
                  THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES

                       Arthur Conan Doyle



                        Table of contents

       A Study In Scarlet

       The Sign of the Four

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

          The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
       Silver Blaze
       The Yellow Face
       The Stock-Broker's Clerk
       The "Gloria Scott"
       The Musgrave Ritual
       The Reigate Squires
       The Crooked Man
       The Resident Patient
       The Greek Interpreter
       The Naval Treaty
       The Final Problem

          The Return of Sherlock Holmes
       The Adventure of the Empty House
       The Adventure of the Norwood Builder
       The Adventure of the Dancing Men
       The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist
       The Adventure of the Priory School
       The Adventure of Black Peter
       The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton
       The Adventure of the Six Napoleons
       The Adventure of the Three Students
       The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez
       The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter
       The Adventure of the Abbey Grange
       The Adventure of the Second Stain

       The Hound of the Baskervilles

       The Valley Of Fear

          His Last Bow
       Preface
       The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge
       The Adventure of the Cardboard Box
       The Adventure of the Red Circle
       The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans
       The Adventure of the Dying Detective
       The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax
       The Adventure of the Devil's Foot
       His Last Bow

          The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
       Preface
       The Illustrious Client
       The Blanched Soldier
       The Adventure Of The Mazarin Stone
       The Adventure of the Three Gables
       The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire
       The Adventure of the Three Garridebs
       The Problem of Thor Bridge
       The Adventure of the Creeping Man
       The Adventure of the Lion's Mane
       The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger
       The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place
       The Adventure of the Retired Colourman











                           A STUDY IN SCARLET





                            Table of contents

     Part I
    Mr. Sherlock Holmes
    The Science Of Deduction
    The Lauriston Garden Mystery
    What John Rance Had To Tell
    Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor
    Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do
    Light In The Darkness

     Part II
    On The Great Alkali Plain
    The Flower Of Utah
    John Ferrier Talks With The Prophet
    A Flight For Life
    The Avenging Angels
    A Continuation Of The Reminiscences Of John Watson, M.D.
    The Conclusion



















                                  PART I

               (Being a reprint from the reminiscences of
                          John H. Watson, M.D.,
                  late of the Army Medical Department.)





      CHAPTER I
      Mr. Sherlock Holmes


 In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the
 University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the
 course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my
 studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland
 Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India
 at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had
 broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had
 advanced through the passes, and was already deep in the enemy's
 country. I followed, however, with many other officers who were in
 the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching Candahar in
 safety, where I found my regiment, and at once entered upon my new
 duties.

 The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had
 nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade
 and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal
 battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail
 bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I
 should have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not
 been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who
 threw me across a pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to
 the British lines.

 Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had
 undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to
 the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already
 improved so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to
 bask a little upon the verandah, when I was struck down by enteric
 fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was
 despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became
 convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that a medical board
 determined that not a day should be lost in sending me back to
 England. I was dispatched, accordingly, in the troopship Orontes, and
 landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health
 irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal government
 to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.

 I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as
 air--or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day
 will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances, I naturally
 gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers
 and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for
 some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless,
 meaningless existence, and spending such money as I had, considerably
 more freely than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances
 become, that I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis
 and rusticate somewhere in the country, or that I must make a
 complete alteration in my style of living. Choosing the latter
 alternative, I began by making up my mind to leave the hotel, and to
 take up my quarters in some less pretentious and less expensive
 domicile.

 On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at
 the Criterion Bar, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and
 turning round I recognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser
 under me at Bart's. The sight of a friendly face in the great
 wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In
 old days Stamford had never been a particular crony of mine, but now
 I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be
 delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to
 lunch with me at the Holborn, and we started off together in a
 hansom.

 "Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?" he asked in
 undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets.
 "You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut."

 I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded
 it by the time that we reached our destination.

 "Poor devil!" he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my
 misfortunes. "What are you up to now?"

 "Looking for lodgings," I answered. "Trying to solve the problem as
 to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable
 price."

 "That's a strange thing," remarked my companion; "you are the second
 man to-day that has used that expression to me."

 "And who was the first?" I asked.

 "A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the
 hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not
 get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had
 found, and which were too much for his purse."

 "By Jove!" I cried, "if he really wants someone to share the rooms
 and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a
 partner to being alone."

 Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-glass.
 "You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said; "perhaps you would not
 care for him as a constant companion."

 "Why, what is there against him?"

 "Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little
 queer in his ideas--an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far
 as I know he is a decent fellow enough."

 "A medical student, I suppose?" said I.

 "No--I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is
 well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I
 know, he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His
 studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of
 out-of-the way knowledge which would astonish his professors."

 "Did you never ask him what he was going in for?" I asked.

 "No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be
 communicative enough when the fancy seizes him."

 "I should like to meet him," I said. "If I am to lodge with anyone, I
 should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong
 enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in
 Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How
 could I meet this friend of yours?"

 "He is sure to be at the laboratory," returned my companion. "He
 either avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from
 morning to night. If you like, we shall drive round together after
 luncheon."

 "Certainly," I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other
 channels.

 As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn,
 Stamford gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I
 proposed to take as a fellow-lodger.

 "You mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him," he said; "I know
 nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally
 in the laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not
 hold me responsible."

 "If we don't get on it will be easy to part company," I answered. "It
 seems to me, Stamford," I added, looking hard at my companion, "that
 you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this
 fellow's temper so formidable, or what is it? Don't be mealy-mouthed
 about it."

 "It is not easy to express the inexpressible," he answered with a
 laugh. "Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes--it
 approaches to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a
 little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of
 malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in
 order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I
 think that he would take it himself with the same readiness. He
 appears to have a passion for definite and exact knowledge."

 "Very right too."

 "Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the
 subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking
 rather a bizarre shape."

 "Beating the subjects!"

 "Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw
 him at it with my own eyes."

 "And yet you say he is not a medical student?"

 "No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we
 are, and you must form your own impressions about him." As he spoke,
 we turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door,
 which opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar
 ground to me, and I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone
 staircase and made our way down the long corridor with its vista of
 whitewashed wall and dun-coloured doors. Near the further end a low
 arched passage branched away from it and led to the chemical
 laboratory.

 This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles.
 Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts,
 test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering
 flames. There was only one student in the room, who was bending over
 a distant table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he
 glanced round and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. "I've
 found it! I've found it," he shouted to my companion, running towards
 us with a test-tube in his hand. "I have found a re-agent which is
 precipitated by hoemoglobin, and by nothing else." Had he discovered
 a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features.

 "Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, introducing us.

 "How are you?" he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength
 for which I should hardly have given him credit. "You have been in
 Afghanistan, I perceive."

 "How on earth did you know that?" I asked in astonishment.

 "Never mind," said he, chuckling to himself. "The question now is
 about hoemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this
 discovery of mine?"

 "It is interesting, chemically, no doubt," I answered, "but
 practically--"

 "Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years.
 Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains.
 Come over here now!" He seized me by the coat-sleeve in his
 eagerness, and drew me over to the table at which he had been
 working. "Let us have some fresh blood," he said, digging a long
 bodkin into his finger, and drawing off the resulting drop of blood
 in a chemical pipette. "Now, I add this small quantity of blood to a
 litre of water. You perceive that the resulting mixture has the
 appearance of pure water. The proportion of blood cannot be more than
 one in a million. I have no doubt, however, that we shall be able to
 obtain the characteristic reaction." As he spoke, he threw into the
 vessel a few white crystals, and then added some drops of a
 transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a dull mahogany
 colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the
 glass jar.

 "Ha! ha!" he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a
 child with a new toy. "What do you think of that?"

 "It seems to be a very delicate test," I remarked.

 "Beautiful! beautiful! The old Guiacum test was very clumsy and
 uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles.
 The latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this
 appears to act as well whether the blood is old or new. Had this test
 been invented, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who
 would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes."

 "Indeed!" I murmured.

 "Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is
 suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His
 linen or clothes are examined, and brownish stains discovered upon
 them. Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit
 stains, or what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many
 an expert, and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have
 the Sherlock Holmes' test, and there will no longer be any
 difficulty."

 His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his
 heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his
 imagination.

 "You are to be congratulated," I remarked, considerably surprised at
 his enthusiasm.

 "There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He would
 certainly have been hung had this test been in existence. Then there
 was Mason of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of
 Montpellier, and Samson of new Orleans. I could name a score of cases
 in which it would have been decisive."

 "You seem to be a walking calendar of crime," said Stamford with a
 laugh. "You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the 'Police
 News of the Past.'"

 "Very interesting reading it might be made, too," remarked Sherlock
 Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on his
 finger. "I have to be careful," he continued, turning to me with a
 smile, "for I dabble with poisons a good deal." He held out his hand
 as he spoke, and I noticed that it was all mottled over with similar
 pieces of plaster, and discoloured with strong acids.

 "We came here on business," said Stamford, sitting down on a high
 three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction with his
 foot. "My friend here wants to take diggings, and as you were
 complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I
 thought that I had better bring you together."

 Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms
 with me. "I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street," he said, "which
 would suit us down to the ground. You don't mind the smell of strong
 tobacco, I hope?"

 "I always smoke 'ship's' myself," I answered.

 "That's good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and
 occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?"

 "By no means."

 "Let me see--what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at
 times, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I
 am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I'll soon be right.
 What have you to confess now? It's just as well for two fellows to
 know the worst of one another before they begin to live together."

 I laughed at this cross-examination. "I keep a bull pup," I said,
 "and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at
 all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another
 set of vices when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at
 present."

 "Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?" he asked,
 anxiously.

 "It depends on the player," I answered. "A well-played violin is a
 treat for the gods--a badly-played one--"

 "Oh, that's all right," he cried, with a merry laugh. "I think we may
 consider the thing as settled--that is, if the rooms are agreeable to
 you."

 "When shall we see them?"

 "Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we'll go together and settle
 everything," he answered.

 "All right--noon exactly," said I, shaking his hand.

 We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together
 towards my hotel.

 "By the way," I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford,
 "how the deuce did he know that I had come from Afghanistan?"

 My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. "That's just his little
 peculiarity," he said. "A good many people have wanted to know how he
 finds things out."

 "Oh! a mystery is it?" I cried, rubbing my hands. "This is very
 piquant. I am much obliged to you for bringing us together. 'The
 proper study of mankind is man,' you know."

 "You must study him, then," Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye.
 "You'll find him a knotty problem, though. I'll wager he learns more
 about you than you about him. Good-bye."

 "Good-bye," I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, considerably
 interested in my new acquaintance.





      CHAPTER II
      The Science Of Deduction


 We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No.
 221b, Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting. They
 consisted of a couple of comfortable bed-rooms and a single large
 airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad
 windows. So desirable in every way were the apartments, and so
 moderate did the terms seem when divided between us, that the bargain
 was concluded upon the spot, and we at once entered into possession.
 That very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on the
 following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and
 portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking
 and laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, we
 gradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our
 new surroundings.

 Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet
 in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be
 up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out
 before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the
 chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting-rooms, and
 occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take him into the
 lowest portions of the City. Nothing could exceed his energy when the
 working fit was upon him; but now and again a reaction would seize
 him, and for days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the
 sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning
 to night. On these occasions I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant
 expression in his eyes, that I might have suspected him of being
 addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the temperance and
 cleanliness of his whole life forbidden such a notion.

 As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his
 aims in life, gradually deepened and increased. His very person and
 appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual
 observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively
 lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp
 and piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have
 alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an
 air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and
 squareness which mark the man of determination. His hands were
 invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was
 possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had
 occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating his fragile
 philosophical instruments.

 The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how
 much this man stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured to
 break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned
 himself. Before pronouncing judgment, however, be it remembered, how
 objectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my
 attention. My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather
 was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me
 and break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these
 circumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around
 my companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring to unravel
 it.

 He was not studying medicine. He had himself, in reply to a question,
 confirmed Stamford's opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear
 to have pursued any course of reading which might fit him for a
 degree in science or any other recognized portal which would give him
 an entrance into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies
 was remarkable, and within eccentric limits his knowledge was so
 extraordinarily ample and minute that his observations have fairly
 astounded me. Surely no man would work so hard or attain such precise
 information unless he had some definite end in view. Desultory
 readers are seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No
 man burdens his mind with small matters unless he has some very good
 reason for doing so.

 His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary
 literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to
 nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest
 way who he might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a
 climax, however, when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of
 the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the Solar System.
 That any civilized human being in this nineteenth century should not
 be aware that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to me
 such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it.

 "You appear to be astonished," he said, smiling at my expression of
 surprise. "Now that I do know it I shall do my best to forget it."

 "To forget it!"

 "You see," he explained, "I consider that a man's brain originally is
 like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such
 furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort
 that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to
 him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other
 things so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now
 the skilful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into
 his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help
 him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and
 all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that
 little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend
 upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you
 forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest
 importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the
 useful ones."

 "But the Solar System!" I protested.

 "What the deuce is it to me?" he interrupted impatiently; "you say
 that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make
 a pennyworth of difference to me or to my work."

 I was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but
 something in his manner showed me that the question would be an
 unwelcome one. I pondered over our short conversation, however, and
 endeavoured to draw my deductions from it. He said that he would
 acquire no knowledge which did not bear upon his object. Therefore
 all the knowledge which he possessed was such as would be useful to
 him. I enumerated in my own mind all the various points upon which he
 had shown me that he was exceptionally well-informed. I even took a
 pencil and jotted them down. I could not help smiling at the document
 when I had completed it. It ran in this way--

 Sherlock Holmes--his limits.
 
 1. Knowledge of Literature.--Nil.
 2. Philosophy.--Nil.
 3. Astronomy.--Nil.
 4. Politics.--Feeble.
 5. Botany.--Variable. Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons
 generally. Knows nothing of practical gardening.
 6. Geology.--Practical, but limited. Tells at a glance different
 soils from each other. After walks has shown me splashes upon his
 trousers, and told me by their colour and consistence in what part of
 London he had received them.
 7. Chemistry.--Profound.
 8. Anatomy.--Accurate, but unsystematic.
 9. Sensational Literature.--Immense. He appears to know every detail
 of every horror perpetrated in the century.
 10. Plays the violin well.
 11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.
 12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.

 When I had got so far in my list I threw it into the fire in despair.
 "If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all
 these accomplishments, and discovering a calling which needs them
 all," I said to myself, "I may as well give up the attempt at once."

 I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon the violin. These
 were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other
 accomplishments. That he could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I
 knew well, because at my request he has played me some of
 Mendelssohn's Lieder, and other favourites. When left to himself,
 however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized
 air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an evening, he would close his
 eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his
 knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally
 they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts
 which possessed him, but whether the music aided those thoughts, or
 whether the playing was simply the result of a whim or fancy was more
 than I could determine. I might have rebelled against these
 exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them by
 playing in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a
 slight compensation for the trial upon my patience.

 During the first week or so we had no callers, and I had begun to
 think that my companion was as friendless a man as I was myself.
 Presently, however, I found that he had many acquaintances, and those
 in the most different classes of society. There was one little sallow
 rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade,
 and who came three or four times in a single week. One morning a
 young girl called, fashionably dressed, and stayed for half an hour
 or more. The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy visitor,
 looking like a Jew pedlar, who appeared to me to be much excited, and
 who was closely followed by a slipshod elderly woman. On another
 occasion an old white-haired gentleman had an interview with my
 companion; and on another a railway porter in his velveteen uniform.
 When any of these nondescript individuals put in an appearance,
 Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use of the sitting-room, and I
 would retire to my bed-room. He always apologized to me for putting
 me to this inconvenience. "I have to use this room as a place of
 business," he said, "and these people are my clients." Again I had an
 opportunity of asking him a point blank question, and again my
 delicacy prevented me from forcing another man to confide in me. I
 imagined at the time that he had some strong reason for not alluding
 to it, but he soon dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject
 of his own accord.

 It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that
 I rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes
 had not yet finished his breakfast. The landlady had become so
 accustomed to my late habits that my place had not been laid nor my
 coffee prepared. With the unreasonable petulance of mankind I rang
 the bell and gave a curt intimation that I was ready. Then I picked
 up a magazine from the table and attempted to while away the time
 with it, while my companion munched silently at his toast. One of the
 articles had a pencil mark at the heading, and I naturally began to
 run my eye through it.

 Its somewhat ambitious title was "The Book of Life," and it attempted
 to show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and
 systematic examination of all that came in his way. It struck me as
 being a remarkable mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity. The
 reasoning was close and intense, but the deductions appeared to me to
 be far-fetched and exaggerated. The writer claimed by a momentary
 expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a
 man's inmost thoughts. Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility
 in the case of one trained to observation and analysis. His
 conclusions were as infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So
 startling would his results appear to the uninitiated that until they
 learned the processes by which he had arrived at them they might well
 consider him as a necromancer.

 "From a drop of water," said the writer, "a logician could infer the
 possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard
 of one or the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature of
 which is known whenever we are shown a single link of it. Like all
 other arts, the Science of Deduction and Analysis is one which can
 only be acquired by long and patient study nor is life long enough to
 allow any mortal to attain the highest possible perfection in it.
 Before turning to those moral and mental aspects of the matter which
 present the greatest difficulties, let the enquirer begin by
 mastering more elementary problems. Let him, on meeting a
 fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to distinguish the history of the
 man, and the trade or profession to which he belongs. Puerile as such
 an exercise may seem, it sharpens the faculties of observation, and
 teaches one where to look and what to look for. By a man's finger
 nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot, by his trouser knees, by the
 callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his
 shirt cuffs--by each of these things a man's calling is plainly
 revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the competent
 enquirer in any case is almost inconceivable."

 "What ineffable twaddle!" I cried, slapping the magazine down on the
 table, "I never read such rubbish in my life."

 "What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

 "Why, this article," I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I
 sat down to my breakfast. "I see that you have read it since you have
 marked it. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me
 though. It is evidently the theory of some arm-chair lounger who
 evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own
 study. It is not practical. I should like to see him clapped down in
 a third class carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the
 trades of all his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one
 against him."

 "You would lose your money," Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly.  "As
 for the article I wrote it myself."

 "You!"

 "Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. The
 theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be
 so chimerical are really extremely practical--so practical that I
 depend upon them for my bread and cheese."

 "And how?" I asked involuntarily.

 "Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the
 world. I'm a consulting detective, if you can understand what that
 is. Here in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of
 private ones. When these fellows are at fault they come to me, and I
 manage to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence
 before me, and I am generally able, by the help of my knowledge of
 the history of crime, to set them straight. There is a strong family
 resemblance about misdeeds, and if you have all the details of a
 thousand at your finger ends, it is odd if you can't unravel the
 thousand and first. Lestrade is a well-known detective. He got
 himself into a fog recently over a forgery case, and that was what
 brought him here."

 "And these other people?"

 "They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They are all
 people who are in trouble about something, and want a little
 enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments,
 and then I pocket my fee."

 "But do you mean to say," I said, "that without leaving your room you
 can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of, although
 they have seen every detail for themselves?"

 "Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case
 turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about
 and see things with my own eyes. You see I have a lot of special
 knowledge which I apply to the problem, and which facilitates matters
 wonderfully. Those rules of deduction laid down in that article which
 aroused your scorn, are invaluable to me in practical work.
 Observation with me is second nature. You appeared to be surprised
 when I told you, on our first meeting, that you had come from
 Afghanistan."

 "You were told, no doubt."

 "Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from Afghanistan. From long
 habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind, that I
 arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate
 steps. There were such steps, however. The train of reasoning ran,
 'Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a
 military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the
 tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of
 his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and
 sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been
 injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner. Where in the
 tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got
 his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.' The whole train of thought
 did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you came from
 Afghanistan, and you were astonished."

 "It is simple enough as you explain it," I said, smiling. "You remind
 me of Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals
 did exist outside of stories."

 Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think that you
 are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin," he observed. "Now, in
 my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of
 breaking in on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a
 quarter of an hour's silence is really very showy and superficial. He
 had some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a
 phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine."

 "Have you read Gaboriau's works?" I asked. "Does Lecoq come up to
 your idea of a detective?"

 Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a miserable
 bungler," he said, in an angry voice; "he had only one thing to
 recommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me positively
 ill. The question was how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could
 have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It
 might be made a text-book for detectives to teach them what to
 avoid."

 I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I had admired
 treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the window, and
 stood looking out into the busy street. "This fellow may be very
 clever," I said to myself, "but he is certainly very conceited."

 "There are no crimes and no criminals in these days," he said,
 querulously. "What is the use of having brains in our profession? I
 know well that I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives
 or has ever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of
 natural talent to the detection of crime which I have done. And what
 is the result? There is no crime to detect, or, at most, some
 bungling villany with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland
 Yard official can see through it."

 I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I thought
 it best to change the topic.

 "I wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked, pointing to a
 stalwart, plainly-dressed individual who was walking slowly down the
 other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a
 large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently the bearer of a
 message.

 "You mean the retired sergeant of Marines," said Sherlock Holmes.

 "Brag and bounce!" thought I to myself. "He knows that I cannot
 verify his guess."

 The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we
 were watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly
 across the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and
 heavy steps ascending the stair.

 "For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room and
 handing my friend the letter.

 Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him. He little
 thought of this when he made that random shot. "May I ask, my lad," I
 said, in the blandest voice, "what your trade may be?"

 "Commissionaire, sir," he said, gruffly. "Uniform away for repairs."

 "And you were?" I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at my
 companion.

 "A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No answer? Right,
 sir."

 He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was
 gone.





      CHAPTER III
      The Lauriston Garden Mystery


 I confess that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of the
 practical nature of my companion's theories. My respect for his
 powers of analysis increased wondrously. There still remained some
 lurking suspicion in my mind, however, that the whole thing was a
 pre-arranged episode, intended to dazzle me, though what earthly
 object he could have in taking me in was past my comprehension. When
 I looked at him he had finished reading the note, and his eyes had
 assumed the vacant, lack-lustre expression which showed mental
 abstraction.

 "How in the world did you deduce that?" I asked.

 "Deduce what?" said he, petulantly.

 "Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines."

 "I have no time for trifles," he answered, brusquely; then with a
 smile, "Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my thoughts; but
 perhaps it is as well. So you actually were not able to see that that
 man was a sergeant of Marines?"

 "No, indeed."

 "It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. If you were
 asked to prove that two and two made four, you might find some
 difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across the
 street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of the
 fellow's hand. That smacked of the sea. He had a military carriage,
 however, and regulation side whiskers. There we have the marine. He
 was a man with some amount of self-importance and a certain air of
 command. You must have observed the way in which he held his head and
 swung his cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the
 face of him--all facts which led me to believe that he had been a
 sergeant."

 "Wonderful!" I ejaculated.

 "Commonplace," said Holmes, though I thought from his expression that
 he was pleased at my evident surprise and admiration. "I said just
 now that there were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong--look at
 this!" He threw me over the note which the commissionaire had
 brought.

 "Why," I cried, as I cast my eye over it, "this is terrible!"

 "It does seem to be a little out of the common," he remarked, calmly.
 "Would you mind reading it to me aloud?"

 This is the letter which I read to him--

 "My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
 "There has been a bad business during the night at 3, Lauriston
 Gardens, off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there
 about two in the morning, and as the house was an empty one,
 suspected that something was amiss. He found the door open, and in
 the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a
 gentleman, well dressed, and having cards in his pocket bearing the
 name of 'Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.' There had been no
 robbery, nor is there any evidence as to how the man met his death.
 There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no wound upon his
 person. We are at a loss as to how he came into the empty house;
 indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the
 house any time before twelve, you will find me there. I have left
 everything in statu quo until I hear from you. If you are unable to
 come I shall give you fuller details, and would esteem it a great
 kindness if you would favour me with your opinion.
 "Yours faithfully,
 "Tobias Gregson."

 "Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders," my friend
 remarked; "he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both
 quick and energetic, but conventional--shockingly so. They have their
 knives into one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of
 professional beauties. There will be some fun over this case if they
 are both put upon the scent."

 I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. "Surely there is
 not a moment to be lost," I cried, "shall I go and order you a cab?"

 "I'm not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy
 devil that ever stood in shoe leather--that is, when the fit is on
 me, for I can be spry enough at times."

 "Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for."

 "My dear fellow, what does it matter to me. Supposing I unravel the
 whole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will
 pocket all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial personage."

 "But he begs you to help him."

 "Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it to me; but
 he would cut his tongue out before he would own it to any third
 person. However, we may as well go and have a look. I shall work it
 out on my own hook. I may have a laugh at them if I have nothing
 else. Come on!"

 He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that showed
 that an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.

 "Get your hat," he said.

 "You wish me to come?"

 "Yes, if you have nothing better to do." A minute later we were both
 in a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.

 It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over the
 house-tops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets
 beneath. My companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled away
 about Cremona fiddles, and the difference between a Stradivarius and
 an Amati. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and the
 melancholy business upon which we were engaged, depressed my spirits.

 "You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand," I said
 at last, interrupting Holmes' musical disquisition.

 "No data yet," he answered. "It is a capital mistake to theorize
 before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."

 "You will have your data soon," I remarked, pointing with my finger;
 "this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very
 much mistaken."

 "So it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still a hundred yards or so
 from it, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our
 journey upon foot.

 Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It
 was one of four which stood back some little way from the street, two
 being occupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers
 of vacant melancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that
 here and there a "To Let" card had developed like a cataract upon the
 bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered
 eruption of sickly plants separated each of these houses from the
 street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour,
 and consisting apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The
 whole place was very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through
 the night. The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a
 fringe of wood rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning
 a stalwart police constable, surrounded by a small knot of loafers,
 who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope of
 catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.

 I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into
 the house and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared
 to be further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which,
 under the circumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, he
 lounged up and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground,
 the sky, the opposite houses and the line of railings. Having
 finished his scrutiny, he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather
 down the fringe of grass which flanked the path, keeping his eyes
 riveted upon the ground. Twice he stopped, and once I saw him smile,
 and heard him utter an exclamation of satisfaction. There were many
 marks of footsteps upon the wet clayey soil, but since the police had
 been coming and going over it, I was unable to see how my companion
 could hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such
 extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive faculties,
 that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which was hidden
 from me.

 At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced,
 flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed forward
 and wrung my companion's hand with effusion. "It is indeed kind of
 you to come," he said, "I have had everything left untouched."

 "Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. "If a
 herd of buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess.
 No doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson,
 before you permitted this."

 "I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective said
 evasively. "My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon
 him to look after this."

 Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. "With two
 such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be
 much for a third party to find out," he said.

 Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have
 done all that can be done," he answered; "it's a queer case though,
 and I knew your taste for such things."

 "You did not come here in a cab?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

 "No, sir."

 "Nor Lestrade?"

 "No, sir."

 "Then let us go and look at the room." With which inconsequent remark
 he strode on into the house, followed by Gregson, whose features
 expressed his astonishment.

 A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and
 offices. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One
 of these had obviously been closed for many weeks. The other belonged
 to the dining-room, which was the apartment in which the mysterious
 affair had occurred. Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that
 subdued feeling at my heart which the presence of death inspires.

