doubt it had been prearranged in some fashion,

for it was the fatal disc with the Red Circle upon it, the mandate

for murder, which lay upon his palm. He was to kill his best

friend, or he was to expose himself and me to the vengeance of

his comrades. It was part of their fiendish system to punish those

whom they feared or hated by injuring not only their own

persons but those whom they loved, and it was the knowledge of

this which hung as a terror over my poor Gennaro's head and

drove him nearly crazy with apprehension.

"All that night we sat together, our arms round each other,

each strengthening each for the troubles that lay before us. The

very next evening had been fixed tor the attempt. By midday my

husband and I were on our way to London, but not before he had

given our benefactor full warning of his danger, and had also left

such information for the police as would safeguard his life for

the future.

"The rest, gentlemen, you know for yourselves. We were sure

that our enemies would be behind us like our own shadows.

Gorgiano had his private reasons for vengeance, but in any case

we knew how ruthless, cunning, and untiring he could be. Both

Italy and America are full of stories of his dreadful powers. If

ever they were exerted it would be now. My darling made use of

the few clear days which our start had given us in arranging for a

refuge for me in such a fashion that no possible danger could

reach me. For his own part, he wished to be free that he might

communicate both with the American and with the Italian police.

I do not myself know where he lived, or how. All that I learned

was through the columns of a newspaper. But once as I looked

through my window, I saw two Italians watching the house, and

I understood that in some way Gorgiano had found out our

retreat. Finally Gennaro told me, through the paper, that he

would signal to me from a certain window, but when the signals

came they were nothing but warnings, which were suddenly

interrupted. It is very clear to me now that he knew Gorgiano to

be close upon him, and that, thank God, he was ready for him

when he came. And now, gentlemen, I would ask you whether

we have anything to fear from the law, or whether any judge

upon earth would condemn my Gennaro for what he has done?"

"Well, Mr. Gregson," said the American, looking across at

the official, "I don't know what your British point of view may

be, but I guess that in New York this lady's husband will receive

a pretty general vote of thanks."

"She will have to come with me and see the chief," Gregson

answered. "If what she says is corroborated, I do not think she

or her husband has much to fear. But what I can't make head or

tail of, Mr. Holmes, is how on earth you got yourself mixed up

in the matter."

"Education, Gregson, education. Still seeking knowledge at

the old university. Well, Watson, you have one more specimen

of the tragic and grotesque to add to your collection. By the way,

it is not eight o'clock, and a Wagner night at Covent Garden! If

we hurry, we might be in time for the second act."

 

=========================

The Red-headed League

 

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in

the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with

a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair.

With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when

Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door

behind me.

"You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear

Watson," he said cordially.

"I was afraid that you were engaged."

"So I am. Very much so."

"Then I can wait in the next room."

"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner

and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no

doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of

greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small

fat-encircled eyes.

"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair

and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in

judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my

love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and

humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish

for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle,

and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so

many of my own little adventures."

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

I observed.

"You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before

we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary

Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combina-

tions we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring

than any effort of the imagination."

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

"You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to

my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on

you until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges

me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good

enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative

which promises to be one of the most singular which I have

listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the

strangest and most unique things are very often connected not

with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally,

indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive

crime has been committed. As far as I have heard it is impossible

for me to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or

not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular

that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would

have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you

not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the

opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the story

makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips.

As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course

of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other

similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance

I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief,

unique."

The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of

some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from

the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the

advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the

paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man

and endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the

indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.

I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our

visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace Brit-

ish tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy

gray shepherd's check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-

coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy

brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling

down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown

overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside

him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable

about the man save his blazing red head, and the expression of

extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.

Sherlock Holmes's quick eye took in my occupation, and he

shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning

glances. "Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time

done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason.

that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable

amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else."

Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger

upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

"How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that,

Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that

I did manual labour? It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's

carpenter."

"Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size

larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles

are more developed."

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

"I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read

that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order,

you use an arc-and-compass breastpin."

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

"What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny

for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the

elbow where you rest it upon the desk?"

"Well, but China?"

"The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right

wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small

study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature

of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales of a

delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see

a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter be-

comes even more simple."

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said he.

"I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see

that there was nothing in it, after all."

"I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a

mistake in explaining. 'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know,

and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck

if I am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr.

Wilson?"

"Yes, I have got it now," he answered with his thick red

finger planted halfway down the column. "Here it is. This is

what began it all. You just read it for yourself, sir."

I took the paper from him and read as follows.

 

TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE:

On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of

Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now another

vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a

salary of 4 pounds a week for purely nominal services. All red-

headed men who are sound in body and mind and above

the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Appiy in person

on Monday, at eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, at the

offices of the League, 7 Pope's Coun, Fleet Street.

 

"What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated after I had

twice read over the extraordinary announcement.

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit

when in high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't it?"

said he. "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell

us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this

advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a

note, Doctor, of the paper and the date."

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

months ago."

"Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"

"Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock

Holmes," said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; "I have a

small pawnbroker's business at Coburg Square, near the City.

It's not a very large affair, and of late years it has not done more

than just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two

assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to

pay him but that he is willing to come for half wages so as to

learn the business."

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

Holmes.

"His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth,

either. It's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter

assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better

himself and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after all,

if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?"

"Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an em-

ployee who comes under the full market price. It is not a

common experience among employers in this age. I don't know

that your assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement."

"Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was

such a fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera

when he ought to be improving his mind, and then diving down

into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures.

That is his main fault, but on the whole he's a good worker.

There's no vice in him."

"He is still with you, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple

cooking and keeps the place clean -- that's all I have in the

house, for I am a widower and never had any family. We live

very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our

heads and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.

"The first thing that put us out was that advertisement.

Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight

weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says:

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

man.'

" 'Why that?' I asks.

" 'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of

the Red-headed Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any man

who gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than

there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end what to

do with the money. If my hair would only change colour, here's

a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.'

" 'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see. Mr. Holmes, I

am a very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me

instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end

without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn't

know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad

of a bit of news.

" 'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed

Men?' he asked with his eyes open.

" 'Never.'

" 'Why, [ wonder at that, for you are eligibile yourself for

one of the vacancies.'

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

" 'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is

slight, and it need not interfere very much with one's other

occupations.'

"Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my

ears, for the business has not been over-good for some years,

and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy.

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

" 'Well ' said he. showing me the advertisement. 'you can

see for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the

address where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can

make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire.

Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was

himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-

headed men; so when he died it was found that he had left his

enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to

apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose

hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very

little to do.'

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

who would apply.'

" 'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see it

is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This Ameri-

can had started from London when he was young, and he wanted

to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no

use your applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or

anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to

apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would

hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the

sake of a few hundred pounds.'

"Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves,

that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me

that if there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as

good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding

seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might prove

useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the day and

to come right away with me. He was very willing to have a

holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for the

address that was given us in the advertisement.

"I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes.

From north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of

red in his hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertise-

ment. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's

Court looked like a coster's orange barrow. I should not have

thought there were so many in the whole country as were brought

together by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they

were -- straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but,

as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid

flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I

would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear

of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and

pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right

up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double

stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming

back dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon

found ourselves in the office."

"Your experience has been a most entertaining one," re-

marked Holmes as his client paused and refreshed his memory

with a huge pinch of snuff. "Pray continue your very interesting

statement."

"There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden

chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a small man with a

head that was even redder than mine. He said a few words to

each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed to

find some fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a

vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all.

However, when our turn came the little man was much more

favourable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the

door as we entered, so that he might have a private word with

us.

" 'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is

willing to fill a vacancy in the League.'

" 'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered. 'He

has every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything

so fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side,

and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he

plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly

on my success.

" 'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You will,

however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.'

With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I

yelled with the pain. 'There is water in your eyes,' said he as he

released me. 'I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have

to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once

by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler's wax which would

disgust you with human nature.' He stepped over to the window

and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the vacancy

was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below, and

the folk all trooped away in different directions until there was

not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the

manager.

" 'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself

one of the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor.

Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?'

"I answered that I had not.

"His face fell immediately.

" 'Dear me!' he said gravely, 'that is very serious indeed! I

am sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the

propagation and spread of the red-heads as well as for their

maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a

bachelor.'