 It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence
 of all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it
 was blotched in places with mildew, and here and there great strips
 had become detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster
 beneath. Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a
 mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one corner of this was
 stuck the stump of a red wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty
 that the light was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to
 everything, which was intensified by the thick layer of dust which
 coated the whole apartment.

 All these details I observed afterwards. At present my attention was
 centred upon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched
 upon the boards, with vacant sightless eyes staring up at the
 discoloured ceiling. It was that of a man about forty-three or
 forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad shouldered, with crisp
 curling black hair, and a short stubbly beard. He was dressed in a
 heavy broadcloth frock coat and waistcoat, with light-coloured
 trousers, and immaculate collar and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed
 and trim, was placed upon the floor beside him. His hands were
 clenched and his arms thrown abroad, while his lower limbs were
 interlocked as though his death struggle had been a grievous one. On
 his rigid face there stood an expression of horror, and as it seemed
 to me, of hatred, such as I have never seen upon human features. This
 malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the low forehead,
 blunt nose, and prognathous jaw gave the dead man a singularly
 simious and ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing,
 unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never has it
 appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy
 apartment, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban
 London.

 Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway,
 and greeted my companion and myself.

 "This case will make a stir, sir," he remarked. "It beats anything I
 have seen, and I am no chicken."

 "There is no clue?" said Gregson.

 "None at all," chimed in Lestrade.

 Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down, examined it
 intently. "You are sure that there is no wound?" he asked, pointing
 to numerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round.

 "Positive!" cried both detectives.

 "Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second
 individual--presumably the murderer, if murder has been committed. It
 reminds me of the circumstances attendant on the death of Van Jansen,
 in Utrecht, in the year '34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?"

 "No, sir."

 "Read it up--you really should. There is nothing new under the sun.
 It has all been done before."

 As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and
 everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes
 wore the same far-away expression which I have already remarked upon.
 So swiftly was the examination made, that one would hardly have
 guessed the minuteness with which it was conducted. Finally, he
 sniffed the dead man's lips, and then glanced at the soles of his
 patent leather boots.

 "He has not been moved at all?" he asked.

 "No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination."

 "You can take him to the mortuary now," he said. "There is nothing
 more to be learned."

 Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they
 entered the room, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As
 they raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor.
 Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with mystified eyes.

 "There's been a woman here," he cried. "It's a woman's wedding-ring."

 He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We all
 gathered round him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that
 circlet of plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.

 "This complicates matters," said Gregson. "Heaven knows, they were
 complicated enough before."

 "You're sure it doesn't simplify them?" observed Holmes. "There's
 nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his
 pockets?"

 "We have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects
 upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. "A gold watch, No. 97163,
 by Barraud, of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold
 ring, with masonic device. Gold pin--bull-dog's head, with rubies as
 eyes. Russian leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of
 Cleveland, corresponding with the E. J. D. upon the linen. No purse,
 but loose money to the extent of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket
 edition of Boccaccio's 'Decameron,' with name of Joseph Stangerson
 upon the fly-leaf. Two letters--one addressed to E. J. Drebber and
 one to Joseph Stangerson."

 "At what address?"

 "American Exchange, Strand--to be left till called for. They are both
 from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of their
 boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about
 to return to New York."

 "Have you made any inquiries as to this man, Stangerson?"

 "I did it at once, sir," said Gregson. "I have had advertisements
 sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the
 American Exchange, but he has not returned yet."

 "Have you sent to Cleveland?"

 "We telegraphed this morning."

 "How did you word your inquiries?"

 "We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we should be
 glad of any information which could help us."

 "You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you
 to be crucial?"

 "I asked about Stangerson."

 "Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case
 appears to hinge? Will you not telegraph again?"

 "I have said all I have to say," said Gregson, in an offended voice.

 Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to make
 some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we
 were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the
 scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner.

 "Mr. Gregson," he said, "I have just made a discovery of the highest
 importance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a
 careful examination of the walls."

 The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in a
 state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point against his
 colleague.

 "Come here," he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphere of
 which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. "Now,
 stand there!"

 He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.

 "Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.

 I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In this
 particular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving a
 yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was
 scrawled in blood-red letters a single word--

                                 RACHE.

 "What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the air of a
 showman exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked because it was in
 the darkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there.
 The murderer has written it with his or her own blood. See this smear
 where it has trickled down the wall! That disposes of the idea of
 suicide anyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will
 tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time,
 and if it was lit this corner would be the brightest instead of the
 darkest portion of the wall."

 "And what does it mean now that you have found it?" asked Gregson in
 a depreciatory voice.

 "Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the female name
 Rachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish. You
 mark my words, when this case comes to be cleared up you will find
 that a woman named Rachel has something to do with it. It's all very
 well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and
 clever, but the old hound is the best, when all is said and done."

 "I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had ruffled the
 little man's temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. "You
 certainly have the credit of being the first of us to find this out,
 and, as you say, it bears every mark of having been written by the
 other participant in last night's mystery. I have not had time to
 examine this room yet, but with your permission I shall do so now."

 As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying
 glass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted
 noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally
 kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with
 his occupation that he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for
 he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole time, keeping
 up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries
 suggestive of encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was
 irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound as it
 dashes backwards and forwards through the covert, whining in its
 eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent. For twenty minutes
 or more he continued his researches, measuring with the most exact
 care the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me,
 and occasionally applying his tape to the walls in an equally
 incomprehensible manner. In one place he gathered up very carefully a
 little pile of grey dust from the floor, and packed it away in an
 envelope. Finally, he examined with his glass the word upon the wall,
 going over every letter of it with the most minute exactness. This
 done, he appeared to be satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his
 glass in his pocket.

 "They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains," he
 remarked with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does apply
 to detective work."

 Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres of their amateur
 companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They
 evidently failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to
 realize, that Sherlock Holmes' smallest actions were all directed
 towards some definite and practical end.

 "What do you think of it, sir?" they both asked.

 "It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was to
 presume to help you," remarked my friend. "You are doing so well now
 that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere." There was a world
 of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. "If you will let me know how
 your investigations go," he continued, "I shall be happy to give you
 any help I can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the
 constable who found the body. Can you give me his name and address?"

 Lestrade glanced at his note-book. "John Rance," he said. "He is off
 duty now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park
 Gate."

 Holmes took a note of the address.

 "Come along, Doctor," he said; "we shall go and look him up. I'll
 tell you one thing which may help you in the case," he continued,
 turning to the two detectives. "There has been murder done, and the
 murderer was a man. He was more than six feet high, was in the prime
 of life, had small feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed
 boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim
 in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse with three old
 shoes and one new one on his off fore leg. In all probability the
 murderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand
 were remarkably long. These are only a few indications, but they may
 assist you."

 Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.

 "If this man was murdered, how was it done?" asked the former.

 "Poison," said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. "One other
 thing, Lestrade," he added, turning round at the door: "'Rache,' is
 the German for 'revenge;' so don't lose your time looking for Miss
 Rachel."

 With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals
 open-mouthed behind him. 





      CHAPTER IV
      What John Rance Had To Tell


 It was one o'clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock
 Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a
 long telegram. He then hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take
 us to the address given us by Lestrade.

 "There is nothing like first hand evidence," he remarked; "as a
 matter of fact, my mind is entirely made up upon the case, but still
 we may as well learn all that is to be learned."

 "You amaze me, Holmes," said I. "Surely you are not as sure as you
 pretend to be of all those particulars which you gave."

 "There's no room for a mistake," he answered. "The very first thing
 which I observed on arriving there was that a cab had made two ruts
 with its wheels close to the curb. Now, up to last night, we have had
 no rain for a week, so that those wheels which left such a deep
 impression must have been there during the night. There were the
 marks of the horse's hoofs, too, the outline of one of which was far
 more clearly cut than that of the other three, showing that that was
 a new shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began, and was not
 there at any time during the morning--I have Gregson's word for
 that--it follows that it must have been there during the night, and,
 therefore, that it brought those two individuals to the house."

 "That seems simple enough," said I; "but how about the other man's
 height?"

 "Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from
 the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation enough, though
 there is no use my boring you with figures. I had this fellow's
 stride both on the clay outside and on the dust within. Then I had a
 way of checking my calculation. When a man writes on a wall, his
 instinct leads him to write about the level of his own eyes. Now that
 writing was just over six feet from the ground. It was child's play."

 "And his age?" I asked.

 "Well, if a man can stride four and a-half feet without the smallest
 effort, he can't be quite in the sere and yellow. That was the
 breadth of a puddle on the garden walk which he had evidently walked
 across. Patent-leather boots had gone round, and Square-toes had
 hopped over. There is no mystery about it at all. I am simply
 applying to ordinary life a few of those precepts of observation and
 deduction which I advocated in that article. Is there anything else
 that puzzles you?"

 "The finger nails and the Trichinopoly," I suggested.

 "The writing on the wall was done with a man's forefinger dipped in
 blood. My glass allowed me to observe that the plaster was slightly
 scratched in doing it, which would not have been the case if the
 man's nail had been trimmed. I gathered up some scattered ash from
 the floor. It was dark in colour and flakey--such an ash as is only
 made by a Trichinopoly. I have made a special study of cigar
 ashes--in fact, I have written a monograph upon the subject. I
 flatter myself that I can distinguish at a glance the ash of any
 known brand, either of cigar or of tobacco. It is just in such
 details that the skilled detective differs from the Gregson and
 Lestrade type."

 "And the florid face?" I asked.

 "Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have no doubt that I was
 right. You must not ask me that at the present state of the affair."

 I passed my hand over my brow. "My head is in a whirl," I remarked;
 "the more one thinks of it the more mysterious it grows. How came
 these two men--if there were two men--into an empty house? What has
 become of the cabman who drove them? How could one man compel another
 to take poison? Where did the blood come from? What was the object of
 the murderer, since robbery had no part in it? How came the woman's
 ring there? Above all, why should the second man write up the German
 word RACHE before decamping? I confess that I cannot see any possible
 way of reconciling all these facts."

 My companion smiled approvingly.

 "You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and well,"
 he said. "There is much that is still obscure, though I have quite
 made up my mind on the main facts. As to poor Lestrade's discovery it
 was simply a blind intended to put the police upon a wrong track, by
 suggesting Socialism and secret societies. It was not done by a
 German. The A, if you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German
 fashion. Now, a real German invariably prints in the Latin character,
 so that we may safely say that this was not written by one, but by a
 clumsy imitator who overdid his part. It was simply a ruse to divert
 inquiry into a wrong channel. I'm not going to tell you much more of
 the case, Doctor. You know a conjuror gets no credit when once he has
 explained his trick, and if I show you too much of my method of
 working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary
 individual after all."

 "I shall never do that," I answered; "you have brought detection as
 near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world."

 My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest
 way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as
 sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of
 her beauty.

 "I'll tell you one other thing," he said. "Patent-leathers and
 Square-toes came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway
 together as friendly as possible--arm-in-arm, in all probability.
 When they got inside they walked up and down the room--or rather,
 Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes walked up and down. I
 could read all that in the dust; and I could read that as he walked
 he grew more and more excited. That is shown by the increased length
 of his strides. He was talking all the while, and working himself up,
 no doubt, into a fury. Then the tragedy occurred. I've told you all I
 know myself now, for the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have
 a good working basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up,
 for I want to go to Halle's concert to hear Norman Neruda this
 afternoon."

 This conversation had occurred while our cab had been threading its
 way through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In
 the dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly came to a
 stand. "That's Audley Court in there," he said, pointing to a narrow
 slit in the line of dead-coloured brick. "You'll find me here when
 you come back."

 Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage led
 us into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined by sordid dwellings.
 We picked our way among groups of dirty children, and through lines
 of discoloured linen, until we came to Number 46, the door of which
 was decorated with a small slip of brass on which the name Rance was
 engraved. On enquiry we found that the constable was in bed, and we
 were shown into a little front parlour to await his coming.

 He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at being disturbed
 in his slumbers. "I made my report at the office," he said.

 Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it
 pensively. "We thought that we should like to hear it all from your
 own lips," he said.

 "I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can," the constable
 answered with his eyes upon the little golden disk.

 "Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred."

 Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows as though
 determined not to omit anything in his narrative.

 "I'll tell it ye from the beginning," he said. "My time is from ten
 at night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the
 'White Hart'; but bar that all was quiet enough on the beat. At one
 o'clock it began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher--him who has the
 Holland Grove beat--and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta
 Street a-talkin'. Presently--maybe about two or a little after--I
 thought I would take a look round and see that all was right down the
 Brixton Road. It was precious dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet
 all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. I was a strollin'
 down, thinkin' between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot
 would be, when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the
 window of that same house. Now, I knew that them two houses in
 Lauriston Gardens was empty on account of him that owns them who
 won't have the drains seed to, though the very last tenant what lived
 in one of them died o' typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a heap
 therefore at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected as
 something was wrong. When I got to the door--"

 "You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate," my companion
 interrupted. "What did you do that for?"

 Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the
 utmost amazement upon his features.

 "Why, that's true, sir," he said; "though how you come to know it,
 Heaven only knows. Ye see, when I got up to the door it was so still
 and so lonesome, that I thought I'd be none the worse for some one
 with me. I ain't afeared of anything on this side o' the grave; but I
 thought that maybe it was him that died o' the typhoid inspecting the
 drains what killed him. The thought gave me a kind o' turn, and I
 walked back to the gate to see if I could see Murcher's lantern, but
 there wasn't no sign of him nor of anyone else."

 "There was no one in the street?"

 "Not a livin' soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then I pulled myself
 together and went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet
 inside, so I went into the room where the light was a-burnin'. There
 was a candle flickerin' on the mantelpiece--a red wax one--and by its
 light I saw--"

 "Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several
 times, and you knelt down by the body, and then you walked through
 and tried the kitchen door, and then--"

 John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and suspicion in
 his eyes. "Where was you hid to see all that?" he cried. "It seems to
 me that you knows a deal more than you should."

 Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable.
 "Don't get arresting me for the murder," he said. "I am one of the
 hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for
 that. Go on, though. What did you do next?"

 Rance resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified
 expression. "I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That
 brought Murcher and two more to the spot."

 "Was the street empty then?"

 "Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes."

 "What do you mean?"

 The constable's features broadened into a grin. "I've seen many a
 drunk chap in my time," he said, "but never anyone so cryin' drunk as
 that cove. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin' up ag'in the
 railings, and a-singin' at the pitch o' his lungs about Columbine's
 New-fangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn't stand, far less
 help."

 "What sort of a man was he?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

 John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. "He
 was an uncommon drunk sort o' man," he said. "He'd ha' found hisself
 in the station if we hadn't been so took up."

 "His face--his dress--didn't you notice them?" Holmes broke in
 impatiently.

 "I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him
 up--me and Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with a red face,
 the lower part muffled round--"

 "That will do," cried Holmes. "What became of him?"

 "We'd enough to do without lookin' after him," the policeman said, in
 an aggrieved voice. "I'll wager he found his way home all right."

 "How was he dressed?"

 "A brown overcoat."

 "Had he a whip in his hand?"

 "A whip--no."

 "He must have left it behind," muttered my companion. "You didn't
 happen to see or hear a cab after that?"

 "No."

 "There's a half-sovereign for you," my companion said, standing up
 and taking his hat. "I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in
 the force. That head of yours should be for use as well as ornament.
 You might have gained your sergeant's stripes last night. The man
 whom you held in your hands is the man who holds the clue of this
 mystery, and whom we are seeking. There is no use of arguing about it
 now; I tell you that it is so. Come along, Doctor."

 We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant
 incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.

 "The blundering fool," Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to our
 lodgings. "Just to think of his having such an incomparable bit of
 good luck, and not taking advantage of it."

 "I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the description of
 this man tallies with your idea of the second party in this mystery.
 But why should he come back to the house after leaving it? That is
 not the way of criminals."

 "The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If we have
 no other way of catching him, we can always bait our line with the
 ring. I shall have him, Doctor--I'll lay you two to one that I have
 him. I must thank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you,
 and so have missed the finest study I ever came across: a study in
 scarlet, eh? Why shouldn't we use a little art jargon. There's the
 scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of
 life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every
 inch of it. And now for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack
 and her bowing are splendid. What's that little thing of Chopin's she
 plays so magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."

 Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a
 lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.





      CHAPTER V
      Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor


 Our morning's exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I
 was tired out in the afternoon. After Holmes' departure for the
 concert, I lay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of
 hours' sleep. It was a useless attempt. My mind had been too much
 excited by all that had occurred, and the strangest fancies and
 surmises crowded into it. Every time that I closed my eyes I saw
 before me the distorted baboon-like countenance of the murdered man.
 So sinister was the impression which that face had produced upon me
 that I found it difficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who
 had removed its owner from the world. If ever human features bespoke
 vice of the most malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch
 J. Drebber, of Cleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be
 done, and that the depravity of the victim was no condonement in the
 eyes of the law.

 The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my companion's
 hypothesis, that the man had been poisoned, appear. I remembered how
 he had sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected
 something which had given rise to the idea. Then, again, if not
 poison, what had caused the man's death, since there was neither
 wound nor marks of strangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood
 was that which lay so thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of
 a struggle, nor had the victim any weapon with which he might have
 wounded an antagonist. As long as all these questions were unsolved,
 I felt that sleep would be no easy matter, either for Holmes or
 myself. His quiet self-confident manner convinced me that he had
 already formed a theory which explained all the facts, though what it
 was I could not for an instant conjecture.

 He was very late in returning--so late, that I knew that the concert
 could not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on the table
 before he appeared.

 "It was magnificent," he said, as he took his seat. "Do you remember
 what Darwin says about music? He claims that the power of producing
 and appreciating it existed among the human race long before the
 power of speech was arrived at. Perhaps that is why we are so subtly
 influenced by it. There are vague memories in our souls of those
 misty centuries when the world was in its childhood."

 "That's rather a broad idea," I remarked.

 "One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpret
 Nature," he answered. "What's the matter? You're not looking quite
 yourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you."

 "To tell the truth, it has," I said. "I ought to be more
 case-hardened after my Afghan experiences. I saw my own comrades
 hacked to pieces at Maiwand without losing my nerve."

 "I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates the
 imagination; where there is no imagination there is no horror. Have
 you seen the evening paper?"

 "No."

 "It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mention
 the fact that when the man was raised up, a woman's wedding ring fell
 upon the floor. It is just as well it does not."

 "Why?"

 "Look at this advertisement," he answered. "I had one sent to every
 paper this morning immediately after the affair."

 He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated.
 It was the first announcement in the "Found" column. "In Brixton
 Road, this morning," it ran, "a plain gold wedding ring, found in the
 roadway between the 'White Hart' Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr.
 Watson, 221b, Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening."

 "Excuse my using your name," he said. "If I used my own some of these
 dunderheads would recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair."

 "That is all right," I answered. "But supposing anyone applies, I
 have no ring."

 "Oh yes, you have," said he, handing me one. "This will do very well.
 It is almost a facsimile."

 "And who do you expect will answer this advertisement."

 "Why, the man in the brown coat--our florid friend with the square
 toes. If he does not come himself he will send an accomplice."

 "Would he not consider it as too dangerous?"

 "Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every
 reason to believe that it is, this man would rather risk anything
 than lose the ring. According to my notion he dropped it while
 stooping over Drebber's body, and did not miss it at the time. After
 leaving the house he discovered his loss and hurried back, but found
 the police already in possession, owing to his own folly in leaving
 the candle burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay
 the suspicions which might have been aroused by his appearance at the
 gate. Now put yourself in that man's place. On thinking the matter
 over, it must have occurred to him that it was possible that he had
 lost the ring in the road after leaving the house. What would he do,
 then? He would eagerly look out for the evening papers in the hope of
 seeing it among the articles found. His eye, of course, would light
 upon this. He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear a trap? There
 would be no reason in his eyes why the finding of the ring should be
 connected with the murder. He would come. He will come. You shall see
 him within an hour."

 "And then?" I asked.

 "Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any arms?"

 "I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges."

 "You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man, and
 though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be ready for
 anything."

 I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I returned with
 the pistol the table had been cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his
 favourite occupation of scraping upon his violin.

 "The plot thickens," he said, as I entered; "I have just had an
 answer to my American telegram. My view of the case is the correct
 one."

 "And that is?" I asked eagerly.

 "My fiddle would be the better for new strings," he remarked. "Put
 your pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes speak to him in an
 ordinary way. Leave the rest to me. Don't frighten him by looking at
 him too hard."

 "It is eight o'clock now," I said, glancing at my watch.

 "Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door
 slightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you!
 This is a queer old book I picked up at a stall yesterday--De Jure
 inter Gentes--published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642.
 Charles' head was still firm on his shoulders when this little
 brown-backed volume was struck off."

 "Who is the printer?"

 "Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf, in very
 faded ink, is written 'Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.' I wonder who
 William Whyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth century lawyer, I
 suppose. His writing has a legal twist about it. Here comes our man,
 I think."

 As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes rose
 softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard the
 servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she
 opened it.

 "Does Dr. Watson live here?" asked a clear but rather harsh voice. We
 could not hear the servant's reply, but the door closed, and some one
 began to ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain and
 shuffling one. A look of surprise passed over the face of my
 companion as he listened to it. It came slowly along the passage, and
 there was a feeble tap at the door.

 "Come in," I cried.

 At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we expected, a
 very old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared
 to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and after dropping a
 curtsey, she stood blinking at us with her bleared eyes and fumbling
 in her pocket with nervous, shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion,
 and his face had assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was
 all I could do to keep my countenance.

 The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our
 advertisement. "It's this as has brought me, good gentlemen," she
 said, dropping another curtsey; "a gold wedding ring in the Brixton
 Road. It belongs to my girl Sally, as was married only this time
 twelvemonth, which her husband is steward aboard a Union boat, and
 what he'd say if he comes 'ome and found her without her ring is more
 than I can think, he being short enough at the best o' times, but
 more especially when he has the drink. If it please you, she went to
 the circus last night along with--"

 "Is that her ring?" I asked.

 "The Lord be thanked!" cried the old woman; "Sally will be a glad
 woman this night. That's the ring."

 "And what may your address be?" I inquired, taking up a pencil.

 "13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here."

 "The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch,"
 said Sherlock Holmes sharply.

 The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little
 red-rimmed eyes. "The gentleman asked me for my address," she said.
 "Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham."

 "And your name is--?"

 "My name is Sawyer--her's is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married
 her--and a smart, clean lad, too, as long as he's at sea, and no
 steward in the company more thought of; but when on shore, what with
 the women and what with liquor shops--"

 "Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer," I interrupted, in obedience to a
 sign from my companion; "it clearly belongs to your daughter, and I
 am glad to be able to restore it to the rightful owner."

 With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the old
 crone packed it away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs.
 Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that she was gone and
 rushed into his room. He returned in a few seconds enveloped in an
 ulster and a cravat. "I'll follow her," he said, hurriedly; "she must
 be an accomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me." The hall
 door had hardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had
 descended the stair. Looking through the window I could see her
 walking feebly along the other side, while her pursuer dogged her
 some little distance behind. "Either his whole theory is incorrect,"
 I thought to myself, "or else he will be led now to the heart of the
 mystery." There was no need for him to ask me to wait up for him, for
 I felt that sleep was impossible until I heard the result of his
 adventure.

 It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he
 might be, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the
 pages of Henri Murger's Vie de BohÃ¨me. Ten o'clock passed, and I
 heard the footsteps of the maid as they pattered off to bed. Eleven,
 and the more stately tread of the landlady passed my door, bound for
 the same destination. It was close upon twelve before I heard the
 sharp sound of his latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by his
 face that he had not been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to
 be struggling for the mastery, until the former suddenly carried the
 day, and he burst into a hearty laugh.

 "I wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world," he
 cried, dropping into his chair; "I have chaffed them so much that
 they would never have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to
 laugh, because I know that I will be even with them in the long run."

 "What is it then?" I asked.

 "Oh, I don't mind telling a story against myself. That creature had
 gone a little way when she began to limp and show every sign of being
 foot-sore. Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler
 which was passing. I managed to be close to her so as to hear the
 address, but I need not have been so anxious, for she sang it out
 loud enough to be heard at the other side of the street, 'Drive to
 13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch,' she cried. This begins to look
 genuine, I thought, and having seen her safely inside, I perched
 myself behind. That's an art which every detective should be an
 expert at. Well, away we rattled, and never drew rein until we
 reached the street in question. I hopped off before we came to the
 door, and strolled down the street in an easy, lounging way. I saw
 the cab pull up. The driver jumped down, and I saw him open the door
 and stand expectantly. Nothing came out though. When I reached him he
 was groping about frantically in the empty cab, and giving vent to
 the finest assorted collection of oaths that ever I listened to.
 There was no sign or trace of his passenger, and I fear it will be
 some time before he gets his fare. On inquiring at Number 13 we found
 that the house belonged to a respectable paperhanger, named Keswick,
 and that no one of the name either of Sawyer or Dennis had ever been
 heard of there."

 "You don't mean to say," I cried, in amazement, "that that tottering,
 feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in
 motion, without either you or the driver seeing her?"

 "Old woman be damned!" said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. "We were the
 old women to be so taken in. It must have been a young man, and an
 active one, too, besides being an incomparable actor. The get-up was
 inimitable. He saw that he was followed, no doubt, and used this
 means of giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are after is
 not as lonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to
 risk something for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my
 advice and turn in."

 I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. I
 left Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into
 the watches of the night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his
 violin, and knew that he was still pondering over the strange problem
 which he had set himself to unravel.





      CHAPTER VI
      Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do


 The papers next day were full of the "Brixton Mystery," as they
 termed it. Each had a long account of the affair, and some had
 leaders upon it in addition. There was some information in them which
 was new to me. I still retain in my scrap-book numerous clippings and
 extracts bearing upon the case. Here is a condensation of a few of
 them:--

 The Daily Telegraph remarked that in the history of crime there had
 seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features. The German
 name of the victim, the absence of all other motive, and the sinister
 inscription on the wall, all pointed to its perpetration by political
 refugees and revolutionists. The Socialists had many branches in
 America, and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwritten
 laws, and been tracked down by them. After alluding airily to the
 Vehmgericht, aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers,
 the Darwinian theory, the principles of Malthus, and the Ratcliff
 Highway murders, the article concluded by admonishing the Government
 and advocating a closer watch over foreigners in England.

 The Standard commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the
 sort usually occurred under a Liberal Administration. They arose from
 the unsettling of the minds of the masses, and the consequent
 weakening of all authority. The deceased was an American gentleman
 who had been residing for some weeks in the Metropolis. He had stayed
 at the boarding-house of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace,
 Camberwell. He was accompanied in his travels by his private
 secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The two bade adieu to their
 landlady upon Tuesday, the 4th inst., and departed to Euston Station
 with the avowed intention of catching the Liverpool express. They
 were afterwards seen together upon the platform. Nothing more is
 known of them until Mr. Drebber's body was, as recorded, discovered
 in an empty house in the Brixton Road, many miles from Euston. How he
 came there, or how he met his fate, are questions which are still
 involved in mystery. Nothing is known of the whereabouts of
 Stangerson. We are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson,
 of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the case, and it is
 confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will speedily
 throw light upon the matter.