"My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I

was not to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over

for a few minutes he said that it would be all right.

" 'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection might be

fatal, but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a

head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your

new duties?'

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

said I.

" 'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent

Spaulding. 'I should be able to look after that for you.'

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

" 'Ten to two.'

"Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening,

Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is

just before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little

in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good

man, and that he would see to anything that turned up.

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

" 'Is 4 pounds a week.'

" 'And the work?'

" 'Is purely nominal.'

" 'What do you call purely nominal?'

" 'Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the

building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole

position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You

don't comply with the conditions if you budge from the office

during that time.'

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

leaving,' said I.

" 'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross; 'neither

sickness nor business nor anything else. There you must stay, or

you lose your billet.'

" 'And the work?'

" 'Is to copy out the Encyclopedia Britannica. There is the

first volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink.

pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair.

Will you be ready to-morrow?'

" 'Certainly,' I answered.

" 'Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratu-

late you once more on the important position which you have

been fortunate enough to gain.' He bowed me out of the room

and I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say

or do, I was so pleased at my own good fortune.

"Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was

in low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the

whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its

object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past

belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would

pay such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the

Encyclopedia Britannica. Vincent Spaulding did what he could

to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the

whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to have a

look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a

quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for

Pope's Court.

"Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as

possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan

Ross was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off

upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from

time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o'clock he

bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I

had written, and locked the door of the office after me.

"This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday

the manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns

for my week's work. It was the same next week, and the same

the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every

afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to

coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did

not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the

room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and

the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I

would not risk the loss of it.

"Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about

Abbots and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica,

and hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B's before

very long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty

nearly filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the

whole business came to an end."

"To an end?"

"Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work

as usual at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a

little square of card-board hammered on to the middle of the

panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself."

He held up a piece of white card-board about the size of a

sheet of note-paper. It read in this fashion:

 

THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

IS

DISSOLVED.

October 9, 1890.

 

Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and

the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so

completely overtopped every other consideration that we both

burst out into a roar of laughter.

"I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried our

client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. "If you can

do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."

"No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair

from which he had half risen. "I really wouldn't miss your case

for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you

will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it.

Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the

door?"

"I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I

called at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know

anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an

accountant living on the ground-floor, and I asked him if he

could tell me what had become of the Red-headed League. He

said that he had never heard of any such body. Then I asked him

who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name was new

to him.

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

" 'What, the red-headed man?'

" 'Yes.'

" 'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris. He was a

solicitor and was using my room as a temporary convenience

until his new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.'

" 'Where could I find him?'

" 'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17

King Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'

"I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it

was a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had

ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."

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

"I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice

of my assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could

only say that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not

quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a

place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good

enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I

came right away to you."

"And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is an

exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it.

From what you have told me I think that it is possible that graver

issues hang from it than might at first sight appear."

"Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have lost

four pound a week."

"As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes,

"I do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordi-

nary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by

some 30 pounds, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you

have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A.

You have lost nothing by them."

"No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they

are, and what their object was in playing this prank -- if it was a

prank -- upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it

cost them two and thirty pounds."

"We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And,

first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours

who first called your attention to the advertisement -- how long

had he been with you?"

"About a month then."

"How did he come?"

"In answer to an advertisement."

"Was he the only applicant?"

"No, I had a dozen."

"Why did you pick him?"

"Because he was handy and would come cheap."

"At half-wages, in fact."

"Yes."

"What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"

"Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his

face, though he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid

upon his forehead."

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. "I

thought as much," said he. "Have you ever observed that his

ears are pierced for earrings?"

"Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had done it for him when

he was a lad."

"Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. "He is

still with you?"

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

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

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

of a morning."

"That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an

opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is

Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a

conclusion."

"Well, Watson," said Holmes when our visitor had left us,

"what do you make of it all?"

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

mysterious business."

"As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the

less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, feature-

less crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace

face is the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over

this matter."

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

"To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three pipe problem,

and I beg that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes." He

curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to

his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his

black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird. I

had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and

indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his

chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and

put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

"Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he

remarked. "What do you think, Watson? Could your patients

spare you for a few hours?"

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

absorbing."

"Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City

first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that

there is a good deal of German music on the programme, which

is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspec-

tive, and I want to introspect. Come along!"

We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a

short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the

singular story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a

poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy

two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in enclo-

sure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded

laurel-bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and

uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with

"JABEZ WILSON" in white letters, upon a corner house, announced

the place where our red-headed client carried on his business.

Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side

and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between

puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then

down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses.

Finally he returned to the pawnbroker's, and, having thumped

vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times,

he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a

bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to

step in.

"Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how

you would go from here to the Strand."

"Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant promptly,

closing the door.

"Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as we walked away.

"He is, in my judgment. the fourth smartest man in London, and

for daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I

have known something of him before."

"Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a

good deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure

that you inquired your way merely in order that you might see

him."

"Not him."

"What then?"

"The knees of his trousers."

"And what did you see?"

"What I expected to see."

"Why did you beat the pavement?"

"My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk.

We are spies in an enemy's country. We know something of

Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie

behind it."

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the

corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a

contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one

of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the

north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense

stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and out-

ward, while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of

pedestrians. It was difficult to realize as we looked at the line of

fine shops and stately business premises that they really abutted

on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we

had just quitted.

"Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and glanc-

ing along the line, "I should like just to remember the order of

the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowl-

edge of London. There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the little

newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban

Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building

depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now,

Doctor, we've done our work, so it's time we had some play. A

sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where

all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no

red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not

only a very capable perfomer but a composer of no ordinary

merit. All the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most

perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to

the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy

eyes were as unlike those of Holmes, the sleuth-hound, Holmes

the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was

possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature

alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and astute-

ness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against the

poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally predominated

in him. The swing of his nature took him from extreme languor

to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never so truly

formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in

his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter edi-

tions. Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come

upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to

the level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his

methods would look askance at him as on a man whose knowl-

edge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him that after-

noon so enwrapped in the music at St. James's Hall I felt that an

evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set himself

to hunt down.

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

we emerged.

"Yes, it would be as well."

"And I have some business to do which will take some hours.

This business at Coburg Square is serious."

"Why serious?"

"A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every

reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day

being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help

to-night."

"At what time?"

"Ten will be early enough."

"I shall be at Baker Street at ten."

"Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little

danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket." He

waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant

among the crowd.

I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was

always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my

dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had

heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it

was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened but

what was about to happen, while to me the whole business was

still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my house in

Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of

the red-headed copier of the Encyclopedia down to the visit to

Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had

parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why

should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to

do? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawn-

broker's assistant was a formidable man -- a man who might play

a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair

and set the matter aside until night should bring an explanation.

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made

my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker

Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered

the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering

his room I found Holmes in animated conversation with two

men, one of whom I recognized as Peter Jones, the official

police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man,

with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.

"Ha! Our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his

peajacket and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack.

"Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me

introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion

in to-night's adventure."

"We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see," said

Jones in his consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful

man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him

to do the running down."

"I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our

chase," observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

"You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes,

sir," said the police agent loftily. "He has his own little meth-

ods, which are, if he won't mind my saying so, just a little too

theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in

him. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that

business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been

more nearly correct than the official force."

"Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the

stranger with deference. "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber.

It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I

have not had my rubber."

"I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will

play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and

that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather,

the stake will be some 30,000 pounds; and for you, Jones, it will be the

man upon whom you wish to lay your hands."

"John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a

young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his

profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on

any criminal in London. He's a remarkable man, is young John

Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been

to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning.as his fingers, and

though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know

where to find the man himself. He'll crack a crib in Scotland one

week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall

the next. I've been on his track for years and have never set eyes

on him yet."

"I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you

to-night. I've had one or two little turns also with Mr. John

Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profes-

sion. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If

you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow

in the second."

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long

drive and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had

heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth

of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.

"We are close there now," my friend remarked. "This fellow

Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the

matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not

a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He

has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as

tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we

are, and they are waiting for us."

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we

had found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed,

and, following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed

down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he

opened for us. Within there was a small corridor, which ended in

a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a

flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formi-

dable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and

then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so,

after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was

piled all round with crates and massive boxes.