 The Daily News observed that there was no doubt as to the crime being
 a political one. The despotism and hatred of Liberalism which
 animated the Continental Governments had had the effect of driving to
 our shores a number of men who might have made excellent citizens
 were they not soured by the recollection of all that they had
 undergone. Among these men there was a stringent code of honour, any
 infringement of which was punished by death. Every effort should be
 made to find the secretary, Stangerson, and to ascertain some
 particulars of the habits of the deceased. A great step had been
 gained by the discovery of the address of the house at which he had
 boarded--a result which was entirely due to the acuteness and energy
 of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.

 Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at breakfast,
 and they appeared to afford him considerable amusement.

 "I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson would be
 sure to score."

 "That depends on how it turns out."

 "Oh, bless you, it doesn't matter in the least. If the man is caught,
 it will be on account of their exertions; if he escapes, it will be
 in spite of their exertions. It's heads I win and tails you lose.
 Whatever they do, they will have followers. 'Un sot trouve toujours
 un plus sot qui l'admire.'"

 "What on earth is this?" I cried, for at this moment there came the
 pattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied by
 audible expressions of disgust upon the part of our landlady.

 "It's the Baker Street division of the detective police force," said
 my companion, gravely; and as he spoke there rushed into the room
 half a dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I
 clapped eyes on.

 "'Tention!" cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the six dirty little
 scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable statuettes. "In
 future you shall send up Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of you
 must wait in the street. Have you found it, Wiggins?"

 "No, sir, we hain't," said one of the youths.

 "I hardly expected you would. You must keep on until you do. Here are
 your wages." He handed each of them a shilling. "Now, off you go, and
 come back with a better report next time."

 He waved his hand, and they scampered away downstairs like so many
 rats, and we heard their shrill voices next moment in the street.

 "There's more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than
 out of a dozen of the force," Holmes remarked. "The mere sight of an
 official-looking person seals men's lips. These youngsters, however,
 go everywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too;
 all they want is organisation."

 "Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing them?" I asked.

 "Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain. It is merely a
 matter of time. Hullo! we are going to hear some news now with a
 vengeance! Here is Gregson coming down the road with beatitude
 written upon every feature of his face. Bound for us, I know. Yes, he
 is stopping. There he is!"

 There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few seconds the
 fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and
 burst into our sitting-room.

 "My dear fellow," he cried, wringing Holmes' unresponsive hand,
 "congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as day."

 A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my companion's expressive
 face.

 "Do you mean that you are on the right track?" he asked.

 "The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key."

 "And his name is?"

 "Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty's navy," cried
 Gregson, pompously, rubbing his fat hands and inflating his chest.

 Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and relaxed into a smile.

 "Take a seat, and try one of these cigars," he said. "We are anxious
 to know how you managed it. Will you have some whiskey and water?"

 "I don't mind if I do," the detective answered. "The tremendous
 exertions which I have gone through during the last day or two have
 worn me out. Not so much bodily exertion, you understand, as the
 strain upon the mind. You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
 for we are both brain-workers."

 "You do me too much honour," said Holmes, gravely. "Let us hear how
 you arrived at this most gratifying result."

 The detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and puffed
 complacently at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a
 paroxysm of amusement.

 "The fun of it is," he cried, "that that fool Lestrade, who thinks
 himself so smart, has gone off upon the wrong track altogether. He is
 after the secretary Stangerson, who had no more to do with the crime
 than the babe unborn. I have no doubt that he has caught him by this
 time."

 The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked.

 "And how did you get your clue?"

 "Ah, I'll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson, this is
 strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to
 contend with was the finding of this American's antecedents. Some
 people would have waited until their advertisements were answered, or
 until parties came forward and volunteered information. That is not
 Tobias Gregson's way of going to work. You remember the hat beside
 the dead man?"

 "Yes," said Holmes; "by John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell
 Road."

 Gregson looked quite crest-fallen.

 "I had no idea that you noticed that," he said. "Have you been
 there?"

 "No."

 "Ha!" cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; "you should never neglect a
 chance, however small it may seem."

 "To a great mind, nothing is little," remarked Holmes, sententiously.

 "Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he had sold a hat of
 that size and description. He looked over his books, and came on it
 at once. He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber, residing at
 Charpentier's Boarding Establishment, Torquay Terrace. Thus I got at
 his address."

 "Smart--very smart!" murmured Sherlock Holmes.

 "I next called upon Madame Charpentier," continued the detective. "I
 found her very pale and distressed. Her daughter was in the room,
 too--an uncommonly fine girl she is, too; she was looking red about
 the eyes and her lips trembled as I spoke to her. That didn't escape
 my notice. I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock
 Holmes, when you come upon the right scent--a kind of thrill in your
 nerves. 'Have you heard of the mysterious death of your late boarder
 Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?' I asked.

 "The mother nodded. She didn't seem able to get out a word. The
 daughter burst into tears. I felt more than ever that these people
 knew something of the matter.

 "'At what o'clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for the train?' I
 asked.

 "'At eight o'clock,' she said, gulping in her throat to keep down her
 agitation. 'His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said that there were two
 trains--one at 9.15 and one at 11. He was to catch the first.'

 "'And was that the last which you saw of him?'

 "A terrible change came over the woman's face as I asked the
 question. Her features turned perfectly livid. It was some seconds
 before she could get out the single word 'Yes'--and when it did come
 it was in a husky unnatural tone.

 "There was silence for a moment, and then the daughter spoke in a
 calm clear voice.

 "'No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,' she said. 'Let us be
 frank with this gentleman. We did see Mr. Drebber again.'

 "'God forgive you!' cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her hands
 and sinking back in her chair. 'You have murdered your brother.'

 "'Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,' the girl answered
 firmly.

 "'You had best tell me all about it now,' I said. 'Half-confidences
 are worse than none. Besides, you do not know how much we know of
 it.'

 "'On your head be it, Alice!' cried her mother; and then, turning to
 me, 'I will tell you all, sir. Do not imagine that my agitation on
 behalf of my son arises from any fear lest he should have had a hand
 in this terrible affair. He is utterly innocent of it. My dread is,
 however, that in your eyes and in the eyes of others he may appear to
 be compromised. That however is surely impossible. His high
 character, his profession, his antecedents would all forbid it.'

 "'Your best way is to make a clean breast of the facts,' I answered.
 'Depend upon it, if your son is innocent he will be none the worse.'

 "'Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,' she said, and
 her daughter withdrew. 'Now, sir,' she continued, 'I had no intention
 of telling you all this, but since my poor daughter has disclosed it
 I have no alternative. Having once decided to speak, I will tell you
 all without omitting any particular.'

 "'It is your wisest course,' said I.

 "'Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and his
 secretary, Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling on the Continent. I
 noticed a "Copenhagen" label upon each of their trunks, showing that
 that had been their last stopping place. Stangerson was a quiet
 reserved man, but his employer, I am sorry to say, was far otherwise.
 He was coarse in his habits and brutish in his ways. The very night
 of his arrival he became very much the worse for drink, and, indeed,
 after twelve o'clock in the day he could hardly ever be said to be
 sober. His manners towards the maid-servants were disgustingly free
 and familiar. Worst of all, he speedily assumed the same attitude
 towards my daughter, Alice, and spoke to her more than once in a way
 which, fortunately, she is too innocent to understand. On one
 occasion he actually seized her in his arms and embraced her--an
 outrage which caused his own secretary to reproach him for his
 unmanly conduct.'

 "'But why did you stand all this,' I asked. 'I suppose that you can
 get rid of your boarders when you wish.'

 "Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. 'Would to God
 that I had given him notice on the very day that he came,' she said.
 'But it was a sore temptation. They were paying a pound a day
 each--fourteen pounds a week, and this is the slack season. I am a
 widow, and my boy in the Navy has cost me much. I grudged to lose the
 money. I acted for the best. This last was too much, however, and I
 gave him notice to leave on account of it. That was the reason of his
 going.'

 "'Well?'

 "'My heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My son is on leave
 just now, but I did not tell him anything of all this, for his temper
 is violent, and he is passionately fond of his sister. When I closed
 the door behind them a load seemed to be lifted from my mind. Alas,
 in less than an hour there was a ring at the bell, and I learned that
 Mr. Drebber had returned. He was much excited, and evidently the
 worse for drink. He forced his way into the room, where I was sitting
 with my daughter, and made some incoherent remark about having missed
 his train. He then turned to Alice, and before my very face, proposed
 to her that she should fly with him. "You are of age," he said, "and
 there is no law to stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Never
 mind the old girl here, but come along with me now straight away. You
 shall live like a princess." Poor Alice was so frightened that she
 shrunk away from him, but he caught her by the wrist and endeavoured
 to draw her towards the door. I screamed, and at that moment my son
 Arthur came into the room. What happened then I do not know. I heard
 oaths and the confused sounds of a scuffle. I was too terrified to
 raise my head. When I did look up I saw Arthur standing in the
 doorway laughing, with a stick in his hand. "I don't think that fine
 fellow will trouble us again," he said. "I will just go after him and
 see what he does with himself." With those words he took his hat and
 started off down the street. The next morning we heard of Mr.
 Drebber's mysterious death.'

 "This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier's lips with many gasps and
 pauses. At times she spoke so low that I could hardly catch the
 words. I made shorthand notes of all that she said, however, so that
 there should be no possibility of a mistake."

 "It's quite exciting," said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn. "What
 happened next?"

 "When Mrs. Charpentier paused," the detective continued, "I saw that
 the whole case hung upon one point. Fixing her with my eye in a way
 which I always found effective with women, I asked her at what hour
 her son returned.

 "'I do not know,' she answered.

 "'Not know?'

 "'No; he has a latch-key, and he let himself in.'

 "'After you went to bed?'

 "'Yes.'

 "'When did you go to bed?'

 "'About eleven.'

 "'So your son was gone at least two hours?'

 "'Yes.'

 "'Possibly four or five?'

 "'Yes.'

 "'What was he doing during that time?'

 "'I do not know,' she answered, turning white to her very lips.

 "Of course after that there was nothing more to be done. I found out
 where Lieutenant Charpentier was, took two officers with me, and
 arrested him. When I touched him on the shoulder and warned him to
 come quietly with us, he answered us as bold as brass, 'I suppose you
 are arresting me for being concerned in the death of that scoundrel
 Drebber,' he said. We had said nothing to him about it, so that his
 alluding to it had a most suspicious aspect."

 "Very," said Holmes.

 "He still carried the heavy stick which the mother described him as
 having with him when he followed Drebber. It was a stout oak cudgel."

 "What is your theory, then?"

 "Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the Brixton
 Road. When there, a fresh altercation arose between them, in the
 course of which Drebber received a blow from the stick, in the pit of
 the stomach, perhaps, which killed him without leaving any mark. The
 night was so wet that no one was about, so Charpentier dragged the
 body of his victim into the empty house. As to the candle, and the
 blood, and the writing on the wall, and the ring, they may all be so
 many tricks to throw the police on to the wrong scent."

 "Well done!" said Holmes in an encouraging voice. "Really, Gregson,
 you are getting along. We shall make something of you yet."

 "I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly," the
 detective answered proudly. "The young man volunteered a statement,
 in which he said that after following Drebber some time, the latter
 perceived him, and took a cab in order to get away from him. On his
 way home he met an old shipmate, and took a long walk with him. On
 being asked where this old shipmate lived, he was unable to give any
 satisfactory reply. I think the whole case fits together uncommonly
 well. What amuses me is to think of Lestrade, who had started off
 upon the wrong scent. I am afraid he won't make much of--Why, by
 Jove, here's the very man himself!"

 It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the stairs while we were
 talking, and who now entered the room. The assurance and jauntiness
 which generally marked his demeanour and dress were, however,
 wanting. His face was disturbed and troubled, while his clothes were
 disarranged and untidy. He had evidently come with the intention of
 consulting with Sherlock Holmes, for on perceiving his colleague he
 appeared to be embarrassed and put out. He stood in the centre of the
 room, fumbling nervously with his hat and uncertain what to do. "This
 is a most extraordinary case," he said at last--"a most
 incomprehensible affair."

 "Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!" cried Gregson, triumphantly. "I
 thought you would come to that conclusion. Have you managed to find
 the Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?"

 "The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson," said Lestrade gravely, "was
 murdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six o'clock this morning."
 





      CHAPTER VII
      Light In The Darkness


 The intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momentous and
 so unexpected, that we were all three fairly dumbfounded. Gregson
 sprang out of his chair and upset the remainder of his whiskey and
 water. I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were
 compressed and his brows drawn down over his eyes.

 "Stangerson too!" he muttered. "The plot thickens."

 "It was quite thick enough before," grumbled Lestrade, taking a
 chair. "I seem to have dropped into a sort of council of war."

 "Are you--are you sure of this piece of intelligence?" stammered
 Gregson.

 "I have just come from his room," said Lestrade. "I was the first to
 discover what had occurred."

 "We have been hearing Gregson's view of the matter," Holmes observed.
 "Would you mind letting us know what you have seen and done?"

 "I have no objection," Lestrade answered, seating himself. "I freely
 confess that I was of the opinion that Stangerson was concerned in
 the death of Drebber. This fresh development has shown me that I was
 completely mistaken. Full of the one idea, I set myself to find out
 what had become of the Secretary. They had been seen together at
 Euston Station about half-past eight on the evening of the third. At
 two in the morning Drebber had been found in the Brixton Road. The
 question which confronted me was to find out how Stangerson had been
 employed between 8.30 and the time of the crime, and what had become
 of him afterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description
 of the man, and warning them to keep a watch upon the American boats.
 I then set to work calling upon all the hotels and lodging-houses in
 the vicinity of Euston. You see, I argued that if Drebber and his
 companion had become separated, the natural course for the latter
 would be to put up somewhere in the vicinity for the night, and then
 to hang about the station again next morning."

 "They would be likely to agree on some meeting-place beforehand,"
 remarked Holmes.

 "So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday evening in making
 enquiries entirely without avail. This morning I began very early,
 and at eight o'clock I reached Halliday's Private Hotel, in Little
 George Street. On my enquiry as to whether a Mr. Stangerson was
 living there, they at once answered me in the affirmative.

 "'No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was expecting,' they said.
 'He has been waiting for a gentleman for two days.'

 "'Where is he now?' I asked.

 "'He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at nine.'

 "'I will go up and see him at once,' I said.

 "It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might shake his nerves and
 lead him to say something unguarded. The Boots volunteered to show me
 the room: it was on the second floor, and there was a small corridor
 leading up to it. The Boots pointed out the door to me, and was about
 to go downstairs again when I saw something that made me feel
 sickish, in spite of my twenty years' experience. From under the door
 there curled a little red ribbon of blood, which had meandered across
 the passage and formed a little pool along the skirting at the other
 side. I gave a cry, which brought the Boots back. He nearly fainted
 when he saw it. The door was locked on the inside, but we put our
 shoulders to it, and knocked it in. The window of the room was open,
 and beside the window, all huddled up, lay the body of a man in his
 nightdress. He was quite dead, and had been for some time, for his
 limbs were rigid and cold. When we turned him over, the Boots
 recognized him at once as being the same gentleman who had engaged
 the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The cause of death was
 a deep stab in the left side, which must have penetrated the heart.
 And now comes the strangest part of the affair. What do you suppose
 was above the murdered man?"

 I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming horror,
 even before Sherlock Holmes answered.

 "The word RACHE, written in letters of blood," he said.

 "That was it," said Lestrade, in an awe-struck voice; and we were all
 silent for a while.

 There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the
 deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness
 to his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough on the field of
 battle tingled as I thought of it.

 "The man was seen," continued Lestrade. "A milk boy, passing on his
 way to the dairy, happened to walk down the lane which leads from the
 mews at the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which
 usually lay there, was raised against one of the windows of the
 second floor, which was wide open. After passing, he looked back and
 saw a man descend the ladder. He came down so quietly and openly that
 the boy imagined him to be some carpenter or joiner at work in the
 hotel. He took no particular notice of him, beyond thinking in his
 own mind that it was early for him to be at work. He has an
 impression that the man was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed
 in a long, brownish coat. He must have stayed in the room some little
 time after the murder, for we found blood-stained water in the basin,
 where he had washed his hands, and marks on the sheets where he had
 deliberately wiped his knife."

 I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description of the murderer, which
 tallied so exactly with his own. There was, however, no trace of
 exultation or satisfaction upon his face.

 "Did you find nothing in the room which could furnish a clue to the
 murderer?" he asked.

 "Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber's purse in his pocket, but it seems
 that this was usual, as he did all the paying. There was eighty odd
 pounds in it, but nothing had been taken. Whatever the motives of
 these extraordinary crimes, robbery is certainly not one of them.
 There were no papers or memoranda in the murdered man's pocket,
 except a single telegram, dated from Cleveland about a month ago, and
 containing the words, 'J. H. is in Europe.' There was no name
 appended to this message."

 "And there was nothing else?" Holmes asked.

 "Nothing of any importance. The man's novel, with which he had read
 himself to sleep was lying upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair
 beside him. There was a glass of water on the table, and on the
 window-sill a small chip ointment box containing a couple of pills."

 Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight.

 "The last link," he cried, exultantly. "My case is complete."

 The two detectives stared at him in amazement.

 "I have now in my hands," my companion said, confidently, "all the
 threads which have formed such a tangle. There are, of course,
 details to be filled in, but I am as certain of all the main facts,
 from the time that Drebber parted from Stangerson at the station, up
 to the discovery of the body of the latter, as if I had seen them
 with my own eyes. I will give you a proof of my knowledge. Could you
 lay your hand upon those pills?"

 "I have them," said Lestrade, producing a small white box; "I took
 them and the purse and the telegram, intending to have them put in a
 place of safety at the Police Station. It was the merest chance my
 taking these pills, for I am bound to say that I do not attach any
 importance to them."

 "Give them here," said Holmes. "Now, Doctor," turning to me, "are
 those ordinary pills?"

 They certainly were not. They were of a pearly grey colour, small,
 round, and almost transparent against the light. "From their
 lightness and transparency, I should imagine that they are soluble in
 water," I remarked.

 "Precisely so," answered Holmes. "Now would you mind going down and
 fetching that poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so
 long, and which the landlady wanted you to put out of its pain
 yesterday."

 I went downstairs and carried the dog upstair in my arms. It's
 laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from
 its end. Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already
 exceeded the usual term of canine existence. I placed it upon a
 cushion on the rug.

 "I will now cut one of these pills in two," said Holmes, and drawing
 his penknife he suited the action to the word. "One half we return
 into the box for future purposes. The other half I will place in this
 wine glass, in which is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our
 friend, the Doctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves."

 "This may be very interesting," said Lestrade, in the injured tone of
 one who suspects that he is being laughed at, "I cannot see, however,
 what it has to do with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson."

 "Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that it has
 everything to do with it. I shall now add a little milk to make the
 mixture palatable, and on presenting it to the dog we find that he
 laps it up readily enough."

 As he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a saucer
 and placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily licked it dry.
 Sherlock Holmes' earnest demeanour had so far convinced us that we
 all sat in silence, watching the animal intently, and expecting some
 startling effect. None such appeared, however. The dog continued to
 lie stretched upon the cushion, breathing in a laboured way, but
 apparently neither the better nor the worse for its draught.

 Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute without
 result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and disappointment
 appeared upon his features. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers
 upon the table, and showed every other symptom of acute impatience.
 So great was his emotion, that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while
 the two detectives smiled derisively, by no means displeased at this
 check which he had met.

 "It can't be a coincidence," he cried, at last springing from his
 chair and pacing wildly up and down the room; "it is impossible that
 it should be a mere coincidence. The very pills which I suspected in
 the case of Drebber are actually found after the death of Stangerson.
 And yet they are inert. What can it mean? Surely my whole chain of
 reasoning cannot have been false. It is impossible! And yet this
 wretched dog is none the worse. Ah, I have it! I have it!" With a
 perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut the other pill in
 two, dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to the terrier. The
 unfortunate creature's tongue seemed hardly to have been moistened in
 it before it gave a convulsive shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid
 and lifeless as if it had been struck by lightning.

 Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from
 his forehead. "I should have more faith," he said; "I ought to know
 by this time that when a fact appears to be opposed to a long train
 of deductions, it invariably proves to be capable of bearing some
 other interpretation. Of the two pills in that box one was of the
 most deadly poison, and the other was entirely harmless. I ought to
 have known that before ever I saw the box at all."

 This last statement appeared to me to be so startling, that I could
 hardly believe that he was in his sober senses. There was the dead
 dog, however, to prove that his conjecture had been correct. It
 seemed to me that the mists in my own mind were gradually clearing
 away, and I began to have a dim, vague perception of the truth.

 "All this seems strange to you," continued Holmes, "because you
 failed at the beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of the
 single real clue which was presented to you. I had the good fortune
 to seize upon that, and everything which has occurred since then has
 served to confirm my original supposition, and, indeed, was the
 logical sequence of it. Hence things which have perplexed you and
 made the case more obscure, have served to enlighten me and to
 strengthen my conclusions. It is a mistake to confound strangeness
 with mystery. The most commonplace crime is often the most mysterious
 because it presents no new or special features from which deductions
 may be drawn. This murder would have been infinitely more difficult
 to unravel had the body of the victim been simply found lying in the
 roadway without any of those outrÃ© and sensational accompaniments
 which have rendered it remarkable. These strange details, far from
 making the case more difficult, have really had the effect of making
 it less so."

 Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with considerable
 impatience, could contain himself no longer. "Look here, Mr. Sherlock
 Holmes," he said, "we are all ready to acknowledge that you are a
 smart man, and that you have your own methods of working. We want
 something more than mere theory and preaching now, though. It is a
 case of taking the man. I have made my case out, and it seems I was
 wrong. Young Charpentier could not have been engaged in this second
 affair. Lestrade went after his man, Stangerson, and it appears that
 he was wrong too. You have thrown out hints here, and hints there,
 and seem to know more than we do, but the time has come when we feel
 that we have a right to ask you straight how much you do know of the
 business. Can you name the man who did it?"

 "I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir," remarked
 Lestrade. "We have both tried, and we have both failed. You have
 remarked more than once since I have been in the room that you had
 all the evidence which you require. Surely you will not withhold it
 any longer."

 "Any delay in arresting the assassin," I observed, "might give him
 time to perpetrate some fresh atrocity."

 Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. He
 continued to walk up and down the room with his head sunk on his
 chest and his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in
 thought.

 "There will be no more murders," he said at last, stopping abruptly
 and facing us. "You can put that consideration out of the question.
 You have asked me if I know the name of the assassin. I do. The mere
 knowing of his name is a small thing, however, compared with the
 power of laying our hands upon him. This I expect very shortly to do.
 I have good hopes of managing it through my own arrangements; but it
 is a thing which needs delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and
 desperate man to deal with, who is supported, as I have had occasion
 to prove, by another who is as clever as himself. As long as this man
 has no idea that anyone can have a clue there is some chance of
 securing him; but if he had the slightest suspicion, he would change
 his name, and vanish in an instant among the four million inhabitants
 of this great city. Without meaning to hurt either of your feelings,
 I am bound to say that I consider these men to be more than a match
 for the official force, and that is why I have not asked your
 assistance. If I fail I shall, of course, incur all the blame due to
 this omission; but that I am prepared for. At present I am ready to
 promise that the instant that I can communicate with you without
 endangering my own combinations, I shall do so."

 Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this
 assurance, or by the depreciating allusion to the detective police.
 The former had flushed up to the roots of his flaxen hair, while the
 other's beady eyes glistened with curiosity and resentment. Neither
 of them had time to speak, however, before there was a tap at the
 door, and the spokesman of the street Arabs, young Wiggins,
 introduced his insignificant and unsavoury person.

 "Please, sir," he said, touching his forelock, "I have the cab
 downstairs."

 "Good boy," said Holmes, blandly. "Why don't you introduce this
 pattern at Scotland Yard?" he continued, taking a pair of steel
 handcuffs from a drawer. "See how beautifully the spring works. They
 fasten in an instant."

 "The old pattern is good enough," remarked Lestrade, "if we can only
 find the man to put them on."

 "Very good, very good," said Holmes, smiling. "The cabman may as well
 help me with my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins."

 I was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he were about
 to set out on a journey, since he had not said anything to me about
 it. There was a small portmanteau in the room, and this he pulled out
 and began to strap. He was busily engaged at it when the cabman
 entered the room.

 "Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman," he said, kneeling
 over his task, and never turning his head.

 The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air, and put
 down his hands to assist. At that instant there was a sharp click,
 the jangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.

 "Gentlemen," he cried, with flashing eyes, "let me introduce you to
 Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph
 Stangerson."

 The whole thing occurred in a moment--so quickly that I had no time
 to realize it. I have a vivid recollection of that instant, of
 Holmes' triumphant expression and the ring of his voice, of the
 cabman's dazed, savage face, as he glared at the glittering
 handcuffs, which had appeared as if by magic upon his wrists. For a
 second or two we might have been a group of statues. Then, with an
 inarticulate roar of fury, the prisoner wrenched himself free from
 Holmes's grasp, and hurled himself through the window. Woodwork and
 glass gave way before him; but before he got quite through, Gregson,
 Lestrade, and Holmes sprang upon him like so many staghounds. He was
 dragged back into the room, and then commenced a terrific conflict.
 So powerful and so fierce was he, that the four of us were shaken off
 again and again. He appeared to have the convulsive strength of a man
 in an epileptic fit. His face and hands were terribly mangled by his
 passage through the glass, but loss of blood had no effect in
 diminishing his resistance. It was not until Lestrade succeeded in
 getting his hand inside his neckcloth and half-strangling him that we
 made him realize that his struggles were of no avail; and even then
 we felt no security until we had pinioned his feet as well as his
 hands. That done, we rose to our feet breathless and panting.

 "We have his cab," said Sherlock Holmes. "It will serve to take him
 to Scotland Yard. And now, gentlemen," he continued, with a pleasant
 smile, "we have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very
 welcome to put any questions that you like to me now, and there is no
 danger that I will refuse to answer them."









                                  PART II

                       The Country of the Saints.





      CHAPTER I
      On The Great Alkali Plain


 In the central portion of the great North American Continent there
 lies an arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long year served
 as a barrier against the advance of civilisation. From the Sierra
 Nevada to Nebraska, and from the Yellowstone River in the north to
 the Colorado upon the south, is a region of desolation and silence.
 Nor is Nature always in one mood throughout this grim district. It
 comprises snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and gloomy
 valleys. There are swift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged
 caÃ±ons; and there are enormous plains, which in winter are white with
 snow, and in summer are grey with the saline alkali dust. They all
 preserve, however, the common characteristics of barrenness,
 inhospitality, and misery.

 There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of Pawnees
 or of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order to reach other
 hunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are glad to lose
 sight of those awesome plains, and to find themselves once more upon
 their prairies. The coyote skulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps
 heavily through the air, and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through
 the dark ravines, and picks up such sustenance as it can amongst the
 rocks. These are the sole dwellers in the wilderness.

 In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that from
 the northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reach
 stretches the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with patches of
 alkali, and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes.
 On the extreme verge of the horizon lie a long chain of mountain
 peaks, with their rugged summits flecked with snow. In this great
 stretch of country there is no sign of life, nor of anything
 appertaining to life. There is no bird in the steel-blue heaven, no
 movement upon the dull, grey earth--above all, there is absolute
 silence. Listen as one may, there is no shadow of a sound in all that
 mighty wilderness; nothing but silence--complete and heart-subduing
 silence.

 It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the broad
 plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one
 sees a pathway traced out across the desert, which winds away and is
 lost in the extreme distance. It is rutted with wheels and trodden
 down by the feet of many adventurers. Here and there there are
 scattered white objects which glisten in the sun, and stand out
 against the dull deposit of alkali. Approach, and examine them! They
 are bones: some large and coarse, others smaller and more delicate.
 The former have belonged to oxen, and the latter to men. For fifteen
 hundred miles one may trace this ghastly caravan route by these
 scattered remains of those who had fallen by the wayside.

 Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of May,
 eighteen hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller. His
 appearance was such that he might have been the very genius or demon
 of the region. An observer would have found it difficult to say
 whether he was nearer to forty or to sixty. His face was lean and
 haggard, and the brown parchment-like skin was drawn tightly over the
 projecting bones; his long, brown hair and beard were all flecked and
 dashed with white; his eyes were sunken in his head, and burned with
 an unnatural lustre; while the hand which grasped his rifle was
 hardly more fleshy than that of a skeleton. As he stood, he leaned
 upon his weapon for support, and yet his tall figure and the massive
 framework of his bones suggested a wiry and vigorous constitution.
 His gaunt face, however, and his clothes, which hung so baggily over
 his shrivelled limbs, proclaimed what it was that gave him that
 senile and decrepit appearance. The man was dying--dying from hunger
 and from thirst.

 He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little
 elevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the
 great salt plain stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of
 savage mountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or tree, which
 might indicate the presence of moisture. In all that broad landscape
 there was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and west he looked with
 wild questioning eyes, and then he realised that his wanderings had
 come to an end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was about to
 die. "Why not here, as well as in a feather bed, twenty years hence,"
 he muttered, as he seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.

 Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his useless
 rifle, and also a large bundle tied up in a grey shawl, which he had
 carried slung over his right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too
 heavy for his strength, for in lowering it, it came down on the
 ground with some little violence. Instantly there broke from the grey
 parcel a little moaning cry, and from it there protruded a small,
 scared face, with very bright brown eyes, and two little speckled,
 dimpled fists.

 "You've hurt me!" said a childish voice reproachfully.

 "Have I though," the man answered penitently, "I didn't go for to do
 it." As he spoke he unwrapped the grey shawl and extricated a pretty
 little girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart
 pink frock with its little linen apron all bespoke a mother's care.
 The child was pale and wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that
 she had suffered less than her companion.

 "How is it now?" he answered anxiously, for she was still rubbing the
 towsy golden curls which covered the back of her head.

 "Kiss it and make it well," she said, with perfect gravity, shoving
 the injured part up to him. "That's what mother used to do. Where's
 mother?"

 "Mother's gone. I guess you'll see her before long."

 "Gone, eh!" said the little girl. "Funny, she didn't say good-bye;
 she 'most always did if she was just goin' over to Auntie's for tea,
 and now she's been away three days. Say, it's awful dry, ain't it?
 Ain't there no water, nor nothing to eat?"

 "No, there ain't nothing, dearie. You'll just need to be patient
 awhile, and then you'll be all right. Put your head up agin me like
 that, and then you'll feel bullier. It ain't easy to talk when your
 lips is like leather, but I guess I'd best let you know how the cards
 lie. What's that you've got?"

 "Pretty things! fine things!" cried the little girl enthusiastically,
 holding up two glittering fragments of mica. "When we goes back to
 home I'll give them to brother Bob."

 "You'll see prettier things than them soon," said the man
 confidently. "You just wait a bit. I was going to tell you
 though--you remember when we left the river?"

 "Oh, yes."

 "Well, we reckoned we'd strike another river soon, d'ye see. But
 there was somethin' wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin', and it
 didn't turn up. Water ran out. Just except a little drop for the
 likes of you and--and--"

 "And you couldn't wash yourself," interrupted his companion gravely,
 staring up at his grimy visage.

 "No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to go, and then
 Indian Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then,
 dearie, your mother."

 "Then mother's a deader too," cried the little girl dropping her face
 in her pinafore and sobbing bitterly.

 "Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought there was some
 chance of water in this direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder
 and we tramped it together. It don't seem as though we've improved
 matters. There's an almighty small chance for us now!"

 "Do you mean that we are going to die too?" asked the child, checking
 her sobs, and raising her tear-stained face.

 "I guess that's about the size of it."

 "Why didn't you say so before?" she said, laughing gleefully. "You
 gave me such a fright. Why, of course, now as long as we die we'll be
 with mother again."

 "Yes, you will, dearie."

 "And you too. I'll tell her how awful good you've been. I'll bet she
 meets us at the door of Heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot
 of buckwheat cakes, hot, and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me
 was fond of. How long will it be first?"

 "I don't know--not very long." The man's eyes were fixed upon the
 northern horizon. In the blue vault of the heaven there had appeared
 three little specks which increased in size every moment, so rapidly
 did they approach. They speedily resolved themselves into three large
 brown birds, which circled over the heads of the two wanderers, and
 then settled upon some rocks which overlooked them. They were
 buzzards, the vultures of the west, whose coming is the forerunner of
 death.

 "Cocks and hens," cried the little girl gleefully, pointing at their
 ill-omened forms, and clapping her hands to make them rise. "Say, did
 God make this country?"

 "Of course He did," said her companion, rather startled by this
 unexpected question.

 "He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the Missouri," the
 little girl continued. "I guess somebody else made the country in
 these parts. It's not nearly so well done. They forgot the water and
 the trees."

 "What would ye think of offering up prayer?" the man asked
 diffidently.

 "It ain't night yet," she answered.

 "It don't matter. It ain't quite regular, but He won't mind that, you
 bet. You say over them ones that you used to say every night in the
 waggon when we was on the Plains."

 "Why don't you say some yourself?" the child asked, with wondering
 eyes.

 "I disremember them," he answered. "I hain't said none since I was
 half the height o' that gun. I guess it's never too late. You say
 them out, and I'll stand by and come in on the choruses."

 "Then you'll need to kneel down, and me too," she said, laying the
 shawl out for that purpose. "You've got to put your hands up like
 this. It makes you feel kind o' good."

 It was a strange sight had there been anything but the buzzards to
 see it. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the
 little prattling child and the reckless, hardened adventurer. Her
 chubby face, and his haggard, angular visage were both turned up to
 the cloudless heaven in heartfelt entreaty to that dread being with
 whom they were face to face, while the two voices--the one thin and
 clear, the other deep and harsh--united in the entreaty for mercy and
 forgiveness. The prayer finished, they resumed their seat in the
 shadow of the boulder until the child fell asleep, nestling upon the
 broad breast of her protector. He watched over her slumber for some
 time, but Nature proved to be too strong for him. For three days and
 three nights he had allowed himself neither rest nor repose. Slowly
 the eyelids drooped over the tired eyes, and the head sunk lower and
 lower upon the breast, until the man's grizzled beard was mixed with
 the gold tresses of his companion, and both slept the same deep and
 dreamless slumber.

 Had the wanderer remained awake for another half hour a strange sight
 would have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali
 plain there rose up a little spray of dust, very slight at first, and
 hardly to be distinguished from the mists of the distance, but
 gradually growing higher and broader until it formed a solid,
 well-defined cloud. This cloud continued to increase in size until it
 became evident that it could only be raised by a great multitude of
 moving creatures. In more fertile spots the observer would have come
 to the conclusion that one of those great herds of bisons which graze
 upon the prairie land was approaching him. This was obviously
 impossible in these arid wilds. As the whirl of dust drew nearer to
 the solitary bluff upon which the two castaways were reposing, the
 canvas-covered tilts of waggons and the figures of armed horsemen
 began to show up through the haze, and the apparition revealed itself
 as being a great caravan upon its journey for the West. But what a
 caravan! When the head of it had reached the base of the mountains,
 the rear was not yet visible on the horizon. Right across the
 enormous plain stretched the straggling array, waggons and carts, men
 on horseback, and men on foot. Innumerable women who staggered along
 under burdens, and children who toddled beside the waggons or peeped
 out from under the white coverings. This was evidently no ordinary
 party of immigrants, but rather some nomad people who had been
 compelled from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a new
 country. There rose through the clear air a confused clattering and
 rumbling from this great mass of humanity, with the creaking of
 wheels and the neighing of horses. Loud as it was, it was not
 sufficient to rouse the two tired wayfarers above them.

 At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave
 ironfaced men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with
 rifles. On reaching the base of the bluff they halted, and held a
 short council among themselves.

 "The wells are to the right, my brothers," said one, a hard-lipped,
 clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.

 "To the right of the Sierra Blanco--so we shall reach the Rio
 Grande," said another.

 "Fear not for water," cried a third. "He who could draw it from the
 rocks will not now abandon His own chosen people."

 "Amen! Amen!" responded the whole party.

 They were about to resume their journey when one of the youngest and
 keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag
 above them. From its summit there fluttered a little wisp of pink,
 showing up hard and bright against the grey rocks behind. At the
 sight there was a general reining up of horses and unslinging of
 guns, while fresh horsemen came galloping up to reinforce the
 vanguard. The word "Redskins" was on every lip.

 "There can't be any number of Injuns here," said the elderly man who
 appeared to be in command. "We have passed the Pawnees, and there are
 no other tribes until we cross the great mountains."

 "Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson," asked one of the
 band.

 "And I," "and I," cried a dozen voices.

 "Leave your horses below and we will await you here," the Elder
 answered. In a moment the young fellows had dismounted, fastened
 their horses, and were ascending the precipitous slope which led up
 to the object which had excited their curiosity. They advanced
 rapidly and noiselessly, with the confidence and dexterity of
 practised scouts. The watchers from the plain below could see them
 flit from rock to rock until their figures stood out against the
 skyline. The young man who had first given the alarm was leading
 them. Suddenly his followers saw him throw up his hands, as though
 overcome with astonishment, and on joining him they were affected in
 the same way by the sight which met their eyes.

 On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a
 single giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall man,
 long-bearded and hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His
 placid face and regular breathing showed that he was fast asleep.
 Beside him lay a little child, with her round white arms encircling
 his brown sinewy neck, and her golden haired head resting upon the
 breast of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were parted, showing the
 regular line of snow-white teeth within, and a playful smile played
 over her infantile features. Her plump little white legs terminating
 in white socks and neat shoes with shining buckles, offered a strange
 contrast to the long shrivelled members of her companion. On the
 ledge of rock above this strange couple there stood three solemn
 buzzards, who, at the sight of the new comers uttered raucous screams
 of disappointment and flapped sullenly away.

 The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers who stared about
 them in bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and looked down
 upon the plain which had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken
 him, and which was now traversed by this enormous body of men and of
 beasts. His face assumed an expression of incredulity as he gazed,
 and he passed his boney hand over his eyes. "This is what they call
 delirium, I guess," he muttered. The child stood beside him, holding
 on to the skirt of his coat, and said nothing but looked all round
 her with the wondering questioning gaze of childhood.

 The rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two castaways
 that their appearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little
 girl, and hoisted her upon his shoulder, while two others supported
 her gaunt companion, and assisted him towards the waggons.

 "My name is John Ferrier," the wanderer explained; "me and that
 little un are all that's left o' twenty-one people. The rest is all
 dead o' thirst and hunger away down in the south."

 "Is she your child?" asked someone.

 "I guess she is now," the other cried, defiantly; "she's mine 'cause
 I saved her. No man will take her from me. She's Lucy Ferrier from
 this day on. Who are you, though?" he continued, glancing with
 curiosity at his stalwart, sunburned rescuers; "there seems to be a
 powerful lot of ye."

 "Nigh upon ten thousand," said one of the young men; "we are the
 persecuted children of God--the chosen of the Angel Merona."

 "I never heard tell on him," said the wanderer. "He appears to have
 chosen a fair crowd of ye."

 "Do not jest at that which is sacred," said the other sternly. "We
 are of those who believe in those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian
 letters on plates of beaten gold, which were handed unto the holy
 Joseph Smith at Palmyra. We have come from Nauvoo, in the State of
 Illinois, where we had founded our temple. We have come to seek a
 refuge from the violent man and from the godless, even though it be
 the heart of the desert."

 The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John Ferrier.
 "I see," he said, "you are the Mormons."

 "We are the Mormons," answered his companions with one voice.

 "And where are you going?"

 "We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the person of
 our Prophet. You must come before him. He shall say what is to be
 done with you."

 They had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were
 surrounded by crowds of the pilgrims--pale-faced meek-looking women,
 strong laughing children, and anxious earnest-eyed men. Many were the
 cries of astonishment and of commiseration which arose from them when
 they perceived the youth of one of the strangers and the destitution
 of the other. Their escort did not halt, however, but pushed on,
 followed by a great crowd of Mormons, until they reached a waggon,
 which was conspicuous for its great size and for the gaudiness and
 smartness of its appearance. Six horses were yoked to it, whereas the
 others were furnished with two, or, at most, four a-piece. Beside the
 driver there sat a man who could not have been more than thirty years
 of age, but whose massive head and resolute expression marked him as
 a leader. He was reading a brown-backed volume, but as the crowd
 approached he laid it aside, and listened attentively to an account
 of the episode. Then he turned to the two castaways.

 "If we take you with us," he said, in solemn words, "it can only be
 as believers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold.
 Better far that your bones should bleach in this wilderness than that
 you should prove to be that little speck of decay which in time
 corrupts the whole fruit. Will you come with us on these terms?"

 "Guess I'll come with you on any terms," said Ferrier, with such
 emphasis that the grave Elders could not restrain a smile. The leader
 alone retained his stern, impressive expression.

 "Take him, Brother Stangerson," he said, "give him food and drink,
 and the child likewise. Let it be your task also to teach him our
 holy creed. We have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!"

 "On, on to Zion!" cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled
 down the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died
 away in a dull murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of whips
 and a creaking of wheels the great waggons got into motion, and soon
 the whole caravan was winding along once more. The Elder to whose
 care the two waifs had been committed, led them to his waggon, where
 a meal was already awaiting them.

 "You shall remain here," he said. "In a few days you will have
 recovered from your fatigues. In the meantime, remember that now and
 forever you are of our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he
 has spoken with the voice of Joseph Smith, which is the voice of
 God."





      CHAPTER II
      The Flower Of Utah


 This is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations
 endured by the immigrant Mormons before they came to their final
 haven. From the shores of the Mississippi to the western slopes of
 the Rocky Mountains they had struggled on with a constancy almost
 unparalleled in history. The savage man, and the savage beast,
 hunger, thirst, fatigue, and disease--every impediment which Nature
 could place in the way--had all been overcome with Anglo-Saxon
 tenacity. Yet the long journey and the accumulated terrors had shaken
 the hearts of the stoutest among them. There was not one who did not
 sink upon his knees in heartfelt prayer when they saw the broad
 valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight beneath them, and learned from
 the lips of their leader that this was the promised land, and that
 these virgin acres were to be theirs for evermore.

 Young speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator as well
 as a resolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared, in which
 the future city was sketched out. All around farms were apportioned
 and allotted in proportion to the standing of each individual. The
 tradesman was put to his trade and the artisan to his calling. In the
 town streets and squares sprang up, as if by magic. In the country
 there was draining and hedging, planting and clearing, until the next
 summer saw the whole country golden with the wheat crop. Everything
 prospered in the strange settlement. Above all, the great temple
 which they had erected in the centre of the city grew ever taller and
 larger. From the first blush of dawn until the closing of the
 twilight, the clatter of the hammer and the rasp of the saw was never
 absent from the monument which the immigrants erected to Him who had
 led them safe through many dangers.

 The two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl who had shared
 his fortunes and had been adopted as his daughter, accompanied the
 Mormons to the end of their great pilgrimage. Little Lucy Ferrier was
 borne along pleasantly enough in Elder Stangerson's waggon, a retreat
 which she shared with the Mormon's three wives and with his son, a
 headstrong forward boy of twelve. Having rallied, with the elasticity
 of childhood, from the shock caused by her mother's death, she soon
 became a pet with the women, and reconciled herself to this new life
 in her moving canvas-covered home. In the meantime Ferrier having
 recovered from his privations, distinguished himself as a useful
 guide and an indefatigable hunter. So rapidly did he gain the esteem
 of his new companions, that when they reached the end of their
 wanderings, it was unanimously agreed that he should be provided with
 as large and as fertile a tract of land as any of the settlers, with
 the exception of Young himself, and of Stangerson, Kemball, Johnston,
 and Drebber, who were the four principal Elders.

 On the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built himself a substantial
 log-house, which received so many additions in succeeding years that
 it grew into a roomy villa. He was a man of a practical turn of mind,
 keen in his dealings and skilful with his hands. His iron
 constitution enabled him to work morning and evening at improving and
 tilling his lands. Hence it came about that his farm and all that
 belonged to him prospered exceedingly. In three years he was better
 off than his neighbours, in six he was well-to-do, in nine he was
 rich, and in twelve there were not half a dozen men in the whole of
 Salt Lake City who could compare with him. From the great inland sea
 to the distant Wahsatch Mountains there was no name better known than
 that of John Ferrier.

 There was one way and only one in which he offended the
 susceptibilities of his co-religionists. No argument or persuasion
 could ever induce him to set up a female establishment after the
 manner of his companions. He never gave reasons for this persistent
 refusal, but contented himself by resolutely and inflexibly adhering
 to his determination. There were some who accused him of lukewarmness
 in his adopted religion, and others who put it down to greed of
 wealth and reluctance to incur expense. Others, again, spoke of some
 early love affair, and of a fair-haired girl who had pined away on
 the shores of the Atlantic. Whatever the reason, Ferrier remained
 strictly celibate. In every other respect he conformed to the
 religion of the young settlement, and gained the name of being an
 orthodox and straight-walking man.

 Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and assisted her adopted
 father in all his undertakings. The keen air of the mountains and the
 balsamic odour of the pine trees took the place of nurse and mother
 to the young girl. As year succeeded to year she grew taller and
 stronger, her cheek more rudy, and her step more elastic. Many a
 wayfarer upon the high road which ran by Ferrier's farm felt
 long-forgotten thoughts revive in their mind as they watched her
 lithe girlish figure tripping through the wheatfields, or met her
 mounted upon her father's mustang, and managing it with all the ease
 and grace of a true child of the West. So the bud blossomed into a
 flower, and the year which saw her father the richest of the farmers
 left her as fair a specimen of American girlhood as could be found in
 the whole Pacific slope.

 It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child
 had developed into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That
 mysterious change is too subtle and too gradual to be measured by
 dates. Least of all does the maiden herself know it until the tone of
 a voice or the touch of a hand sets her heart thrilling within her,
 and she learns, with a mixture of pride and of fear, that a new and a
 larger nature has awoken within her. There are few who cannot recall
 that day and remember the one little incident which heralded the dawn
 of a new life. In the case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious
 enough in itself, apart from its future influence on her destiny and
 that of many besides.

 It was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as busy as
 the bees whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields
 and in the streets rose the same hum of human industry. Down the
 dusty high roads defiled long streams of heavily-laden mules, all
 heading to the west, for the gold fever had broken out in California,
 and the Overland Route lay through the City of the Elect. There, too,
 were droves of sheep and bullocks coming in from the outlying pasture
 lands, and trains of tired immigrants, men and horses equally weary
 of their interminable journey. Through all this motley assemblage,
 threading her way with the skill of an accomplished rider, there
 galloped Lucy Ferrier, her fair face flushed with the exercise and
 her long chestnut hair floating out behind her. She had a commission
 from her father in the City, and was dashing in as she had done many
 a time before, with all the fearlessness of youth, thinking only of
 her task and how it was to be performed. The travel-stained
 adventurers gazed after her in astonishment, and even the unemotional
 Indians, journeying in with their pelties, relaxed their accustomed
 stoicism as they marvelled at the beauty of the pale-faced maiden.

 She had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the road
 blocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen
 wild-looking herdsmen from the plains. In her impatience she
 endeavoured to pass this obstacle by pushing her horse into what
 appeared to be a gap. Scarcely had she got fairly into it, however,
 before the beasts closed in behind her, and she found herself
 completely imbedded in the moving stream of fierce-eyed, long-horned
 bullocks. Accustomed as she was to deal with cattle, she was not
 alarmed at her situation, but took advantage of every opportunity to
 urge her horse on in the hopes of pushing her way through the
 cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one of the creatures, either by
 accident or design, came in violent contact with the flank of the
 mustang, and excited it to madness. In an instant it reared up upon
 its hind legs with a snort of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way
 that would have unseated any but a most skilful rider. The situation
 was full of peril. Every plunge of the excited horse brought it
 against the horns again, and goaded it to fresh madness. It was all
 that the girl could do to keep herself in the saddle, yet a slip
 would mean a terrible death under the hoofs of the unwieldy and
 terrified animals. Unaccustomed to sudden emergencies, her head began
 to swim, and her grip upon the bridle to relax. Choked by the rising
 cloud of dust and by the steam from the struggling creatures, she
 might have abandoned her efforts in despair, but for a kindly voice
 at her elbow which assured her of assistance. At the same moment a
 sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse by the curb, and
 forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her to the outskirts.

 "You're not hurt, I hope, miss," said her preserver, respectfully.

 She looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily. "I'm
 awful frightened," she said, naively; "whoever would have thought
 that Poncho would have been so scared by a lot of cows?"

 "Thank God you kept your seat," the other said earnestly. He was a
 tall, savage-looking young fellow, mounted on a powerful roan horse,
 and clad in the rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over
 his shoulders. "I guess you are the daughter of John Ferrier," he
 remarked, "I saw you ride down from his house. When you see him, ask
 him if he remembers the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he's the
 same Ferrier, my father and he were pretty thick."

 "Hadn't you better come and ask yourself?" she asked, demurely.

 The young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion, and his dark eyes
 sparkled with pleasure. "I'll do so," he said, "we've been in the
 mountains for two months, and are not over and above in visiting
 condition. He must take us as he finds us."

 "He has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I," she answered,
 "he's awful fond of me. If those cows had jumped on me he'd have
 never got over it."

 "Neither would I," said her companion.

 "You! Well, I don't see that it would make much matter to you,
 anyhow. You ain't even a friend of ours."

 The young hunter's dark face grew so gloomy over this remark that
 Lucy Ferrier laughed aloud.

 "There, I didn't mean that," she said; "of course, you are a friend
 now. You must come and see us. Now I must push along, or father won't
 trust me with his business any more. Good-bye!"

 "Good-bye," he answered, raising his broad sombrero, and bending over
 her little hand. She wheeled her mustang round, gave it a cut with
 her riding-whip, and darted away down the broad road in a rolling
 cloud of dust.

 Young Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions, gloomy and
 taciturn. He and they had been among the Nevada Mountains prospecting
 for silver, and were returning to Salt Lake City in the hope of
 raising capital enough to work some lodes which they had discovered.
 He had been as keen as any of them upon the business until this
 sudden incident had drawn his thoughts into another channel. The
 sight of the fair young girl, as frank and wholesome as the Sierra
 breezes, had stirred his volcanic, untamed heart to its very depths.
 When she had vanished from his sight, he realized that a crisis had
 come in his life, and that neither silver speculations nor any other
 questions could ever be of such importance to him as this new and
 all-absorbing one. The love which had sprung up in his heart was not
 the sudden, changeable fancy of a boy, but rather the wild, fierce
 passion of a man of strong will and imperious temper. He had been
 accustomed to succeed in all that he undertook. He swore in his heart
 that he would not fail in this if human effort and human perseverance
 could render him successful.

 He called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, until his
 face was a familiar one at the farm-house. John, cooped up in the
 valley, and absorbed in his work, had had little chance of learning
 the news of the outside world during the last twelve years. All this
 Jefferson Hope was able to tell him, and in a style which interested
 Lucy as well as her father. He had been a pioneer in California, and
 could narrate many a strange tale of fortunes made and fortunes lost
 in those wild, halcyon days. He had been a scout too, and a trapper,
 a silver explorer, and a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were
 to be had, Jefferson Hope had been there in search of them. He soon
 became a favourite with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of his
 virtues. On such occasions, Lucy was silent, but her blushing cheek
 and her bright, happy eyes, showed only too clearly that her young
 heart was no longer her own. Her honest father may not have observed
 these symptoms, but they were assuredly not thrown away upon the man
 who had won her affections.

 It was a summer evening when he came galloping down the road and
 pulled up at the gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet
 him. He threw the bridle over the fence and strode up the pathway.

 "I am off, Lucy," he said, taking her two hands in his, and gazing
 tenderly down into her face; "I won't ask you to come with me now,
 but will you be ready to come when I am here again?"

 "And when will that be?" she asked, blushing and laughing.

 "A couple of months at the outside. I will come and claim you then,
 my darling. There's no one who can stand between us."

 "And how about father?" she asked.

 "He has given his consent, provided we get these mines working all
 right. I have no fear on that head."

 "Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there's
 no more to be said," she whispered, with her cheek against his broad
 breast.

 "Thank God!" he said, hoarsely, stooping and kissing her. "It is
 settled, then. The longer I stay, the harder it will be to go. They
 are waiting for me at the caÃ±on. Good-bye, my own darling--good-bye.
 In two months you shall see me."

 He tore himself from her as he spoke, and, flinging himself upon his
 horse, galloped furiously away, never even looking round, as though
 afraid that his resolution might fail him if he took one glance at
 what he was leaving. She stood at the gate, gazing after him until he
 vanished from her sight. Then she walked back into the house, the
 happiest girl in all Utah.





      CHAPTER III
      John Ferrier Talks With The Prophet


 Three weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope and his comrades had
 departed from Salt Lake City. John Ferrier's heart was sore within
 him when he thought of the young man's return, and of the impending
 loss of his adopted child. Yet her bright and happy face reconciled
 him to the arrangement more than any argument could have done. He had
 always determined, deep down in his resolute heart, that nothing
 would ever induce him to allow his daughter to wed a Mormon. Such a
 marriage he regarded as no marriage at all, but as a shame and a
 disgrace. Whatever he might think of the Mormon doctrines, upon that
 one point he was inflexible. He had to seal his mouth on the subject,
 however, for to express an unorthodox opinion was a dangerous matter
 in those days in the Land of the Saints.

 Yes, a dangerous matter--so dangerous that even the most saintly
 dared only whisper their religious opinions with bated breath, lest
 something which fell from their lips might be misconstrued, and bring
 down a swift retribution upon them. The victims of persecution had
 now turned persecutors on their own account, and persecutors of the
 most terrible description. Not the Inquisition of Seville, nor the
 German Vehmgericht, nor the Secret Societies of Italy, were ever able
 to put a more formidable machinery in motion than that which cast a
 cloud over the State of Utah.