"You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked

as he held up the lantern and gazed about him.

"Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick

upon the flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds

quite hollow!" he remarked, looking up in surprise.

"I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!" said Holmes

severely. "You have already imperilled the whole success of our

expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit

down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate,

with a very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell

upon his knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a

magnifying lens, began to exarnine minutely the cracks between

the stones. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang

to his feet again and put his glass in his pocket.

"We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they

can hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in

bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do

their work the longer time they will have for their escape. We

are at present, Doctor -- as no doubt you have divined -- in the

cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London banks.

Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will

explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring

criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this

cellar at present."

"It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We have

had several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."

"Your French gold?"

"Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our

resources and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from

the Bank of France. It has become known that we have never

had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our

cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons

packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is

much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch

office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the subject."

"Which were very well justified," observed Holmes. "And

now it is time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that

within an hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime

Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern."

"And sit in the dark?"

"I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket,

and I thought that, as we were a partie carree, you might have

your rubber after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations

have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And,

first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men,

and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us

some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate,

and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash

a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no

compunction about shooting them down."

I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden

case behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the

front of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness -- such an

absolute darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell

of hot metal remained to assure us that the light was still there,

ready to flash out at a moment's notice. To me, with my nerves

worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something de-

pressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank

air of the vault.

"They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is

back through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that

you have done what I asked you, Jones?"

"l have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front

door."

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

silent and wait."

What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it

was but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the

night must have almost gone. and the dawn be breaking above

us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my

position; yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of

tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear

the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish

the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin,

sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look

over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes

caught the glint of a light.

At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then

it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without

any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand

appeared; a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the

centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the hand,

with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was

withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again

save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between the

stones.

Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rend-

ing, tearing sound, one of the broad. white stones turned over

upon its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which

streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a

clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then.

with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-

high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In

another instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling

after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale

face and a shock of very red hair.

"It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and the

bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"

Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the

collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of

rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed

upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes's hunting crop came

down on the man's wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone

floor.

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

no chance at all."

"So I see," the other answered with the utmost coolness. "I

fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his

coat-tails."

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

Holmes.

"Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very com-

pletely. I must compliment you."

"And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was

very new and effective."

"You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's

quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I

fix the derbies."

"I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,"

remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists.

"You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins.

Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to say

'sir' and 'please.' "

"All right," said Jones with a stare and a snigger. "Well,

would you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to

carry your Highness to the police-station?"

"That is better," said John Clay serenely. He made a sweep-

ing bow to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody

of the detective.

"Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we fol-

lowed them from the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can

thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected

and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most

determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within

my experience."

"I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with

Mr. John Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some small

expense over this matter, which I shall expect the bank to

refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an

experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the

very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League."

 

"You see, Watson," he explained in the early hours of the

morning as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker

Street, "it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only

possible object of this rather fantastic business of the advertise-

ment of the League, and the copying of the Encyclopedia, must

be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a

number of hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it,

but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method

was no doubt suggested to Clay's ingenious mind by the colour

of his accomplice's hair. The 4 pounds a week was a lure which must

draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for

thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the

temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it.

and together they manage to secure his absence every morning in

the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having

come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some

strong motive for securing the situation."

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

"Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected

a mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question.

The man's business was a small one, and there was nothing in

his house which could account for such elaborate preparations,

and such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be

something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the

assistant's fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing

into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled

clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and

found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring

criminals in London. He was doing something in the cellar --

something which took many hours a day for months on end.

What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that

he was running a tunnel to some other building.

"So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I

surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was

ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It

was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the

assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had

never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his

face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself

have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were.

They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only remaining

point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the

corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend's

premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you

drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and

upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you

have seen."

"And how could you tell that they would make their attempt

to-night?" I asked.

"Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign

that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence -- in

other words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was

essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered,

or the bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them

better than any other day, as it would give them two days for

their escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come

to-night."

"You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned

admiration "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true."

"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I

already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long

effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little

problems help me to do so."

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

He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of

some little use," he remarked. " 'L'homme c'est rien -- l' oeuvre

c'est tout,' as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."