 Its invisibility, and the mystery which was attached to it, made this
 organization doubly terrible. It appeared to be omniscient and
 omnipotent, and yet was neither seen nor heard. The man who held out
 against the Church vanished away, and none knew whither he had gone
 or what had befallen him. His wife and his children awaited him at
 home, but no father ever returned to tell them how he had fared at
 the hands of his secret judges. A rash word or a hasty act was
 followed by annihilation, and yet none knew what the nature might be
 of this terrible power which was suspended over them. No wonder that
 men went about in fear and trembling, and that even in the heart of
 the wilderness they dared not whisper the doubts which oppressed
 them.

 At first this vague and terrible power was exercised only upon the
 recalcitrants who, having embraced the Mormon faith, wished
 afterwards to pervert or to abandon it. Soon, however, it took a
 wider range. The supply of adult women was running short, and
 polygamy without a female population on which to draw was a barren
 doctrine indeed. Strange rumours began to be bandied about--rumours
 of murdered immigrants and rifled camps in regions where Indians had
 never been seen. Fresh women appeared in the harems of the
 Elders--women who pined and wept, and bore upon their faces the
 traces of an unextinguishable horror. Belated wanderers upon the
 mountains spoke of gangs of armed men, masked, stealthy, and
 noiseless, who flitted by them in the darkness. These tales and
 rumours took substance and shape, and were corroborated and
 re-corroborated, until they resolved themselves into a definite name.
 To this day, in the lonely ranches of the West, the name of the
 Danite Band, or the Avenging Angels, is a sinister and an ill-omened
 one.

 Fuller knowledge of the organization which produced such terrible
 results served to increase rather than to lessen the horror which it
 inspired in the minds of men. None knew who belonged to this ruthless
 society. The names of the participators in the deeds of blood and
 violence done under the name of religion were kept profoundly secret.
 The very friend to whom you communicated your misgivings as to the
 Prophet and his mission, might be one of those who would come forth
 at night with fire and sword to exact a terrible reparation. Hence
 every man feared his neighbour, and none spoke of the things which
 were nearest his heart.

 One fine morning, John Ferrier was about to set out to his
 wheatfields, when he heard the click of the latch, and, looking
 through the window, saw a stout, sandy-haired, middle-aged man coming
 up the pathway. His heart leapt to his mouth, for this was none other
 than the great Brigham Young himself. Full of trepidation--for he
 knew that such a visit boded him little good--Ferrier ran to the door
 to greet the Mormon chief. The latter, however, received his
 salutations coldly, and followed him with a stern face into the
 sitting-room.

 "Brother Ferrier," he said, taking a seat, and eyeing the farmer
 keenly from under his light-coloured eyelashes, "the true believers
 have been good friends to you. We picked you up when you were
 starving in the desert, we shared our food with you, led you safe to
 the Chosen Valley, gave you a goodly share of land, and allowed you
 to wax rich under our protection. Is not this so?"

 "It is so," answered John Ferrier.

 "In return for all this we asked but one condition: that was, that
 you should embrace the true faith, and conform in every way to its
 usages. This you promised to do, and this, if common report says
 truly, you have neglected."

 "And how have I neglected it?" asked Ferrier, throwing out his hands
 in expostulation. "Have I not given to the common fund? Have I not
 attended at the Temple? Have I not--?"

 "Where are your wives?" asked Young, looking round him. "Call them
 in, that I may greet them."

 "It is true that I have not married," Ferrier answered. "But women
 were few, and there were many who had better claims than I. I was not
 a lonely man: I had my daughter to attend to my wants."

 "It is of that daughter that I would speak to you," said the leader
 of the Mormons. "She has grown to be the flower of Utah, and has
 found favour in the eyes of many who are high in the land."

 John Ferrier groaned internally.

 "There are stories of her which I would fain disbelieve--stories that
 she is sealed to some Gentile. This must be the gossip of idle
 tongues. What is the thirteenth rule in the code of the sainted
 Joseph Smith? 'Let every maiden of the true faith marry one of the
 elect; for if she wed a Gentile, she commits a grievous sin.' This
 being so, it is impossible that you, who profess the holy creed,
 should suffer your daughter to violate it."

 John Ferrier made no answer, but he played nervously with his
 riding-whip.

 "Upon this one point your whole faith shall be tested--so it has been
 decided in the Sacred Council of Four. The girl is young, and we
 would not have her wed grey hairs, neither would we deprive her of
 all choice. We Elders have many heifers*1, but our children must also
 be provided. Stangerson has a son, and Drebber has a son, and either
 of them would gladly welcome your daughter to their house. Let her
 choose between them. They are young and rich, and of the true faith.
 What say you to that?"

 Ferrier remained silent for some little time with his brows knitted.

 "You will give us time," he said at last. "My daughter is very
 young--she is scarce of an age to marry."

 "She shall have a month to choose," said Young, rising from his seat.
 "At the end of that time she shall give her answer."

 He was passing through the door, when he turned, with flushed face
 and flashing eyes. "It were better for you, John Ferrier," he
 thundered, "that you and she were now lying blanched skeletons upon
 the Sierra Blanco, than that you should put your weak wills against
 the orders of the Holy Four!"

 With a threatening gesture of his hand, he turned from the door, and
 Ferrier heard his heavy step scrunching along the shingly path.

 He was still sitting with his elbows upon his knees, considering how
 he should broach the matter to his daughter when a soft hand was laid
 upon his, and looking up, he saw her standing beside him. One glance
 at her pale, frightened face showed him that she had heard what had
 passed.

 "I could not help it," she said, in answer to his look. "His voice
 rang through the house. Oh, father, father, what shall we do?"

 "Don't you scare yourself," he answered, drawing her to him, and
 passing his broad, rough hand caressingly over her chestnut hair.
 "We'll fix it up somehow or another. You don't find your fancy kind
 o' lessening for this chap, do you?"

 A sob and a squeeze of his hand was her only answer.

 "No; of course not. I shouldn't care to hear you say you did. He's a
 likely lad, and he's a Christian, which is more than these folk here,
 in spite o' all their praying and preaching. There's a party starting
 for Nevada to-morrow, and I'll manage to send him a message letting
 him know the hole we are in. If I know anything o' that young man,
 he'll be back here with a speed that would whip electro-telegraphs."

 Lucy laughed through her tears at her father's description.

 "When he comes, he will advise us for the best. But it is for you
 that I am frightened, dear. One hears--one hears such dreadful
 stories about those who oppose the Prophet: something terrible always
 happens to them."

 "But we haven't opposed him yet," her father answered. "It will be
 time to look out for squalls when we do. We have a clear month before
 us; at the end of that, I guess we had best shin out of Utah."

 "Leave Utah!"

 "That's about the size of it."

 "But the farm?"

 "We will raise as much as we can in money, and let the rest go. To
 tell the truth, Lucy, it isn't the first time I have thought of doing
 it. I don't care about knuckling under to any man, as these folk do
 to their darned prophet. I'm a free-born American, and it's all new
 to me. Guess I'm too old to learn. If he comes browsing about this
 farm, he might chance to run up against a charge of buckshot
 travelling in the opposite direction."

 "But they won't let us leave," his daughter objected.

 "Wait till Jefferson comes, and we'll soon manage that. In the
 meantime, don't you fret yourself, my dearie, and don't get your eyes
 swelled up, else he'll be walking into me when he sees you. There's
 nothing to be afeared about, and there's no danger at all."

 John Ferrier uttered these consoling remarks in a very confident
 tone, but she could not help observing that he paid unusual care to
 the fastening of the doors that night, and that he carefully cleaned
 and loaded the rusty old shotgun which hung upon the wall of his
 bedroom.

 -----
 *1: Heber C Kemball, in one of his sermons, alludes to his hundred
 wives under this endearing epithet.
 




      CHAPTER IV
      A Flight For Life


 On the morning which followed his interview with the Mormon Prophet,
 John Ferrier went in to Salt Lake City, and having found his
 acquaintance, who was bound for the Nevada Mountains, he entrusted
 him with his message to Jefferson Hope. In it he told the young man
 of the imminent danger which threatened them, and how necessary it
 was that he should return. Having done thus he felt easier in his
 mind, and returned home with a lighter heart.

 As he approached his farm, he was surprised to see a horse hitched to
 each of the posts of the gate. Still more surprised was he on
 entering to find two young men in possession of his sitting-room.
 One, with a long pale face, was leaning back in the rocking-chair,
 with his feet cocked up upon the stove. The other, a bull-necked
 youth with coarse bloated features, was standing in front of the
 window with his hands in his pocket, whistling a popular hymn. Both
 of them nodded to Ferrier as he entered, and the one in the
 rocking-chair commenced the conversation.

 "Maybe you don't know us," he said. "This here is the son of Elder
 Drebber, and I'm Joseph Stangerson, who travelled with you in the
 desert when the Lord stretched out His hand and gathered you into the
 true fold."

 "As He will all the nations in His own good time," said the other in
 a nasal voice; "He grindeth slowly but exceeding small."

 John Ferrier bowed coldly. He had guessed who his visitors were.

 "We have come," continued Stangerson, "at the advice of our fathers
 to solicit the hand of your daughter for whichever of us may seem
 good to you and to her. As I have but four wives and Brother Drebber
 here has seven, it appears to me that my claim is the stronger one."

 "Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson," cried the other; "the question is not
 how many wives we have, but how many we can keep. My father has now
 given over his mills to me, and I am the richer man."

 "But my prospects are better," said the other, warmly. "When the Lord
 removes my father, I shall have his tanning yard and his leather
 factory. Then I am your elder, and am higher in the Church."

 "It will be for the maiden to decide," rejoined young Drebber,
 smirking at his own reflection in the glass. "We will leave it all to
 her decision."

 During this dialogue, John Ferrier had stood fuming in the doorway,
 hardly able to keep his riding-whip from the backs of his two
 visitors.

 "Look here," he said at last, striding up to them, "when my daughter
 summons you, you can come, but until then I don't want to see your
 faces again."

 The two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In their eyes this
 competition between them for the maiden's hand was the highest of
 honours both to her and her father.

 "There are two ways out of the room," cried Ferrier; "there is the
 door, and there is the window. Which do you care to use?"

 His brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt hands so threatening,
 that his visitors sprang to their feet and beat a hurried retreat.
 The old farmer followed them to the door.

 "Let me know when you have settled which it is to be," he said,
 sardonically.

 "You shall smart for this!" Stangerson cried, white with rage. "You
 have defied the Prophet and the Council of Four. You shall rue it to
 the end of your days."

 "The hand of the Lord shall be heavy upon you," cried young Drebber;
 "He will arise and smite you!"

 "Then I'll start the smiting," exclaimed Ferrier furiously, and would
 have rushed upstairs for his gun had not Lucy seized him by the arm
 and restrained him. Before he could escape from her, the clatter of
 horses' hoofs told him that they were beyond his reach.

 "The young canting rascals!" he exclaimed, wiping the perspiration
 from his forehead; "I would sooner see you in your grave, my girl,
 than the wife of either of them."

 "And so should I, father," she answered, with spirit; "but Jefferson
 will soon be here."

 "Yes. It will not be long before he comes. The sooner the better, for
 we do not know what their next move may be."

 It was, indeed, high time that someone capable of giving advice and
 help should come to the aid of the sturdy old farmer and his adopted
 daughter. In the whole history of the settlement there had never been
 such a case of rank disobedience to the authority of the Elders. If
 minor errors were punished so sternly, what would be the fate of this
 arch rebel. Ferrier knew that his wealth and position would be of no
 avail to him. Others as well known and as rich as himself had been
 spirited away before now, and their goods given over to the Church.
 He was a brave man, but he trembled at the vague, shadowy terrors
 which hung over him. Any known danger he could face with a firm lip,
 but this suspense was unnerving. He concealed his fears from his
 daughter, however, and affected to make light of the whole matter,
 though she, with the keen eye of love, saw plainly that he was ill at
 ease.

 He expected that he would receive some message or remonstrance from
 Young as to his conduct, and he was not mistaken, though it came in
 an unlooked-for manner. Upon rising next morning he found, to his
 surprise, a small square of paper pinned on to the coverlet of his
 bed just over his chest. On it was printed, in bold straggling
 letters:--

 "Twenty-nine days are given you for amendment, and then--"

 The dash was more fear-inspiring than any threat could have been. How
 this warning came into his room puzzled John Ferrier sorely, for his
 servants slept in an outhouse, and the doors and windows had all been
 secured. He crumpled the paper up and said nothing to his daughter,
 but the incident struck a chill into his heart. The twenty-nine days
 were evidently the balance of the month which Young had promised.
 What strength or courage could avail against an enemy armed with such
 mysterious powers? The hand which fastened that pin might have struck
 him to the heart, and he could never have known who had slain him.

 Still more shaken was he next morning. They had sat down to their
 breakfast when Lucy with a cry of surprise pointed upwards. In the
 centre of the ceiling was scrawled, with a burned stick apparently,
 the number 28. To his daughter it was unintelligible, and he did not
 enlighten her. That night he sat up with his gun and kept watch and
 ward. He saw and he heard nothing, and yet in the morning a great 27
 had been painted upon the outside of his door.

 Thus day followed day; and as sure as morning came he found that his
 unseen enemies had kept their register, and had marked up in some
 conspicuous position how many days were still left to him out of the
 month of grace. Sometimes the fatal numbers appeared upon the walls,
 sometimes upon the floors, occasionally they were on small placards
 stuck upon the garden gate or the railings. With all his vigilance
 John Ferrier could not discover whence these daily warnings
 proceeded. A horror which was almost superstitious came upon him at
 the sight of them. He became haggard and restless, and his eyes had
 the troubled look of some hunted creature. He had but one hope in
 life now, and that was for the arrival of the young hunter from
 Nevada.

 Twenty had changed to fifteen and fifteen to ten, but there was no
 news of the absentee. One by one the numbers dwindled down, and still
 there came no sign of him. Whenever a horseman clattered down the
 road, or a driver shouted at his team, the old farmer hurried to the
 gate thinking that help had arrived at last. At last, when he saw
 five give way to four and that again to three, he lost heart, and
 abandoned all hope of escape. Single-handed, and with his limited
 knowledge of the mountains which surrounded the settlement, he knew
 that he was powerless. The more-frequented roads were strictly
 watched and guarded, and none could pass along them without an order
 from the Council. Turn which way he would, there appeared to be no
 avoiding the blow which hung over him. Yet the old man never wavered
 in his resolution to part with life itself before he consented to
 what he regarded as his daughter's dishonour.

 He was sitting alone one evening pondering deeply over his troubles,
 and searching vainly for some way out of them. That morning had shown
 the figure 2 upon the wall of his house, and the next day would be
 the last of the allotted time. What was to happen then? All manner of
 vague and terrible fancies filled his imagination. And his
 daughter--what was to become of her after he was gone? Was there no
 escape from the invisible network which was drawn all round them. He
 sank his head upon the table and sobbed at the thought of his own
 impotence.

 What was that? In the silence he heard a gentle scratching
 sound--low, but very distinct in the quiet of the night. It came from
 the door of the house. Ferrier crept into the hall and listened
 intently. There was a pause for a few moments, and then the low
 insidious sound was repeated. Someone was evidently tapping very
 gently upon one of the panels of the door. Was it some midnight
 assassin who had come to carry out the murderous orders of the secret
 tribunal? Or was it some agent who was marking up that the last day
 of grace had arrived. John Ferrier felt that instant death would be
 better than the suspense which shook his nerves and chilled his
 heart. Springing forward he drew the bolt and threw the door open.

 Outside all was calm and quiet. The night was fine, and the stars
 were twinkling brightly overhead. The little front garden lay before
 the farmer's eyes bounded by the fence and gate, but neither there
 nor on the road was any human being to be seen. With a sigh of
 relief, Ferrier looked to right and to left, until happening to
 glance straight down at his own feet he saw to his astonishment a man
 lying flat upon his face upon the ground, with arms and legs all
 asprawl.

 So unnerved was he at the sight that he leaned up against the wall
 with his hand to his throat to stifle his inclination to call out.
 His first thought was that the prostrate figure was that of some
 wounded or dying man, but as he watched it he saw it writhe along the
 ground and into the hall with the rapidity and noiselessness of a
 serpent. Once within the house the man sprang to his feet, closed the
 door, and revealed to the astonished farmer the fierce face and
 resolute expression of Jefferson Hope.

 "Good God!" gasped John Ferrier. "How you scared me! Whatever made
 you come in like that."

 "Give me food," the other said, hoarsely. "I have had no time for
 bite or sup for eight-and-forty hours." He flung himself upon the
 cold meat and bread which were still lying upon the table from his
 host's supper, and devoured it voraciously. "Does Lucy bear up well?"
 he asked, when he had satisfied his hunger.

 "Yes. She does not know the danger," her father answered.

 "That is well. The house is watched on every side. That is why I
 crawled my way up to it. They may be darned sharp, but they're not
 quite sharp enough to catch a Washoe hunter."

 John Ferrier felt a different man now that he realized that he had a
 devoted ally. He seized the young man's leathery hand and wrung it
 cordially. "You're a man to be proud of," he said. "There are not
 many who would come to share our danger and our troubles."

 "You've hit it there, pard," the young hunter answered. "I have a
 respect for you, but if you were alone in this business I'd think
 twice before I put my head into such a hornet's nest. It's Lucy that
 brings me here, and before harm comes on her I guess there will be
 one less o' the Hope family in Utah."

 "What are we to do?"

 "To-morrow is your last day, and unless you act to-night you are
 lost. I have a mule and two horses waiting in the Eagle Ravine. How
 much money have you?"

 "Two thousand dollars in gold, and five in notes."

 "That will do. I have as much more to add to it. We must push for
 Carson City through the mountains. You had best wake Lucy. It is as
 well that the servants do not sleep in the house."

 While Ferrier was absent, preparing his daughter for the approaching
 journey, Jefferson Hope packed all the eatables that he could find
 into a small parcel, and filled a stoneware jar with water, for he
 knew by experience that the mountain wells were few and far between.
 He had hardly completed his arrangements before the farmer returned
 with his daughter all dressed and ready for a start. The greeting
 between the lovers was warm, but brief, for minutes were precious,
 and there was much to be done.

 "We must make our start at once," said Jefferson Hope, speaking in a
 low but resolute voice, like one who realizes the greatness of the
 peril, but has steeled his heart to meet it. "The front and back
 entrances are watched, but with caution we may get away through the
 side window and across the fields. Once on the road we are only two
 miles from the Ravine where the horses are waiting. By daybreak we
 should be half-way through the mountains."

 "What if we are stopped," asked Ferrier.

 Hope slapped the revolver butt which protruded from the front of his
 tunic. "If they are too many for us we shall take two or three of
 them with us," he said with a sinister smile.

 The lights inside the house had all been extinguished, and from the
 darkened window Ferrier peered over the fields which had been his
 own, and which he was now about to abandon for ever. He had long
 nerved himself to the sacrifice, however, and the thought of the
 honour and happiness of his daughter outweighed any regret at his
 ruined fortunes. All looked so peaceful and happy, the rustling trees
 and the broad silent stretch of grain-land, that it was difficult to
 realize that the spirit of murder lurked through it all. Yet the
 white face and set expression of the young hunter showed that in his
 approach to the house he had seen enough to satisfy him upon that
 head.

 Ferrier carried the bag of gold and notes, Jefferson Hope had the
 scanty provisions and water, while Lucy had a small bundle containing
 a few of her more valued possessions. Opening the window very slowly
 and carefully, they waited until a dark cloud had somewhat obscured
 the night, and then one by one passed through into the little garden.
 With bated breath and crouching figures they stumbled across it, and
 gained the shelter of the hedge, which they skirted until they came
 to the gap which opened into the cornfields. They had just reached
 this point when the young man seized his two companions and dragged
 them down into the shadow, where they lay silent and trembling.

 It was as well that his prairie training had given Jefferson Hope the
 ears of a lynx. He and his friends had hardly crouched down before
 the melancholy hooting of a mountain owl was heard within a few yards
 of them, which was immediately answered by another hoot at a small
 distance. At the same moment a vague shadowy figure emerged from the
 gap for which they had been making, and uttered the plaintive signal
 cry again, on which a second man appeared out of the obscurity.

 "To-morrow at midnight," said the first who appeared to be in
 authority. "When the Whip-poor-Will calls three times."

 "It is well," returned the other. "Shall I tell Brother Drebber?"

 "Pass it on to him, and from him to the others. Nine to seven!"

 "Seven to five!" repeated the other, and the two figures flitted away
 in different directions. Their concluding words had evidently been
 some form of sign and countersign. The instant that their footsteps
 had died away in the distance, Jefferson Hope sprang to his feet, and
 helping his companions through the gap, led the way across the fields
 at the top of his speed, supporting and half-carrying the girl when
 her strength appeared to fail her.

 "Hurry on! hurry on!" he gasped from time to time. "We are through
 the line of sentinels. Everything depends on speed. Hurry on!"

 Once on the high road they made rapid progress. Only once did they
 meet anyone, and then they managed to slip into a field, and so avoid
 recognition. Before reaching the town the hunter branched away into a
 rugged and narrow footpath which led to the mountains. Two dark
 jagged peaks loomed above them through the darkness, and the defile
 which led between them was the Eagle CaÃ±on in which the horses were
 awaiting them. With unerring instinct Jefferson Hope picked his way
 among the great boulders and along the bed of a dried-up watercourse,
 until he came to the retired corner, screened with rocks, where the
 faithful animals had been picketed. The girl was placed upon the
 mule, and old Ferrier upon one of the horses, with his money-bag,
 while Jefferson Hope led the other along the precipitous and
 dangerous path.

 It was a bewildering route for anyone who was not accustomed to face
 Nature in her wildest moods. On the one side a great crag towered up
 a thousand feet or more, black, stern, and menacing, with long
 basaltic columns upon its rugged surface like the ribs of some
 petrified monster. On the other hand a wild chaos of boulders and
 debris made all advance impossible. Between the two ran the irregular
 track, so narrow in places that they had to travel in Indian file,
 and so rough that only practised riders could have traversed it at
 all. Yet in spite of all dangers and difficulties, the hearts of the
 fugitives were light within them, for every step increased the
 distance between them and the terrible despotism from which they were
 flying.

 They soon had a proof, however, that they were still within the
 jurisdiction of the Saints. They had reached the very wildest and
 most desolate portion of the pass when the girl gave a startled cry,
 and pointed upwards. On a rock which overlooked the track, showing
 out dark and plain against the sky, there stood a solitary sentinel.
 He saw them as soon as they perceived him, and his military challenge
 of "Who goes there?" rang through the silent ravine.

 "Travellers for Nevada," said Jefferson Hope, with his hand upon the
 rifle which hung by his saddle.

 They could see the lonely watcher fingering his gun, and peering down
 at them as if dissatisfied at their reply.

 "By whose permission?" he asked.

 "The Holy Four," answered Ferrier. His Mormon experiences had taught
 him that that was the highest authority to which he could refer.

 "Nine from seven," cried the sentinel.

 "Seven from five," returned Jefferson Hope promptly, remembering the
 countersign which he had heard in the garden.

 "Pass, and the Lord go with you," said the voice from above. Beyond
 his post the path broadened out, and the horses were able to break
 into a trot. Looking back, they could see the solitary watcher
 leaning upon his gun, and knew that they had passed the outlying post
 of the chosen people, and that freedom lay before them.





      CHAPTER V
      The Avenging Angels


 All night their course lay through intricate defiles and over
 irregular and rock-strewn paths. More than once they lost their way,
 but Hope's intimate knowledge of the mountains enabled them to regain
 the track once more. When morning broke, a scene of marvellous though
 savage beauty lay before them. In every direction the great
 snow-capped peaks hemmed them in, peeping over each other's shoulders
 to the far horizon. So steep were the rocky banks on either side of
 them, that the larch and the pine seemed to be suspended over their
 heads, and to need only a gust of wind to come hurtling down upon
 them. Nor was the fear entirely an illusion, for the barren valley
 was thickly strewn with trees and boulders which had fallen in a
 similar manner. Even as they passed, a great rock came thundering
 down with a hoarse rattle which woke the echoes in the silent gorges,
 and startled the weary horses into a gallop.

 As the sun rose slowly above the eastern horizon, the caps of the
 great mountains lit up one after the other, like lamps at a festival,
 until they were all ruddy and glowing. The magnificent spectacle
 cheered the hearts of the three fugitives and gave them fresh energy.
 At a wild torrent which swept out of a ravine they called a halt and
 watered their horses, while they partook of a hasty breakfast. Lucy
 and her father would fain have rested longer, but Jefferson Hope was
 inexorable. "They will be upon our track by this time," he said.
 "Everything depends upon our speed. Once safe in Carson we may rest
 for the remainder of our lives."

 During the whole of that day they struggled on through the defiles,
 and by evening they calculated that they were more than thirty miles
 from their enemies. At night-time they chose the base of a beetling
 crag, where the rocks offered some protection from the chill wind,
 and there huddled together for warmth, they enjoyed a few hours'
 sleep. Before daybreak, however, they were up and on their way once
 more. They had seen no signs of any pursuers, and Jefferson Hope
 began to think that they were fairly out of the reach of the terrible
 organization whose enmity they had incurred. He little knew how far
 that iron grasp could reach, or how soon it was to close upon them
 and crush them.

 About the middle of the second day of their flight their scanty store
 of provisions began to run out. This gave the hunter little
 uneasiness, however, for there was game to be had among the
 mountains, and he had frequently before had to depend upon his rifle
 for the needs of life. Choosing a sheltered nook, he piled together a
 few dried branches and made a blazing fire, at which his companions
 might warm themselves, for they were now nearly five thousand feet
 above the sea level, and the air was bitter and keen. Having tethered
 the horses, and bade Lucy adieu, he threw his gun over his shoulder,
 and set out in search of whatever chance might throw in his way.
 Looking back he saw the old man and the young girl crouching over the
 blazing fire, while the three animals stood motionless in the
 back-ground. Then the intervening rocks hid them from his view.

 He walked for a couple of miles through one ravine after another
 without success, though from the marks upon the bark of the trees,
 and other indications, he judged that there were numerous bears in
 the vicinity. At last, after two or three hours' fruitless search, he
 was thinking of turning back in despair, when casting his eyes
 upwards he saw a sight which sent a thrill of pleasure through his
 heart. On the edge of a jutting pinnacle, three or four hundred feet
 above him, there stood a creature somewhat resembling a sheep in
 appearance, but armed with a pair of gigantic horns. The
 big-horn--for so it is called--was acting, probably, as a guardian
 over a flock which were invisible to the hunter; but fortunately it
 was heading in the opposite direction, and had not perceived him.
 Lying on his face, he rested his rifle upon a rock, and took a long
 and steady aim before drawing the trigger. The animal sprang into the
 air, tottered for a moment upon the edge of the precipice, and then
 came crashing down into the valley beneath.

 The creature was too unwieldy to lift, so the hunter contented
 himself with cutting away one haunch and part of the flank. With this
 trophy over his shoulder, he hastened to retrace his steps, for the
 evening was already drawing in. He had hardly started, however,
 before he realized the difficulty which faced him. In his eagerness
 he had wandered far past the ravines which were known to him, and it
 was no easy matter to pick out the path which he had taken. The
 valley in which he found himself divided and sub-divided into many
 gorges, which were so like each other that it was impossible to
 distinguish one from the other. He followed one for a mile or more
 until he came to a mountain torrent which he was sure that he had
 never seen before. Convinced that he had taken the wrong turn, he
 tried another, but with the same result. Night was coming on rapidly,
 and it was almost dark before he at last found himself in a defile
 which was familiar to him. Even then it was no easy matter to keep to
 the right track, for the moon had not yet risen, and the high cliffs
 on either side made the obscurity more profound. Weighed down with
 his burden, and weary from his exertions, he stumbled along, keeping
 up his heart by the reflection that every step brought him nearer to
 Lucy, and that he carried with him enough to ensure them food for the
 remainder of their journey.

 He had now come to the mouth of the very defile in which he had left
 them. Even in the darkness he could recognize the outline of the
 cliffs which bounded it. They must, he reflected, be awaiting him
 anxiously, for he had been absent nearly five hours. In the gladness
 of his heart he put his hands to his mouth and made the glen re-echo
 to a loud halloo as a signal that he was coming. He paused and
 listened for an answer. None came save his own cry, which clattered
 up the dreary silent ravines, and was borne back to his ears in
 countless repetitions. Again he shouted, even louder than before, and
 again no whisper came back from the friends whom he had left such a
 short time ago. A vague, nameless dread came over him, and he hurried
 onwards frantically, dropping the precious food in his agitation.

 When he turned the corner, he came full in sight of the spot where
 the fire had been lit. There was still a glowing pile of wood ashes
 there, but it had evidently not been tended since his departure. The
 same dead silence still reigned all round. With his fears all changed
 to convictions, he hurried on. There was no living creature near the
 remains of the fire: animals, man, maiden, all were gone. It was only
 too clear that some sudden and terrible disaster had occurred during
 his absence--a disaster which had embraced them all, and yet had left
 no traces behind it.

 Bewildered and stunned by this blow, Jefferson Hope felt his head
 spin round, and had to lean upon his rifle to save himself from
 falling. He was essentially a man of action, however, and speedily
 recovered from his temporary impotence. Seizing a half-consumed piece
 of wood from the smouldering fire, he blew it into a flame, and
 proceeded with its help to examine the little camp. The ground was
 all stamped down by the feet of horses, showing that a large party of
 mounted men had overtaken the fugitives, and the direction of their
 tracks proved that they had afterwards turned back to Salt Lake City.
 Had they carried back both of his companions with them? Jefferson
 Hope had almost persuaded himself that they must have done so, when
 his eye fell upon an object which made every nerve of his body tingle
 within him. A little way on one side of the camp was a low-lying heap
 of reddish soil, which had assuredly not been there before. There was
 no mistaking it for anything but a newly-dug grave. As the young
 hunter approached it, he perceived that a stick had been planted on
 it, with a sheet of paper stuck in the cleft fork of it. The
 inscription upon the paper was brief, but to the point:

                              JOHN FERRIER,
                       Formerly of Salt Lake City,
                         Died August 4th, 1860.
                                    

 The sturdy old man, whom he had left so short a time before, was
 gone, then, and this was all his epitaph. Jefferson Hope looked
 wildly round to see if there was a second grave, but there was no
 sign of one. Lucy had been carried back by their terrible pursuers to
 fulfil her original destiny, by becoming one of the harem of the
 Elder's son. As the young fellow realized the certainty of her fate,
 and his own powerlessness to prevent it, he wished that he, too, was
 lying with the old farmer in his last silent resting-place.

 Again, however, his active spirit shook off the lethargy which
 springs from despair. If there was nothing else left to him, he could
 at least devote his life to revenge. With indomitable patience and
 perseverance, Jefferson Hope possessed also a power of sustained
 vindictiveness, which he may have learned from the Indians amongst
 whom he had lived. As he stood by the desolate fire, he felt that the
 only one thing which could assuage his grief would be thorough and
 complete retribution, brought by his own hand upon his enemies. His
 strong will and untiring energy should, he determined, be devoted to
 that one end. With a grim, white face, he retraced his steps to where
 he had dropped the food, and having stirred up the smouldering fire,
 he cooked enough to last him for a few days. This he made up into a
 bundle, and, tired as he was, he set himself to walk back through the
 mountains upon the track of the avenging angels.

 For five days he toiled footsore and weary through the defiles which
 he had already traversed on horseback. At night he flung himself down
 among the rocks, and snatched a few hours of sleep; but before
 daybreak he was always well on his way. On the sixth day, he reached
 the Eagle CaÃ±on, from which they had commenced their ill-fated
 flight. Thence he could look down upon the home of the saints. Worn
 and exhausted, he leaned upon his rifle and shook his gaunt hand
 fiercely at the silent widespread city beneath him. As he looked at
 it, he observed that there were flags in some of the principal
 streets, and other signs of festivity. He was still speculating as to
 what this might mean when he heard the clatter of horse's hoofs, and
 saw a mounted man riding towards him. As he approached, he recognized
 him as a Mormon named Cowper, to whom he had rendered services at
 different times. He therefore accosted him when he got up to him,
 with the object of finding out what Lucy Ferrier's fate had been.

 "I am Jefferson Hope," he said. "You remember me."

 The Mormon looked at him with undisguised astonishment--indeed, it
 was difficult to recognize in this tattered, unkempt wanderer, with
 ghastly white face and fierce, wild eyes, the spruce young hunter of
 former days. Having, however, at last, satisfied himself as to his
 identity, the man's surprise changed to consternation.

 "You are mad to come here," he cried. "It is as much as my own life
 is worth to be seen talking with you. There is a warrant against you
 from the Holy Four for assisting the Ferriers away."

 "I don't fear them, or their warrant," Hope said, earnestly. "You
 must know something of this matter, Cowper. I conjure you by
 everything you hold dear to answer a few questions. We have always
 been friends. For God's sake, don't refuse to answer me."

 "What is it?" the Mormon asked uneasily. "Be quick. The very rocks
 have ears and the trees eyes."

 "What has become of Lucy Ferrier?"

 "She was married yesterday to young Drebber. Hold up, man, hold up,
 you have no life left in you."

 "Don't mind me," said Hope faintly. He was white to the very lips,
 and had sunk down on the stone against which he had been leaning.
 "Married, you say?"

 "Married yesterday--that's what those flags are for on the Endowment
 House. There was some words between young Drebber and young
 Stangerson as to which was to have her. They'd both been in the party
 that followed them, and Stangerson had shot her father, which seemed
 to give him the best claim; but when they argued it out in council,
 Drebber's party was the stronger, so the Prophet gave her over to
 him. No one won't have her very long though, for I saw death in her
 face yesterday. She is more like a ghost than a woman. Are you off,
 then?"

 "Yes, I am off," said Jefferson Hope, who had risen from his seat.
 His face might have been chiselled out of marble, so hard and set was
 its expression, while its eyes glowed with a baleful light.

 "Where are you going?"

 "Never mind," he answered; and, slinging his weapon over his
 shoulder, strode off down the gorge and so away into the heart of the
 mountains to the haunts of the wild beasts. Amongst them all there
 was none so fierce and so dangerous as himself.

 The prediction of the Mormon was only too well fulfilled. Whether it
 was the terrible death of her father or the effects of the hateful
 marriage into which she had been forced, poor Lucy never held up her
 head again, but pined away and died within a month. Her sottish
 husband, who had married her principally for the sake of John
 Ferrier's property, did not affect any great grief at his
 bereavement; but his other wives mourned over her, and sat up with
 her the night before the burial, as is the Mormon custom. They were
 grouped round the bier in the early hours of the morning, when, to
 their inexpressible fear and astonishment, the door was flung open,
 and a savage-looking, weather-beaten man in tattered garments strode
 into the room. Without a glance or a word to the cowering women, he
 walked up to the white silent figure which had once contained the
 pure soul of Lucy Ferrier. Stooping over her, he pressed his lips
 reverently to her cold forehead, and then, snatching up her hand, he
 took the wedding-ring from her finger. "She shall not be buried in
 that," he cried with a fierce snarl, and before an alarm could be
 raised sprang down the stairs and was gone. So strange and so brief
 was the episode, that the watchers might have found it hard to
 believe it themselves or persuade other people of it, had it not been
 for the undeniable fact that the circlet of gold which marked her as
 having been a bride had disappeared.

 For some months Jefferson Hope lingered among the mountains, leading
 a strange wild life, and nursing in his heart the fierce desire for
 vengeance which possessed him. Tales were told in the City of the
 weird figure which was seen prowling about the suburbs, and which
 haunted the lonely mountain gorges. Once a bullet whistled through
 Stangerson's window and flattened itself upon the wall within a foot
 of him. On another occasion, as Drebber passed under a cliff a great
 boulder crashed down on him, and he only escaped a terrible death by
 throwing himself upon his face. The two young Mormons were not long
 in discovering the reason of these attempts upon their lives, and led
 repeated expeditions into the mountains in the hope of capturing or
 killing their enemy, but always without success. Then they adopted
 the precaution of never going out alone or after nightfall, and of
 having their houses guarded. After a time they were able to relax
 these measures, for nothing was either heard or seen of their
 opponent, and they hoped that time had cooled his vindictiveness.

 Far from doing so, it had, if anything, augmented it. The hunter's
 mind was of a hard, unyielding nature, and the predominant idea of
 revenge had taken such complete possession of it that there was no
 room for any other emotion. He was, however, above all things
 practical. He soon realized that even his iron constitution could not
 stand the incessant strain which he was putting upon it. Exposure and
 want of wholesome food were wearing him out. If he died like a dog
 among the mountains, what was to become of his revenge then? And yet
 such a death was sure to overtake him if he persisted. He felt that
 that was to play his enemy's game, so he reluctantly returned to the
 old Nevada mines, there to recruit his health and to amass money
 enough to allow him to pursue his object without privation.

 His intention had been to be absent a year at the most, but a
 combination of unforeseen circumstances prevented his leaving the
 mines for nearly five. At the end of that time, however, his memory
 of his wrongs and his craving for revenge were quite as keen as on
 that memorable night when he had stood by John Ferrier's grave.
 Disguised, and under an assumed name, he returned to Salt Lake City,
 careless what became of his own life, as long as he obtained what he
 knew to be justice. There he found evil tidings awaiting him. There
 had been a schism among the Chosen People a few months before, some
 of the younger members of the Church having rebelled against the
 authority of the Elders, and the result had been the secession of a
 certain number of the malcontents, who had left Utah and become
 Gentiles. Among these had been Drebber and Stangerson; and no one
 knew whither they had gone. Rumour reported that Drebber had managed
 to convert a large part of his property into money, and that he had
 departed a wealthy man, while his companion, Stangerson, was
 comparatively poor. There was no clue at all, however, as to their
 whereabouts.

 Many a man, however vindictive, would have abandoned all thought of
 revenge in the face of such a difficulty, but Jefferson Hope never
 faltered for a moment. With the small competence he possessed, eked
 out by such employment as he could pick up, he travelled from town to
 town through the United States in quest of his enemies. Year passed
 into year, his black hair turned grizzled, but still he wandered on,
 a human bloodhound, with his mind wholly set upon the one object upon
 which he had devoted his life. At last his perseverance was rewarded.
 It was but a glance of a face in a window, but that one glance told
 him that Cleveland in Ohio possessed the men whom he was in pursuit
 of. He returned to his miserable lodgings with his plan of vengeance
 all arranged. It chanced, however, that Drebber, looking from his
 window, had recognized the vagrant in the street, and had read murder
 in his eyes. He hurried before a justice of the peace, accompanied by
 Stangerson, who had become his private secretary, and represented to
 him that they were in danger of their lives from the jealousy and
 hatred of an old rival. That evening Jefferson Hope was taken into
 custody, and not being able to find sureties, was detained for some
 weeks. When at last he was liberated, it was only to find that
 Drebber's house was deserted, and that he and his secretary had
 departed for Europe.

 Again the avenger had been foiled, and again his concentrated hatred
 urged him to continue the pursuit. Funds were wanting, however, and
 for some time he had to return to work, saving every dollar for his
 approaching journey. At last, having collected enough to keep life in
 him, he departed for Europe, and tracked his enemies from city to
 city, working his way in any menial capacity, but never overtaking
 the fugitives. When he reached St. Petersburg they had departed for
 Paris; and when he followed them there he learned that they had just
 set off for Copenhagen. At the Danish capital he was again a few days
 late, for they had journeyed on to London, where he at last succeeded
 in running them to earth. As to what occurred there, we cannot do
 better than quote the old hunter's own account, as duly recorded in
 Dr. Watson's Journal, to which we are already under such obligations.





      CHAPTER VI
      A Continuation Of The Reminiscences Of John Watson, M.D.


 Our prisoner's furious resistance did not apparently indicate any
 ferocity in his disposition towards ourselves, for on finding himself
 powerless, he smiled in an affable manner, and expressed his hopes
 that he had not hurt any of us in the scuffle. "I guess you're going
 to take me to the police-station," he remarked to Sherlock Holmes.
 "My cab's at the door. If you'll loose my legs I'll walk down to it.
 I'm not so light to lift as I used to be."

 Gregson and Lestrade exchanged glances as if they thought this
 proposition rather a bold one; but Holmes at once took the prisoner
 at his word, and loosened the towel which we had bound round his
 ankles. He rose and stretched his legs, as though to assure himself
 that they were free once more. I remember that I thought to myself,
 as I eyed him, that I had seldom seen a more powerfully built man;
 and his dark sunburned face bore an expression of determination and
 energy which was as formidable as his personal strength.

 "If there's a vacant place for a chief of the police, I reckon you
 are the man for it," he said, gazing with undisguised admiration at
 my fellow-lodger. "The way you kept on my trail was a caution."

 "You had better come with me," said Holmes to the two detectives.

 "I can drive you," said Lestrade.

 "Good! and Gregson can come inside with me. You too, Doctor, you have
 taken an interest in the case and may as well stick to us."

 I assented gladly, and we all descended together. Our prisoner made
 no attempt at escape, but stepped calmly into the cab which had been
 his, and we followed him. Lestrade mounted the box, whipped up the
 horse, and brought us in a very short time to our destination. We
 were ushered into a small chamber where a police Inspector noted down
 our prisoner's name and the names of the men with whose murder he had
 been charged. The official was a white-faced unemotional man, who
 went through his duties in a dull mechanical way. "The prisoner will
 be put before the magistrates in the course of the week," he said;
 "in the mean time, Mr. Jefferson Hope, have you anything that you
 wish to say? I must warn you that your words will be taken down, and
 may be used against you."

 "I've got a good deal to say," our prisoner said slowly. "I want to
 tell you gentlemen all about it."

 "Hadn't you better reserve that for your trial?" asked the Inspector.

 "I may never be tried," he answered. "You needn't look startled. It
 isn't suicide I am thinking of. Are you a Doctor?" He turned his
 fierce dark eyes upon me as he asked this last question.

 "Yes; I am," I answered.

 "Then put your hand here," he said, with a smile, motioning with his
 manacled wrists towards his chest.

 I did so; and became at once conscious of an extraordinary throbbing
 and commotion which was going on inside. The walls of his chest
 seemed to thrill and quiver as a frail building would do inside when
 some powerful engine was at work. In the silence of the room I could
 hear a dull humming and buzzing noise which proceeded from the same
 source.

 "Why," I cried, "you have an aortic aneurism!"

 "That's what they call it," he said, placidly. "I went to a Doctor
 last week about it, and he told me that it is bound to burst before
 many days passed. It has been getting worse for years. I got it from
 over-exposure and under-feeding among the Salt Lake Mountains. I've
 done my work now, and I don't care how soon I go, but I should like
 to leave some account of the business behind me. I don't want to be
 remembered as a common cut-throat."

 The Inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion as to
 the advisability of allowing him to tell his story.

 "Do you consider, Doctor, that there is immediate danger?" the former
 asked.

 "Most certainly there is," I answered.

 "In that case it is clearly our duty, in the interests of justice, to
 take his statement," said the Inspector. "You are at liberty, sir, to
 give your account, which I again warn you will be taken down."

 "I'll sit down, with your leave," the prisoner said, suiting the
 action to the word. "This aneurism of mine makes me easily tired, and
 the tussle we had half an hour ago has not mended matters. I'm on the
 brink of the grave, and I am not likely to lie to you. Every word I
 say is the absolute truth, and how you use it is a matter of no
 consequence to me."

 With these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back in his chair and began
 the following remarkable statement. He spoke in a calm and methodical
 manner, as though the events which he narrated were commonplace
 enough. I can vouch for the accuracy of the subjoined account, for I
 have had access to Lestrade's note-book, in which the prisoner's
 words were taken down exactly as they were uttered.

 "It don't much matter to you why I hated these men," he said; "it's
 enough that they were guilty of the death of two human beings--a
 father and a daughter--and that they had, therefore, forfeited their
 own lives. After the lapse of time that has passed since their crime,
 it was impossible for me to secure a conviction against them in any
 court. I knew of their guilt though, and I determined that I should
 be judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one. You'd have done
 the same, if you have any manhood in you, if you had been in my
 place.

 "That girl that I spoke of was to have married me twenty years ago.
 She was forced into marrying that same Drebber, and broke her heart
 over it. I took the marriage ring from her dead finger, and I vowed
 that his dying eyes should rest upon that very ring, and that his
 last thoughts should be of the crime for which he was punished. I
 have carried it about with me, and have followed him and his
 accomplice over two continents until I caught them. They thought to
 tire me out, but they could not do it. If I die to-morrow, as is
 likely enough, I die knowing that my work in this world is done, and
 well done. They have perished, and by my hand. There is nothing left
 for me to hope for, or to desire.

 "They were rich and I was poor, so that it was no easy matter for me
 to follow them. When I got to London my pocket was about empty, and I
 found that I must turn my hand to something for my living. Driving
 and riding are as natural to me as walking, so I applied at a
 cabowner's office, and soon got employment. I was to bring a certain
 sum a week to the owner, and whatever was over that I might keep for
 myself. There was seldom much over, but I managed to scrape along
 somehow. The hardest job was to learn my way about, for I reckon that
 of all the mazes that ever were contrived, this city is the most
 confusing. I had a map beside me though, and when once I had spotted
 the principal hotels and stations, I got on pretty well.

 "It was some time before I found out where my two gentlemen were
 living; but I inquired and inquired until at last I dropped across
 them. They were at a boarding-house at Camberwell, over on the other
 side of the river. When once I found them out I knew that I had them
 at my mercy. I had grown my beard, and there was no chance of their
 recognizing me. I would dog them and follow them until I saw my
 opportunity. I was determined that they should not escape me again.

 "They were very near doing it for all that. Go where they would about
 London, I was always at their heels. Sometimes I followed them on my
 cab, and sometimes on foot, but the former was the best, for then
 they could not get away from me. It was only early in the morning or
 late at night that I could earn anything, so that I began to get
 behind hand with my employer. I did not mind that, however, as long
 as I could lay my hand upon the men I wanted.

 "They were very cunning, though. They must have thought that there
 was some chance of their being followed, for they would never go out
 alone, and never after nightfall. During two weeks I drove behind
 them every day, and never once saw them separate. Drebber himself was
 drunk half the time, but Stangerson was not to be caught napping. I
 watched them late and early, but never saw the ghost of a chance; but
 I was not discouraged, for something told me that the hour had almost
 come. My only fear was that this thing in my chest might burst a
 little too soon and leave my work undone.

 "At last, one evening I was driving up and down Torquay Terrace, as
 the street was called in which they boarded, when I saw a cab drive
 up to their door. Presently some luggage was brought out, and after a
 time Drebber and Stangerson followed it, and drove off. I whipped up
 my horse and kept within sight of them, feeling very ill at ease, for
 I feared that they were going to shift their quarters. At Euston
 Station they got out, and I left a boy to hold my horse, and followed
 them on to the platform. I heard them ask for the Liverpool train,
 and the guard answer that one had just gone and there would not be
 another for some hours. Stangerson seemed to be put out at that, but
 Drebber was rather pleased than otherwise. I got so close to them in
 the bustle that I could hear every word that passed between them.
 Drebber said that he had a little business of his own to do, and that
 if the other would wait for him he would soon rejoin him. His
 companion remonstrated with him, and reminded him that they had
 resolved to stick together. Drebber answered that the matter was a
 delicate one, and that he must go alone. I could not catch what
 Stangerson said to that, but the other burst out swearing, and
 reminded him that he was nothing more than his paid servant, and that
 he must not presume to dictate to him. On that the Secretary gave it
 up as a bad job, and simply bargained with him that if he missed the
 last train he should rejoin him at Halliday's Private Hotel; to which
 Drebber answered that he would be back on the platform before eleven,
 and made his way out of the station.

 "The moment for which I had waited so long had at last come. I had my
 enemies within my power. Together they could protect each other, but
 singly they were at my mercy. I did not act, however, with undue
 precipitation. My plans were already formed. There is no satisfaction
 in vengeance unless the offender has time to realize who it is that
 strikes him, and why retribution has come upon him. I had my plans
 arranged by which I should have the opportunity of making the man who
 had wronged me understand that his old sin had found him out. It
 chanced that some days before a gentleman who had been engaged in
 looking over some houses in the Brixton Road had dropped the key of
 one of them in my carriage. It was claimed that same evening, and
 returned; but in the interval I had taken a moulding of it, and had a
 duplicate constructed. By means of this I had access to at least one
 spot in this great city where I could rely upon being free from
 interruption. How to get Drebber to that house was the difficult
 problem which I had now to solve.

 "He walked down the road and went into one or two liquor shops,
 staying for nearly half-an-hour in the last of them. When he came out
 he staggered in his walk, and was evidently pretty well on. There was
 a hansom just in front of me, and he hailed it. I followed it so
 close that the nose of my horse was within a yard of his driver the
 whole way. We rattled across Waterloo Bridge and through miles of
 streets, until, to my astonishment, we found ourselves back in the
 Terrace in which he had boarded. I could not imagine what his
 intention was in returning there; but I went on and pulled up my cab
 a hundred yards or so from the house. He entered it, and his hansom
 drove away. Give me a glass of water, if you please. My mouth gets
 dry with the talking."

 I handed him the glass, and he drank it down.

 "That's better," he said. "Well, I waited for a quarter of an hour,
 or more, when suddenly there came a noise like people struggling
 inside the house. Next moment the door was flung open and two men
 appeared, one of whom was Drebber, and the other was a young chap
 whom I had never seen before. This fellow had Drebber by the collar,
 and when they came to the head of the steps he gave him a shove and a
 kick which sent him half across the road. 'You hound,' he cried,
 shaking his stick at him; 'I'll teach you to insult an honest girl!'
 He was so hot that I think he would have thrashed Drebber with his
 cudgel, only that the cur staggered away down the road as fast as his
 legs would carry him. He ran as far as the corner, and then, seeing
 my cab, he hailed me and jumped in. 'Drive me to Halliday's Private
 Hotel,' said he.

 "When I had him fairly inside my cab, my heart jumped so with joy
 that I feared lest at this last moment my aneurism might go wrong. I
 drove along slowly, weighing in my own mind what it was best to do. I
 might take him right out into the country, and there in some deserted
 lane have my last interview with him. I had almost decided upon this,
 when he solved the problem for me. The craze for drink had seized him
 again, and he ordered me to pull up outside a gin palace. He went in,
 leaving word that I should wait for him. There he remained until
 closing time, and when he came out he was so far gone that I knew the
 game was in my own hands.

 "Don't imagine that I intended to kill him in cold blood. It would
 only have been rigid justice if I had done so, but I could not bring
 myself to do it. I had long determined that he should have a show for
 his life if he chose to take advantage of it. Among the many billets
 which I have filled in America during my wandering life, I was once
 janitor and sweeper out of the laboratory at York College. One day
 the professor was lecturing on poisons, and he showed his students
 some alkaloid, as he called it, which he had extracted from some
 South American arrow poison, and which was so powerful that the least
 grain meant instant death. I spotted the bottle in which this
 preparation was kept, and when they were all gone, I helped myself to
 a little of it. I was a fairly good dispenser, so I worked this
 alkaloid into small, soluble pills, and each pill I put in a box with
 a similar pill made without the poison. I determined at the time that
 when I had my chance, my gentlemen should each have a draw out of one
 of these boxes, while I ate the pill that remained. It would be quite
 as deadly, and a good deal less noisy than firing across a
 handkerchief. From that day I had always my pill boxes about with me,
 and the time had now come when I was to use them.

 "It was nearer one than twelve, and a wild, bleak night, blowing hard
 and raining in torrents. Dismal as it was outside, I was glad
 within--so glad that I could have shouted out from pure exultation.
 If any of you gentlemen have ever pined for a thing, and longed for
 it during twenty long years, and then suddenly found it within your
 reach, you would understand my feelings. I lit a cigar, and puffed at
 it to steady my nerves, but my hands were trembling, and my temples
 throbbing with excitement. As I drove, I could see old John Ferrier
 and sweet Lucy looking at me out of the darkness and smiling at me,
 just as plain as I see you all in this room. All the way they were
 ahead of me, one on each side of the horse until I pulled up at the
 house in the Brixton Road.

 "There was not a soul to be seen, nor a sound to be heard, except the
 dripping of the rain. When I looked in at the window, I found Drebber
 all huddled together in a drunken sleep. I shook him by the arm,
 'It's time to get out,' I said.

 "'All right, cabby,' said he.

 "I suppose he thought we had come to the hotel that he had mentioned,
 for he got out without another word, and followed me down the garden.
 I had to walk beside him to keep him steady, for he was still a
 little top-heavy. When we came to the door, I opened it, and led him
 into the front room. I give you my word that all the way, the father
 and the daughter were walking in front of us.

 "'It's infernally dark,' said he, stamping about.

 "'We'll soon have a light,' I said, striking a match and putting it
 to a wax candle which I had brought with me. 'Now, Enoch Drebber,' I
 continued, turning to him, and holding the light to my own face, 'who
 am I?'

 "He gazed at me with bleared, drunken eyes for a moment, and then I
 saw a horror spring up in them, and convulse his whole features,
 which showed me that he knew me. He staggered back with a livid face,
 and I saw the perspiration break out upon his brow, while his teeth
 chattered in his head. At the sight, I leaned my back against the
 door and laughed loud and long. I had always known that vengeance
 would be sweet, but I had never hoped for the contentment of soul
 which now possessed me.

 "'You dog!' I said; 'I have hunted you from Salt Lake City to St.
 Petersburg, and you have always escaped me. Now, at last your
 wanderings have come to an end, for either you or I shall never see
 to-morrow's sun rise.' He shrunk still further away as I spoke, and I
 could see on his face that he thought I was mad. So I was for the
 time. The pulses in my temples beat like sledge-hammers, and I
 believe I would have had a fit of some sort if the blood had not
 gushed from my nose and relieved me.

 "'What do you think of Lucy Ferrier now?' I cried, locking the door,
 and shaking the key in his face. 'Punishment has been slow in coming,
 but it has overtaken you at last.' I saw his coward lips tremble as I
 spoke. He would have begged for his life, but he knew well that it
 was useless.

 "'Would you murder me?' he stammered.

 "'There is no murder,' I answered. 'Who talks of murdering a mad dog?
 What mercy had you upon my poor darling, when you dragged her from
 her slaughtered father, and bore her away to your accursed and
 shameless harem.'

 "'It was not I who killed her father,' he cried.

 "'But it was you who broke her innocent heart,' I shrieked, thrusting
 the box before him. 'Let the high God judge between us. Choose and
 eat. There is death in one and life in the other. I shall take what
 you leave. Let us see if there is justice upon the earth, or if we
 are ruled by chance.'

 "He cowered away with wild cries and prayers for mercy, but I drew my
 knife and held it to his throat until he had obeyed me. Then I
 swallowed the other, and we stood facing one another in silence for a
 minute or more, waiting to see which was to live and which was to
 die. Shall I ever forget the look which came over his face when the
 first warning pangs told him that the poison was in his system? I
 laughed as I saw it, and held Lucy's marriage ring in front of his
 eyes. It was but for a moment, for the action of the alkaloid is
 rapid. A spasm of pain contorted his features; he threw his hands out
 in front of him, staggered, and then, with a hoarse cry, fell heavily
 upon the floor. I turned him over with my foot, and placed my hand
 upon his heart. There was no movement. He was dead!

 "The blood had been streaming from my nose, but I had taken no notice
 of it. I don't know what it was that put it into my head to write
 upon the wall with it. Perhaps it was some mischievous idea of
 setting the police upon a wrong track, for I felt light-hearted and
 cheerful. I remembered a German being found in New York with RACHE
 written up above him, and it was argued at the time in the newspapers
 that the secret societies must have done it. I guessed that what
 puzzled the New Yorkers would puzzle the Londoners, so I dipped my
 finger in my own blood and printed it on a convenient place on the
 wall. Then I walked down to my cab and found that there was nobody
 about, and that the night was still very wild. I had driven some
 distance when I put my hand into the pocket in which I usually kept
 Lucy's ring, and found that it was not there. I was thunderstruck at
 this, for it was the only memento that I had of her. Thinking that I
 might have dropped it when I stooped over Drebber's body, I drove
 back, and leaving my cab in a side street, I went boldly up to the
 house--for I was ready to dare anything rather than lose the ring.
 When I arrived there, I walked right into the arms of a
 police-officer who was coming out, and only managed to disarm his
 suspicions by pretending to be hopelessly drunk.

 "That was how Enoch Drebber came to his end. All I had to do then was
 to do as much for Stangerson, and so pay off John Ferrier's debt. I
 knew that he was staying at Halliday's Private Hotel, and I hung
 about all day, but he never came out. I fancy that he suspected
 something when Drebber failed to put in an appearance. He was
 cunning, was Stangerson, and always on his guard. If he thought he
 could keep me off by staying indoors he was very much mistaken. I
 soon found out which was the window of his bedroom, and early next
 morning I took advantage of some ladders which were lying in the lane
 behind the hotel, and so made my way into his room in the grey of the
 dawn. I woke him up and told him that the hour had come when he was
 to answer for the life he had taken so long before. I described
 Drebber's death to him, and I gave him the same choice of the
 poisoned pills. Instead of grasping at the chance of safety which
 that offered him, he sprang from his bed and flew at my throat. In
 self-defence I stabbed him to the heart. It would have been the same
 in any case, for Providence would never have allowed his guilty hand
 to pick out anything but the poison.

 "I have little more to say, and it's as well, for I am about done up.
 I went on cabbing it for a day or so, intending to keep at it until I
 could save enough to take me back to America. I was standing in the
 yard when a ragged youngster asked if there was a cabby there called
 Jefferson Hope, and said that his cab was wanted by a gentleman at
 221b, Baker Street. I went round, suspecting no harm, and the next
 thing I knew, this young man here had the bracelets on my wrists, and
 as neatly snackled as ever I saw in my life. That's the whole of my
 story, gentlemen. You may consider me to be a murderer; but I hold
 that I am just as much an officer of justice as you are."

 So thrilling had the man's narrative been, and his manner was so
 impressive that we had sat silent and absorbed. Even the professional
 detectives, blase as they were in every detail of crime, appeared to
 be keenly interested in the man's story. When he finished we sat for
 some minutes in a stillness which was only broken by the scratching
 of Lestrade's pencil as he gave the finishing touches to his
 shorthand account.

 "There is only one point on which I should like a little more
 information," Sherlock Holmes said at last. "Who was your accomplice
 who came for the ring which I advertised?"

 The prisoner winked at my friend jocosely. "I can tell my own
 secrets," he said, "but I don't get other people into trouble. I saw
 your advertisement, and I thought it might be a plant, or it might be
 the ring which I wanted. My friend volunteered to go and see. I think
 you'll own he did it smartly."

 "Not a doubt of that," said Holmes heartily.

 "Now, gentlemen," the Inspector remarked gravely, "the forms of the
 law must be complied with. On Thursday the prisoner will be brought
 before the magistrates, and your attendance will be required. Until
 then I will be responsible for him." He rang the bell as he spoke,
 and Jefferson Hope was led off by a couple of warders, while my
 friend and I made our way out of the Station and took a cab back to
 Baker Street.





      CHAPTER VII
      The Conclusion


 We had all been warned to appear before the magistrates upon the
 Thursday; but when the Thursday came there was no occasion for our
 testimony. A higher Judge had taken the matter in hand, and Jefferson
 Hope had been summoned before a tribunal where strict justice would
 be meted out to him. On the very night after his capture the aneurism
 burst, and he was found in the morning stretched upon the floor of
 the cell, with a placid smile upon his face, as though he had been
 able in his dying moments to look back upon a useful life, and on
 work well done.

 "Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his death," Holmes remarked,
 as we chatted it over next evening. "Where will their grand
 advertisement be now?"

 "I don't see that they had very much to do with his capture," I
 answered.

 "What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence," returned
 my companion, bitterly. "The question is, what can you make people
 believe that you have done. Never mind," he continued, more brightly,
 after a pause. "I would not have missed the investigation for
 anything. There has been no better case within my recollection.
 Simple as it was, there were several most instructive points about
 it."

 "Simple!" I ejaculated.

 "Well, really, it can hardly be described as otherwise," said
 Sherlock Holmes, smiling at my surprise. "The proof of its intrinsic
 simplicity is, that without any help save a few very ordinary
 deductions I was able to lay my hand upon the criminal within three
 days."

 "That is true," said I.

 "I have already explained to you that what is out of the common is
 usually a guide rather than a hindrance. In solving a problem of this
 sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backwards. That is a
 very useful accomplishment, and a very easy one, but people do not
 practise it much. In the every-day affairs of life it is more useful
 to reason forwards, and so the other comes to be neglected. There are
 fifty who can reason synthetically for one who can reason
 analytically."

 "I confess," said I, "that I do not quite follow you."

 "I hardly expected that you would. Let me see if I can make it
 clearer. Most people, if you describe a train of events to them, will
 tell you what the result would be. They can put those events together
 in their minds, and argue from them that something will come to pass.
 There are few people, however, who, if you told them a result, would
 be able to evolve from their own inner consciousness what the steps
 were which led up to that result. This power is what I mean when I
 talk of reasoning backwards, or analytically."

 "I understand," said I.

 "Now this was a case in which you were given the result and had to
 find everything else for yourself. Now let me endeavour to show you
 the different steps in my reasoning. To begin at the beginning. I
 approached the house, as you know, on foot, and with my mind entirely
 free from all impressions. I naturally began by examining the
 roadway, and there, as I have already explained to you, I saw clearly
 the marks of a cab, which, I ascertained by inquiry, must have been
 there during the night. I satisfied myself that it was a cab and not
 a private carriage by the narrow gauge of the wheels. The ordinary
 London growler is considerably less wide than a gentleman's brougham.

 "This was the first point gained. I then walked slowly down the
 garden path, which happened to be composed of a clay soil, peculiarly
 suitable for taking impressions. No doubt it appeared to you to be a
 mere trampled line of slush, but to my trained eyes every mark upon
 its surface had a meaning. There is no branch of detective science
 which is so important and so much neglected as the art of tracing
 footsteps. Happily, I have always laid great stress upon it, and much
 practice has made it second nature to me. I saw the heavy footmarks
 of the constables, but I saw also the track of the two men who had
 first passed through the garden. It was easy to tell that they had
 been before the others, because in places their marks had been
 entirely obliterated by the others coming upon the top of them. In
 this way my second link was formed, which told me that the nocturnal
 visitors were two in number, one remarkable for his height (as I
 calculated from the length of his stride), and the other fashionably
 dressed, to judge from the small and elegant impression left by his
 boots.

 "On entering the house this last inference was confirmed. My
 well-booted man lay before me. The tall one, then, had done the
 murder, if murder there was. There was no wound upon the dead man's
 person, but the agitated expression upon his face assured me that he
 had foreseen his fate before it came upon him. Men who die from heart
 disease, or any sudden natural cause, never by any chance exhibit
 agitation upon their features. Having sniffed the dead man's lips I
 detected a slightly sour smell, and I came to the conclusion that he
 had had poison forced upon him. Again, I argued that it had been
 forced upon him from the hatred and fear expressed upon his face. By
 the method of exclusion, I had arrived at this result, for no other
 hypothesis would meet the facts. Do not imagine that it was a very
 unheard of idea. The forcible administration of poison is by no means
 a new thing in criminal annals. The cases of Dolsky in Odessa, and of
 Leturier in Montpellier, will occur at once to any toxicologist.

 "And now came the great question as to the reason why. Robbery had
 not been the object of the murder, for nothing was taken. Was it
 politics, then, or was it a woman? That was the question which
 confronted me. I was inclined from the first to the latter
 supposition. Political assassins are only too glad to do their work
 and to fly. This murder had, on the contrary, been done most
 deliberately, and the perpetrator had left his tracks all over the
 room, showing that he had been there all the time. It must have been
 a private wrong, and not a political one, which called for such a
 methodical revenge. When the inscription was discovered upon the wall
 I was more inclined than ever to my opinion. The thing was too
 evidently a blind. When the ring was found, however, it settled the
 question. Clearly the murderer had used it to remind his victim of
 some dead or absent woman. It was at this point that I asked Gregson
 whether he had enquired in his telegram to Cleveland as to any
 particular point in Mr. Drebber's former career. He answered, you
 remember, in the negative.

 "I then proceeded to make a careful examination of the room, which
 confirmed me in my opinion as to the murderer's height, and furnished
 me with the additional details as to the Trichinopoly cigar and the
 length of his nails. I had already come to the conclusion, since
 there were no signs of a struggle, that the blood which covered the
 floor had burst from the murderer's nose in his excitement. I could
 perceive that the track of blood coincided with the track of his
 feet. It is seldom that any man, unless he is very full-blooded,
 breaks out in this way through emotion, so I hazarded the opinion
 that the criminal was probably a robust and ruddy-faced man. Events
 proved that I had judged correctly.

 "Having left the house, I proceeded to do what Gregson had neglected.
 I telegraphed to the head of the police at Cleveland, limiting my
 enquiry to the circumstances connected with the marriage of Enoch
 Drebber. The answer was conclusive. It told me that Drebber had
 already applied for the protection of the law against an old rival in
 love, named Jefferson Hope, and that this same Hope was at present in
 Europe. I knew now that I held the clue to the mystery in my hand,
 and all that remained was to secure the murderer.

 "I had already determined in my own mind that the man who had walked
 into the house with Drebber, was none other than the man who had
 driven the cab. The marks in the road showed me that the horse had
 wandered on in a way which would have been impossible had there been
 anyone in charge of it. Where, then, could the driver be, unless he
 were inside the house? Again, it is absurd to suppose that any sane
 man would carry out a deliberate crime under the very eyes, as it
 were, of a third person, who was sure to betray him. Lastly,
 supposing one man wished to dog another through London, what better
 means could he adopt than to turn cabdriver. All these considerations
 led me to the irresistible conclusion that Jefferson Hope was to be
 found among the jarveys of the Metropolis.

 "If he had been one there was no reason to believe that he had ceased
 to be. On the contrary, from his point of view, any sudden chance
 would be likely to draw attention to himself. He would, probably, for
 a time at least, continue to perform his duties. There was no reason
 to suppose that he was going under an assumed name. Why should he
 change his name in a country where no one knew his original one? I
 therefore organized my Street Arab detective corps, and sent them
 systematically to every cab proprietor in London until they ferreted
 out the man that I wanted. How well they succeeded, and how quickly I
 took advantage of it, are still fresh in your recollection. The
 murder of Stangerson was an incident which was entirely unexpected,
 but which could hardly in any case have been prevented. Through it,
 as you know, I came into possession of the pills, the existence of
 which I had already surmised. You see the whole thing is a chain of
 logical sequences without a break or flaw."

 "It is wonderful!" I cried. "Your merits should be publicly
 recognized. You should publish an account of the case. If you won't,
 I will for you."

 "You may do what you like, Doctor," he answered. "See here!" he
 continued, handing a paper over to me, "look at this!"

 It was the Echo for the day, and the paragraph to which he pointed
 was devoted to the case in question.

 "The public," it said, "have lost a sensational treat through the
 sudden death of the man Hope, who was suspected of the murder of Mr.
 Enoch Drebber and of Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The details of the case
 will probably be never known now, though we are informed upon good
 authority that the crime was the result of an old standing and
 romantic feud, in which love and Mormonism bore a part. It seems that
 both the victims belonged, in their younger days, to the Latter Day
 Saints, and Hope, the deceased prisoner, hails also from Salt Lake
 City. If the case has had no other effect, it, at least, brings out
 in the most striking manner the efficiency of our detective police
 force, and will serve as a lesson to all foreigners that they will do
 wisely to settle their feuds at home, and not to carry them on to
 British soil. It is an open secret that the credit of this smart
 capture belongs entirely to the well-known Scotland Yard officials,
 Messrs. Lestrade and Gregson. The man was apprehended, it appears, in
 the rooms of a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who has himself, as an
 amateur, shown some talent in the detective line, and who, with such
 instructors, may hope in time to attain to some degree of their
 skill. It is expected that a testimonial of some sort will be
 presented to the two officers as a fitting recognition of their
 services."

 "Didn't I tell you so when we started?" cried Sherlock Holmes with a
 laugh. "That's the result of all our Study in Scarlet: to get them a
 testimonial!"

 "Never mind," I answered, "I have all the facts in my journal, and
 the public shall know them. In the meantime you must make yourself
 contented by the consciousness of success, like the Roman miser--

                  "'Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo
             Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplar in arca.'"






                          THE SIGN OF THE FOUR





                            Table of contents
    The Science of Deduction
    The Statement of the Case
    In Quest of a Solution
    The Story of the Bald-Headed Man
    The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge
    Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration
    The Episode of the Barrel
    The Baker Street Irregulars
    A Break in the Chain
    The End of the Islander
    The Great Agra Treasure
    The Strange Story of Jonathan Small















      CHAPTER I
      The Science of Deduction


 Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece
 and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long,
 white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled
 back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested
 thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred
 with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point
 home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the
 velvet-lined arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

 Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance,
 but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from
 day to day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my
 conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked
 the courage to protest. Again and again I had registered a vow that I
 should deliver my soul upon the subject, but there was that in the
 cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him the last man with
 whom one would care to take anything approaching to a liberty. His
 great powers, his masterly manner, and the experience which I had had
 of his many extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and
 backward in crossing him.

 Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken
 with my lunch, or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme
 deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no
 longer.

 "Which is it to-day?" I asked,--"morphine or cocaine?"

 He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which
 he had opened. "It is cocaine," he said,--"a seven-per-cent solution.
 Would you care to try it?"

 "No, indeed," I answered, brusquely. "My constitution has not got
 over the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw any extra
 strain upon it."

 He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said.
 "I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it,
 however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind
 that its secondary action is a matter of small moment."

 "But consider!" I said, earnestly. "Count the cost! Your brain may,
 as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and
 morbid process, which involves increased tissue-change and may at
 last leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction
 comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why
 should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great
 powers with which you have been endowed?  Remember that I speak not
 only as one comrade to another, but as a medical man to one for whose
 constitution he is to some extent answerable."

 He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his fingertips
 together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who
 has a relish for conversation.

 "My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me
 work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate
 analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then
 with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of
 existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen
 my own particular profession,--or rather created it, for I am the
 only one in the world."

 "The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows.

 "The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered.  "I am the
 last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Gregson or
 Lestrade or Athelney Jones are out of their depths--which, by the
 way, is their normal state--the matter is laid before me. I examine
 the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist's opinion. I claim
 no credit in such cases. My name figures in no newspaper. The work
 itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my
 highest reward. But you have yourself had some experience of my
 methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case."

 "Yes, indeed," said I, cordially. "I was never so struck by anything
 in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat
 fantastic title of 'A Study in Scarlet.'"

 He shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," said he.  "Honestly, I
 cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an
 exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional
 manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which
 produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an
 elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."

 "But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not tamper with
 the facts."

 "Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of
 proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the
 case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from
 effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling it."

 I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially
 designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was irritated by the
 egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should
 be devoted to his own special doings. More than once during the years
 that I had lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a small
 vanity underlay my companion's quiet and didactic manner. I made no
 remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I had a Jezail
 bullet through it some time before, and, though it did not prevent me
 from walking, it ached wearily at every change of the weather.

 "My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said Holmes,
 after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe. "I was consulted
 last week by Francois Le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come
 rather to the front lately in the French detective service. He has
 all the Celtic power of quick intuition, but he is deficient in the
 wide range of exact knowledge which is essential to the higher
 developments of his art. The case was concerned with a will, and
 possessed some features of interest. I was able to refer him to two
 parallel cases, the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis
 in 1871, which have suggested to him the true solution. Here is the
 letter which I had this morning acknowledging my assistance." He
 tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign notepaper. I
 glanced my eyes down it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration,
 with stray magnifiques, coup-de-maÃ®tres and tours-de-force, all
 testifying to the ardent admiration of the Frenchman.

 "He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I.

 "Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes,
 lightly. "He has considerable gifts himself. He possesses two out of
 the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has the
 power of observation and that of deduction. He is only wanting in
 knowledge; and that may come in time. He is now translating my small
 works into French."

 "Your works?"

 "Oh, didn't you know?" he cried, laughing. "Yes, I have been guilty
 of several monographs. They are all upon technical subjects. Here,
 for example, is one 'Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the
 Various Tobaccoes.' In it I enumerate a hundred and forty forms of
 cigar-, cigarette-, and pipe-tobacco, with colored plates
 illustrating the difference in the ash. It is a point which is
 continually turning up in criminal trials, and which is sometimes of
 supreme importance as a clue. If you can say definitely, for example,
 that some murder has been done by a man who was smoking an Indian
 lunkah, it obviously narrows your field of search. To the trained eye
 there is as much difference between the black ash of a Trichinopoly
 and the white fluff of bird's-eye as there is between a cabbage and a
 potato."

 "You have an extraordinary genius for minutiae," I remarked.

 "I appreciate their importance. Here is my monograph upon the tracing
 of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of plaster of Paris as
 a preserver of impresses. Here, too, is a curious little work upon
 the influence of a trade upon the form of the hand, with lithotypes
 of the hands of slaters, sailors, corkcutters, compositors, weavers,
 and diamond-polishers. That is a matter of great practical interest
 to the scientific detective,--especially in cases of unclaimed
 bodies, or in discovering the antecedents of criminals. But I weary
 you with my hobby."

 "Not at all," I answered, earnestly. "It is of the greatest interest
 to me, especially since I have had the opportunity of observing your
 practical application of it. But you spoke just now of observation
 and deduction. Surely the one to some extent implies the other."

 "Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his armchair,
 and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe. "For example,
 observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street
 Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that when there
 you dispatched a telegram."

 "Right!" said I. "Right on both points! But I confess that I don't
 see how you arrived at it. It was a sudden impulse upon my part, and
 I have mentioned it to no one."

 "It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my
 surprise,--"so absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous;
 and yet it may serve to define the limits of observation and of
 deduction. Observation tells me that you have a little reddish mould
 adhering to your instep. Just opposite the Seymour Street Office they
 have taken up the pavement and thrown up some earth which lies in
 such a way that it is difficult to avoid treading in it in entering.
 The earth is of this peculiar reddish tint which is found, as far as
 I know, nowhere else in the neighborhood. So much is observation. The
 rest is deduction."

 "How, then, did you deduce the telegram?"

 "Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter, since I sat
 opposite to you all morning. I see also in your open desk there that
 you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of postcards.  What
 could you go into the post-office for, then, but to send a wire?
 Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the
 truth."

 "In this case it certainly is so," I replied, after a little thought.
 "The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest.  Would you
 think me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more severe
 test?"

 "On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from taking a
 second dose of cocaine. I should be delighted to look into any
 problem which you might submit to me."

 "I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any
 object in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality
 upon it in such a way that a trained observer might read it. Now, I
 have here a watch which has recently come into my possession. Would
 you have the kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or
 habits of the late owner?"

 I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in
 my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I
 intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he
 occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard
 at the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his
 naked eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep
 from smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case
 to and handed it back.

 "There are hardly any data," he remarked. "The watch has been
 recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts."

 "You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned before being sent to
 me." In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a most
 lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure. What data could he
 expect from an uncleaned watch?

 "Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely barren," he
 observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes.
 "Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged
 to your elder brother, who inherited it from your father."

 "That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?"

 "Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The date of the watch is
 nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: so
 it was made for the last generation. Jewelry usually descents to the
 eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the
 father. Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years.
 It has, therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother."

 "Right, so far," said I. "Anything else?"

 "He was a man of untidy habits,--very untidy and careless. He was
 left with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, lived for
 some time in poverty with occasional short intervals of prosperity,
 and finally, taking to drink, he died. That is all I can gather."

 I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room with
 considerable bitterness in my heart.

 "This is unworthy of you, Holmes," I said. "I could not have believed
 that you would have descended to this. You have made inquires into
 the history of my unhappy brother, and you now pretend to deduce this
 knowledge in some fanciful way. You cannot expect me to believe that
 you have read all this from his old watch! It is unkind, and, to
 speak plainly, has a touch of charlatanism in it."

 "My dear doctor," said he, kindly, "pray accept my apologies. 
 Viewing the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how
 personal and painful a thing it might be to you. I assure you,
 however, that I never even knew that you had a brother until you
 handed me the watch."

 "Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get these
 facts? They are absolutely correct in every particular."

 "Ah, that is good luck. I could only say what was the balance of
 probability. I did not at all expect to be so accurate."

 "But it was not mere guess-work?"

 "No, no: I never guess. It is a shocking habit,--destructive to the
 logical faculty. What seems strange to you is only so because you do
 not follow my train of thought or observe the small facts upon which
 large inferences may depend. For example, I began by stating that
 your brother was careless. When you observe the lower part of that
 watch-case you notice that it is not only dinted in two places, but
 it is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard
 objects, such as coins or keys, in the same pocket. Surely it is no
 great feat to assume that a man who treats a fifty-guinea watch so
 cavalierly must be a careless man. Neither is it a very far-fetched
 inference that a man who inherits one article of such value is pretty
 well provided for in other respects."

 I nodded, to show that I followed his reasoning.

 "It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England, when they take a
 watch, to scratch the number of the ticket with a pin-point upon the
 inside of the case. It is more handy than a label, as there is no
 risk of the number being lost or transposed. There are no less than
 four such numbers visible to my lens on the inside of this case.
 Inference,--that your brother was often at low water. Secondary
 inference,--that he had occasional bursts of prosperity, or he could
 not have redeemed the pledge. Finally, I ask you to look at the inner
 plate, which contains the key-hole. Look at the thousands of
 scratches all round the hole,--marks where the key has slipped. What
 sober man's key could have scored those grooves? But you will never
 see a drunkard's watch without them. He winds it at night, and he
 leaves these traces of his unsteady hand. Where is the mystery in all
 this?"

 "It is as clear as daylight," I answered. "I regret the injustice
 which I did you. I should have had more faith in your marvellous
 faculty. May I ask whether you have any professional inquiry on foot
 at present?"

 "None. Hence the cocaine. I cannot live without brain-work. What else
 is there to live for? Stand at the window here. Was ever such a
 dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls
 down the street and drifts across the duncolored houses. What could
 be more hopelessly prosaic and material? What is the use of having
 powers, doctor, when one has no field upon which to exert them? Crime
 is commonplace, existence is commonplace, and no qualities save those
 which are commonplace have any function upon earth."

 I had opened my mouth to reply to this tirade, when with a crisp
 knock our landlady entered, bearing a card upon the brass salver.

 "A young lady for you, sir," she said, addressing my companion.

 "Miss Mary Morstan," he read. "Hum! I have no recollection of the
 name. Ask the young lady to step up, Mrs. Hudson. Don't go, doctor. I
 should prefer that you remain."





      CHAPTER II
      The Statement of the Case


 Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward
 composure of manner. She was a blonde young lady, small, dainty, well
 gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste. There was, however, a
 plainness and simplicity about her costume which bore with it a
 suggestion of limited means. The dress was a sombre grayish beige,
 untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same dull
 hue, relieved only by a suspicion of white feather in the side. Her
 face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but
 her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were
 singularly spiritual and sympathetic. In an experience of women which
 extends over many nations and three separate continents, I have never
 looked upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and
 sensitive nature. I could not but observe that as she took the seat
 which Sherlock Holmes placed for her, her lip trembled, her hand
 quivered, and she showed every sign of intense inward agitation.

 "I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because you once enabled
 my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic
 complication. She was much impressed by your kindness and skill."

 "Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated thoughtfully. "I believe that I
 was of some slight service to her. The case, however, as I remember
 it, was a very simple one."

 "She did not think so. But at least you cannot say the same of mine.
 I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly
 inexplicable, than the situation in which I find myself."

 Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened. He leaned forward in
 his chair with an expression of extraordinary concentration upon his
 clear-cut, hawklike features. "State your case," said he, in brisk,
 business tones.

 I felt that my position was an embarrassing one. "You will, I am
 sure, excuse me," I said, rising from my chair.

 To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved hand to detain me.
 "If your friend," she said, "would be good enough to stop, he might
 be of inestimable service to me."

 I relapsed into my chair.

 "Briefly," she continued, "the facts are these. My father was an
 officer in an Indian regiment who sent me home when I was quite a
 child. My mother was dead, and I had no relative in England. I was
 placed, however, in a comfortable boarding establishment at
 Edinburgh, and there I remained until I was seventeen years of age.
 In the year 1878 my father, who was senior captain of his regiment,
 obtained twelve months' leave and came home. He telegraphed to me
 from London that he had arrived all safe, and directed me to come
 down at once, giving the Langham Hotel as his address. His message,
 as I remember, was full of kindness and love. On reaching London I
 drove to the Langham, and was informed that Captain Morstan was
 staying there, but that he had gone out the night before and had not
 yet returned. I waited all day without news of him. That night, on
 the advice of the manager of the hotel, I communicated with the
 police, and next morning we advertised in all the papers. Our
 inquiries let to no result; and from that day to this no word has
 ever been heard of my unfortunate father. He came home with his heart
 full of hope, to find some peace, some comfort, and instead--" She
 put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut short the sentence.

 "The date?" asked Holmes, opening his note-book.

 "He disappeared upon the 3d of December, 1878,--nearly ten years
 ago."

 "His luggage?"

 "Remained at the hotel. There was nothing in it to suggest a
 clue,--some clothes, some books, and a considerable number of
 curiosities from the Andaman Islands. He had been one of the officers
 in charge of the convict-guard there."

 "Had he any friends in town?"

 "Only one that we know of,--Major Sholto, of his own regiment, the
 34th Bombay Infantry. The major had retired some little time before,
 and lived at Upper Norwood. We communicated with him, of course, but
 he did not even know that his brother officer was in England."

 "A singular case," remarked Holmes.

 "I have not yet described to you the most singular part. About six
 years ago--to be exact, upon the 4th of May, 1882--an advertisement
 appeared in the Times asking for the address of Miss Mary Morstan and
 stating that it would be to her advantage to come forward. There was
 no name or address appended. I had at that time just entered the
 family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester in the capacity of governess. By her
 advice I published my address in the advertisement column. The same
 day there arrived through the post a small card-board box addressed
 to me, which I found to contain a very large and lustrous pearl. No
 word of writing was enclosed. Since then every year upon the same
 date there has always appeared a similar box, containing a similar
 pearl, without any clue as to the sender. They have been pronounced
 by an expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable value. You
 can see for yourselves that they are very handsome." She opened a
 flat box as she spoke, and showed me six of the finest pearls that I
 had ever seen.

 "Your statement is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes.  "Has
 anything else occurred to you?"

 "Yes, and no later than to-day. That is why I have come to you.  This
 morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps read for
 yourself."

 "Thank you," said Holmes. "The envelope too, please. Postmark,
 London, S.W. Date, July 7. Hum! Man's thumb-mark on corner,--probably
 postman. Best quality paper. Envelopes at sixpence a packet.
 Particular man in his stationery. No address. 'Be at the third pillar
 from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven o'clock.
 If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are a wronged woman,
 and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be
 in vain. Your unknown friend.' Well, really, this is a very pretty
 little mystery.  What do you intend to do, Miss Morstan?"

 "That is exactly what I want to ask you."

 "Then we shall most certainly go. You and I and--yes, why, Dr. 
 Watson is the very man. Your correspondent says two friends. He and I
 have worked together before."

 "But would he come?" she asked, with something appealing in her voice
 and expression.

 "I should be proud and happy," said I, fervently, "if I can be of any
 service."

 "You are both very kind," she answered. "I have led a retired life,
 and have no friends whom I could appeal to. If I am here at six it
 will do, I suppose?"

 "You must not be later," said Holmes. "There is one other point,
 however. Is this handwriting the same as that upon the pearl-box
 addresses?"

 "I have them here," she answered, producing half a dozen pieces of
 paper.

 "You are certainly a model client. You have the correct intuition.
 Let us see, now." He spread out the papers upon the table, and gave
 little darting glances from one to the other. "They are disguised
 hands, except the letter," he said, presently, "but there can be no
 question as to the authorship. See how the irrepressible Greek e will
 break out, and see the twirl of the final s. They are undoubtedly by
 the same person. I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss
 Morstan, but is there any resemblance between this hand and that of
 your father?"

 "Nothing could be more unlike."

 "I expected to hear you say so. We shall look out for you, then, at
 six. Pray allow me to keep the papers. I may look into the matter
 before then. It is only half-past three. Au revoir, then."

 "Au revoir," said our visitor, and, with a bright, kindly glance from
 one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and
 hurried away. Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly
 down the street, until the gray turban and white feather were but a
 speck in the sombre crowd.

 "What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my companion.

 He had lit his pipe again, and was leaning back with drooping
 eyelids. "Is she?" he said, languidly. "I did not observe."

 "You really are an automaton,--a calculating-machine!" I cried.
 "There is something positively inhuman in you at times."

 He smiled gently. "It is of the first importance," he said, "not to
 allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities. A client is
 to me a mere unit,--a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities
 are antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most
 winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little
 children for their insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my
 acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a
 million upon the London poor."

 "In this case, however--"

 "I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule. Have you
 ever had occasion to study character in handwriting? What do you make
 of this fellow's scribble?"

 "It is legible and regular," I answered. "A man of business habits
 and some force of character."

 Holmes shook his head. "Look at his long letters," he said. "They
 hardly rise above the common herd. That d might be an a, and that l
 an e. Men of character always differentiate their long letters,
 however illegibly they may write. There is vacillation in his k's and
 self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I have some few
 references to make. Let me recommend this book,--one of the most
 remarkable ever penned. It is Winwood Reade's Martyrdom of Man. I
 shall be back in an hour."

 I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were
 far from the daring speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon our
 late visitor,--her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the
 strange mystery which overhung her life. If she were seventeen at the
 time of her father's disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty
 now,--a sweet age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and
 become a little sobered by experience. So I sat and mused, until such
 dangerous thoughts came into my head that I hurried away to my desk
 and plunged furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology. What
 was I, an army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker banking-account,
 that I should dare to think of such things? She was a unit, a
 factor,--nothing more. If my future were black, it was better surely
 to face it like a man than to attempt to brighten it by mere
 will-o'-the-wisps of the imagination.





      CHAPTER III
      In Quest of a Solution


 It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He was bright, eager,
 and in excellent spirits,--a mood which in his case alternated with
 fits of the blackest depression.

 "There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the cup
 of tea which I had poured out for him. "The facts appear to admit of
 only one explanation."

 "What! you have solved it already?"

 "Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a suggestive
 fact, that is all. It is, however, very suggestive. The details are
 still to be added. I have just found, on consulting the back files of
 the Times, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norword, late of the 34th
 Bombay Infantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882."

 "I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests."

 "No? You surprise me. Look at it in this way, then. Captain Morstan
 disappears. The only person in London whom he could have visited is
 Major Sholto. Major Sholto denies having heard that he was in London.
 Four years later Sholto dies. Within a week of his death Captain
 Morstan's daughter receives a valuable present, which is repeated
 from year to year, and now culminates in a letter which describes her
 as a wronged woman. What wrong can it refer to except this
 deprivation of her father? And why should the presents begin
 immediately after Sholto's death, unless it is that Sholto's heir
 knows something of the mystery and desires to make compensation? Have
 you any alternative theory which will meet the facts?"

 "But what a strange compensation! And how strangely made! Why, too,
 should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago? Again, the
 letter speaks of giving her justice. What justice can she have? It is
 too much to suppose that her father is still alive. There is no other
 injustice in her case that you know of."

 "There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties," said
 Sherlock Holmes, pensively. "But our expedition of to-night will
 solve them all. Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is
 inside. Are you all ready? Then we had better go down, for it is a
 little past the hour."

 I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that Holmes
 took his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into his pocket. It
 was clear that he thought that our night's work might be a serious
 one.

 Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive face was
 composed, but pale. She must have been more than woman if she did not
 feel some uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we were
 embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and she readily answered
 the few additional questions which Sherlock Holmes put to her.

 "Major Sholto was a very particular friend of papa's," she said. "His
 letters were full of allusions to the major. He and papa were in
 command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown a
 great deal together. By the way, a curious paper was found in papa's
 desk which no one could understand. I don't suppose that it is of the
 slightest importance, but I thought you might care to see it, so I
 brought it with me. It is here."

 Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smoothed it out upon his
 knee. He then very methodically examined it all over with his double
 lens.

 "It is paper of native Indian manufacture," he remarked. "It has at
 some time been pinned to a board. The diagram upon it appears to be a
 plan of part of a large building with numerous halls, corridors, and
 passages. At one point is a small cross done in red ink, and above it
 is '3.37 from left,' in faded pencil-writing.  In the left-hand
 corner is a curious hieroglyphic like four crosses in a line with
 their arms touching. Beside it is written, in very rough and coarse
 characters, 'The sign of the four,--Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh,
 Abdullah Khan, Dost Akbar.' No, I confess that I do not see how this
 bears upon the matter. Yet it is evidently a document of importance.
 It has been kept carefully in a pocket-book; for the one side is as
 clean as the other."

 "It was in his pocket-book that we found it."

 "Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it may prove to be of
 use to us. I begin to suspect that this matter may turn out to be
 much deeper and more subtle than I at first supposed. I must
 reconsider my ideas." He leaned back in the cab, and I could see by
 his drawn brow and his vacant eye that he was thinking intently. Miss
 Morstan and I chatted in an undertone about our present expedition
 and its possible outcome, but our companion maintained his
 impenetrable reserve until the end of our journey.

 It was a September evening, and not yet seven o'clock, but the day
 had been a dreary one, and a dense drizzly fog lay low upon the great
 city. Mud-colored clouds drooped sadly over the muddy streets. Down
 the Strand the lamps were but misty splotches of diffused light which
 threw a feeble circular glimmer upon the slimy pavement. The yellow
 glare from the shop-windows streamed out into the steamy, vaporous
 air, and threw a murky, shifting radiance across the crowded
 thoroughfare. There was, to my mind, something eerie and ghost-like
 in the endless procession of faces which flitted across these narrow
 bars of light,--sad faces and glad, haggard and merry. Like all human
 kind, they flitted from the gloom into the light, and so back into
 the gloom once more. I am not subject to impressions, but the dull,
 heavy evening, with the strange business upon which we were engaged,
 combined to make me nervous and depressed. I could see from Miss
 Morstan's manner that she was suffering from the same feeling. Holmes
 alone could rise superior to petty influences. He held his open
 note-book upon his knee, and from time to time he jotted down figures
 and memoranda in the light of his pocket-lantern.

 At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already thick at the
 side-entrances. In front a continuous stream of hansoms and
 four-wheelers were rattling up, discharging their cargoes of
 shirt-fronted men and beshawled, bediamonded women. We had hardly
 reached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous, before a small,
 dark, brisk man in the dress of a coachman accosted us.

 "Are you the parties who come with Miss Morstan?" he asked.

 "I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are my friends," said
 she.

 He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and questioning eyes upon
 us. "You will excuse me, miss," he said with a certain dogged manner,
 "but I was to ask you to give me your word that neither of your
 companions is a police-officer."

 "I give you my word on that," she answered.

 He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across a
 four-wheeler and opened the door. The man who had addressed us
 mounted to the box, while we took our places inside. We had hardly
 done so before the driver whipped up his horse, and we plunged away
 at a furious pace through the foggy streets.

 The situation was a curious one. We were driving to an unknown place,
 on an unknown errand. Yet our invitation was either a complete
 hoax,--which was an inconceivable hypothesis,--or else we had good
 reason to think that important issues might hang upon our journey.
 Miss Morstan's demeanor was as resolute and collected as ever. I
 endeavored to cheer and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures
 in Afghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so excited at
 our situation and so curious as to our destination that my stories
 were slightly involved. To this day she declares that I told her one
 moving anecdote as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of
 night, and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at it. At first I
 had some idea as to the direction in which we were driving; but soon,
 what with our pace, the fog, and my own limited knowledge of London,
 I lost my bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed to be going
 a very long way. Sherlock Holmes was never at fault, however, and he
 muttered the names as the cab rattled through squares and in and out
 by tortuous by-streets.

 "Rochester Row," said he. "Now Vincent Square. Now we come out on the
 Vauxhall Bridge Road. We are making for the Surrey side, apparently.
 Yes, I thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You can catch glimpses
 of the river."

 We did indeed bet a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames with the
 lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab dashed on,
 and was soon involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other side.

 "Wordsworth Road," said my companion. "Priory Road. Lark Hall Lane.
 Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold Harbor Lane. Our quest does not
 appear to take us to very fashionable regions."

 We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighborhood.
 Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by the coarse
 glare and tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. Then came
 rows of two-storied villas each with a fronting of miniature garden,
 and then again interminable lines of new staring brick
 buildings,--the monster tentacles which the giant city was throwing
 out into the country. At last the cab drew up at the third house in a
 new terrace. None of the other houses were inhabited, and that at
 which we stopped was as dark as its neighbors, save for a single
 glimmer in the kitchen window. On our knocking, however, the door was
 instantly thrown open by a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow turban,
 white loose-fitting clothes, and a yellow sash. There was something
 strangely incongruous in this Oriental figure framed in the
 commonplace door-way of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house.

 "The Sahib awaits you," said he, and even as he spoke there came a
 high piping voice from some inner room. "Show them in to me,
 khitmutgar," it cried. "Show them straight in to me."





      CHAPTER IV
      The Story of the Bald-Headed Man


 We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill lit and
 worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he
 threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the
 centre of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a
 bristle of red hair all round the fringe of it, and a bald, shining
 scalp which shot out from among it like a mountain-peak from
 fir-trees. He writhed his hands together as he stood, and his
 features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now scowling, but
 never for an instant in repose. Nature had given him a pendulous lip,
 and a too visible line of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove
 feebly to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the lower part
 of his face. In spite of his obtrusive baldness, he gave the
 impression of youth. In point of fact he had just turned his
 thirtieth year.

 "Your servant, Miss Morstan," he kept repeating, in a thin, high
 voice. "Your servant, gentlemen. Pray step into my little sanctum. A
 small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking.  An oasis of art
 in the howling desert of South London."

 We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which
 he invited us. In that sorry house it looked as out of place as a
 diamond of the first water in a setting of brass. The richest and
 glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back
 here and there to expose some richly-mounted painting or Oriental
 vase. The carpet was of amber-and-black, so soft and so thick that
 the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great
 tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestion of Eastern
 luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood upon a mat in the corner. A
 lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung from an almost
 invisible golden wire in the centre of the room. As it burned it
 filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odor.

 "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and
 smiling. "That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course. And these
 gentlemen--"

 "This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson."

 "A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have you your stethoscope?
 Might I ask you--would you have the kindness? I have grave doubts as
 to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may
 rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral."

 I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find
 anything amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear, for he
 shivered from head to foot. "It appears to be normal," I said. "You
 have no cause for uneasiness."

 "You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily.  "I
 am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve.
 I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father,
 Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he
 might have been alive now."

 I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this
 callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter. Miss Morstan
 sat down, and her face grew white to the lips. "I knew in my heart
 that he was dead," said she.

 "I can give you every information," said he, "and, what is more, I
 can do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother Bartholomew may
 say. I am so glad to have your friends here, not only as an escort to
 you, but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and say. The
 three of us can show a bold front to Brother Bartholomew. But let us
 have no outsiders,--no police or officials. We can settle everything
 satisfactorily among ourselves, without any interference. Nothing
 would annoy Brother Bartholomew more than any publicity." He sat down
 upon a low settee and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery
 blue eyes.

 "For my part," said Holmes, "whatever you may choose to say will go
 no further."

 I nodded to show my agreement.

 "That is well! That is well!" said he. "May I offer you a glass of
 Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of Tokay? I keep no other wines. Shall I
 open a flask? No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objection to
 tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odor of the Eastern tobacco. I am
 a little nervous, and I find my hookah an invaluable sedative." He
 applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily
 through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semicircle, with our
 heads advanced, and our chins upon our hands, while the strange,
 jerky little fellow, with his high, shining head, puffed uneasily in
 the centre.

 "When I first determined to make this communication to you," said he,
 "I might have given you my address, but I feared that you might
 disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I took the
 liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a way that my
 man Williams might be able to see you first. I have complete
 confidence in his discretion, and he had orders, if he were
 dissatisfied, to proceed no further in the matter. You will excuse
 these precautions, but I am a man of somewhat retiring, and I might
 even say refined, tastes, and there is nothing more unaesthetic than
 a policeman. I have a natural shrinking from all forms of rough
 materialism. I seldom come in contact with the rough crowd. I live,
 as you see, with some little atmosphere of elegance around me. I may
 call myself a patron of the arts. It is my weakness. The landscape is
 a genuine Corot, and, though a connoisseur might perhaps throw a
 doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot be the least question
 about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the modern French school."

 "You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto," said Miss Morstan, "but I am here
 at your request to learn something which you desire to tell me. It is
 very late, and I should desire the interview to be as short as
 possible."

 "At the best it must take some time," he answered; "for we shall
 certainly have to go to Norwood and see Brother Bartholomew. We shall
 all go and try if we can get the better of Brother Bartholomew. He is
 very angry with me for taking the course which has seemed right to
 me. I had quite high words with him last night. You cannot imagine
 what a terrible fellow he is when he is angry."

 "If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be as well to start at
 once," I ventured to remark.

 He laughed until his ears were quite red. "That would hardly do," he
 cried. "I don't know what he would say if I brought you in that
 sudden way. No, I must prepare you by showing you how we all stand to
 each other. In the first place, I must tell you that there are
 several points in the story of which I am myself ignorant. I can only
 lay the facts before you as far as I know them myself.

 "My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once of
 the Indian army. He retired some eleven years ago, and came to live
 at Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood. He had prospered in India, and
 brought back with him a considerable sum of money, a large collection
 of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native servants. With these
 advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury. My
 twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.

 "I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the
 disappearance of Captain Morstan. We read the details in the papers,
 and, knowing that he had been a friend of our father's, we discussed
 the case freely in his presence. He used to join in our speculations
 as to what could have happened. Never for an instant did we suspect
 that he had the whole secret hidden in his own breast,--that of all
 men he alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.

 "We did know, however, that some mystery--some positive
 danger--overhung our father. He was very fearful of going out alone,
 and he always employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at
 Pondicherry Lodge. Williams, who drove you to-night, was one of them.
 He was once light-weight champion of England. Our father would never
 tell us what it was he feared, but he had a most marked aversion to
 men with wooden legs. On one occasion he actually fired his revolver
 at a wooden-legged man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman
 canvassing for orders. We had to pay a large sum to hush the matter
 up. My brother and I used to think this a mere whim of my father's,
 but events have since led us to change our opinion.

 "Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a
 great shock to him. He nearly fainted at the breakfast-table when he
 opened it, and from that day he sickened to his death. What was in
 the letter we could never discover, but I could see as he held it
 that it was short and written in a scrawling hand. He had suffered
 for years from an enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse,
 and towards the end of April we were informed that he was beyond all
 hope, and that he wished to make a last communication to us.

 "When we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and
 breathing heavily. He besought us to lock the door and to come upon
 either side of the bed. Then, grasping our hands, he made a
 remarkable statement to us, in a voice which was broken as much by
 emotion as by pain. I shall try and give it to you in his own very
 words.

 "'I have only one thing,' he said, 'which weighs upon my mind at this
 supreme moment. It is my treatment of poor Morstan's orphan. The
 cursed greed which has been my besetting sin through life has
 withheld from her the treasure, half at least of which should have
 been hers. And yet I have made no use of it myself,--so blind and
 foolish a thing is avarice. The mere feeling of possession has been
 so dear to me that I could not bear to share it with another. See
 that chaplet dipped with pearls beside the quinine-bottle. Even that
 I could not bear to part with, although I had got it out with the
 design of sending it to her. You, my sons, will give her a fair share
 of the Agra treasure. But send her nothing--not even the
 chaplet--until I am gone. After all, men have been as bad as this and
 have recovered.

 "'I will tell you how Morstan died,' he continued. 'He had suffered
 for years from a weak heart, but he concealed it from every one. I
 alone knew it. When in India, he and I, through a remarkable chain of
 circumstances, came into possession of a considerable treasure. I
 brought it over to England, and on the night of Morstan's arrival he
 came straight over here to claim his share. He walked over from the
 station, and was admitted by my faithful Lal Chowdar, who is now
 dead. Morstan and I had a difference of opinion as to the division of
 the treasure, and we came to heated words. Morstan had sprung out of
 his chair in a paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand
 to his side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he fell backwards,
 cutting his head against the corner of the treasure-chest. When I
 stooped over him I found, to my horror, that he was dead.

 "'For a long time I sat half distracted, wondering what I should do.
 My first impulse was, of course, to call for assistance; but I could
 not but recognize that there was every chance that I would be accused
 of his murder. His death at the moment of a quarrel, and the gash in
 his head, would be black against me. Again, an official inquiry could
 not be made without bringing out some facts about the treasure, which
 I was particularly anxious to keep secret. He had told me that no
 soul upon earth knew where he had gone. There seemed to be no
 necessity why any soul ever should know.

 "'I was still pondering over the matter, when, looking up, I saw my
 servant, Lal Chowdar, in the doorway. He stole in and bolted the door
 behind him. "Do not fear, Sahib," he said. "No one need know that you
 have killed him. Let us hide him away, and who is the wiser?" "I did
 not kill him," said I. Lal Chowdar shook his head and smiled. "I
 heard it all, Sahib," said he. "I heard you quarrel, and I heard the
 blow. But my lips are sealed. All are asleep in the house. Let us put
 him away together." That was enough to decide met. If my own servant
 could not believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it good
 before twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box? Lal Chowdar and I
 disposed of the body that night, and within a few days the London
 papers were full of the mysterious disappearance of Captain Morstan.
 You will see from what I say that I can hardly be blamed in the
 matter. My fault lies in the fact that we concealed not only the
 body, but also the treasure, and that I have clung to Morstan's share
 as well as to my own. I wish you, therefore, to make restitution. Put
 your ears down to my mouth. The treasure is hidden in--At this
 instant a horrible change came over his expression; his eyes stared
 wildly, his jaw dropped, and he yelled, in a voice which I can never
 forget, 'Keep him out! For Christ's sake keep him out'! We both
 stared round at the window behind us upon which his gaze was fixed. A
 face was looking in at us out of the darkness. We could see the
 whitening of the nose where it was pressed against the glass. It was
 a bearded, hairy face, with wild cruel eyes and an expression of
 concentrated malevolence. My brother and I rushed towards the window,
 but the man was gone. When we returned to my father his head had
 dropped and his pulse had ceased to beat.

 "We searched the garden that night, but found no sign of the
 intruder, save that just under the window a single footmark was
 visible in the flower-bed. But for that one trace, we might have
 thought that our imaginations had conjured up that wild, fierce face.
 We soon, however, had another and a more striking proof that there
 were secret agencies at work all round us. The window of my father's
 room was found open in the morning, his cupboards and boxes had been
 rifled, and upon his chest was fixed a torn piece of paper, with the
 words 'The sign of the four' scrawled across it. What the phrase
 meant, or who our secret visitor may have been, we never knew. As far
 as we can judge, none of my father's property had been actually
 stolen, though everything had been turned out. My brother and I
 naturally associated this peculiar incident with the fear which
 haunted my father during his life; but it is still a complete mystery
 to us."

 The little man stopped to relight his hookah and puffed thoughtfully
 for a few moments. We had all sat absorbed, listening to his
 extraordinary narrative. At the short account of her father's death
 Miss Morstan had turned deadly white, and for a moment I feared that
 she was about to faint. She rallied however, on drinking a glass of
 water which I quietly poured out for her from a Venetian carafe upon
 the side-table. Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair with an
 abstracted expression and the lids drawn low over his glittering
 eyes. As I glanced at him I could not but think how on that very day
 he had complained bitterly of the commonplaceness of life. Here at
 least was a problem which would tax his sagacity to the utmost. Mr.
 Thaddeus Sholto looked from one to the other of us with an obvious
 pride at the effect which his story had produced, and then continued
 between the puffs of his overgrown pipe.

 "My brother and I," said he, "were, as you may imagine, much excited
 as to the treasure which my father had spoken of. For weeks and for
 months we dug and delved in every part of the garden, without
 discovering its whereabouts. It was maddening to think that the
 hiding-place was on his very lips at the moment that he died. We
 could judge the splendor of the missing riches by the chaplet which
 he had taken out. Over this chaplet my brother Bartholomew and I had
 some little discussion. The pearls were evidently of great value, and
 he was averse to part with them, for, between friends, my brother was
 himself a little inclined to my father's fault. He thought, too, that
 if we parted with the chaplet it might give rise to gossip and
 finally bring us into trouble. It was all that I could do to persuade
 him to let me find out Miss Morstan's address and send her a detached
 pearl at fixed intervals, so that at least she might never feel
 destitute."

 "It was a kindly thought," said our companion, earnestly. "It was
 extremely good of you."

 The little man waved his hand deprecatingly. "We were your trustees,"
 he said. "That was the view which I took of it, though Brother
 Bartholomew could not altogether see it in that light. We had plenty
 of money ourselves. I desired no more. Besides, it would have been
 such bad taste to have treated a young lady in so scurvy a fashion.
 'Le mauvais goÃ»t mÃ¨ne au crime.' The French have a very neat way of
 putting these things. Our difference of opinion on this subject went
 so far that I thought it best to set up rooms for myself: so I left
 Pondicherry Lodge, taking the old khitmutgar and Williams with me.
 Yesterday, however, I learn that an event of extreme importance has
 occurred. The treasure has been discovered. I instantly communicated
 with Miss Morstan, and it only remains for us to drive out to Norwood
 and demand our share. I explained my views last night to Brother
 Bartholomew: so we shall be expected, if not welcome, visitors."

 Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased, and sat twitching on his luxurious
 settee. We all remained silent, with our thoughts upon the new
 development which the mysterious business had taken. Holmes was the
 first to spring to his feet.

 "You have done well, sir, from first to last," said he. "It is
 possible that we may be able to make you some small return by
 throwing some light upon that which is still dark to you. But, as
 Miss Morstan remarked just now, it is late, and we had best put the
 matter through without delay."

 Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up the tube of his
 hookah, and produced from behind a curtain a very long befrogged
 topcoat with Astrakhan collar and cuffs. This he buttoned tightly up,
 in spite of the extreme closeness of the night, and finished his
 attire by putting on a rabbit-skin cap with hanging lappets which
 covered the ears, so that no part of him was visible save his mobile
 and peaky face. "My health is somewhat fragile," he remarked, as he
 led the way down the passage. "I am compelled to be a
 valetudinarian."

 Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our programme was evidently
 prearranged, for the driver started off at once at a rapid pace.
 Thaddeus Sholto talked incessantly, in a voice which rose high above
 the rattle of the wheels.

 "Bartholomew is a clever fellow," said he. "How do you think he found
 out where the treasure was? He had come to the conclusion that it was
 somewhere indoors: so he worked out all the cubic space of the house,
 and made measurements everywhere, so that not one inch should be
 unaccounted for. Among other things, he found that the height of the
 building was seventy-four feet, but on adding together the heights of
 all the separate rooms, and making every allowance for the space
 between, which he ascertained by borings, he could not bring the
 total to more than seventy feet. There were four feet unaccounted
 for. These could only be at the top of the building. He knocked a
 hole, therefore, in the lath-and-plaster ceiling of the highest room,
 and there, sure enough, he came upon another little garret above it,
 which had been sealed up and was known to no one. In the centre stood
 the treasure-chest, resting upon two rafters. He lowered it through
 the hole, and there it lies. He computes the value of the jewels at
 not less than half a million sterling."

 At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared at one another
 open-eyed. Miss Morstan, could we secure her rights, would change
 from a needy governess to the richest heiress in England. Surely it
 was the place of a loyal friend to rejoice at such news; yet I am
 ashamed to say that selfishness took me by the soul, and that my
 heart turned as heavy as lead within me. I stammered out some few
 halting words of congratulation, and then sat downcast, with my head
 drooped, deaf to the babble of our new acquaintance. He was clearly a
 confirmed hypochondriac, and I was dreamily conscious that he was
 pouring forth interminable trains of symptoms, and imploring
 information as to the composition and action of innumerable quack
 nostrums, some of which he bore about in a leather case in his
 pocket. I trust that he may not remember any of the answers which I
 gave him that night. Holmes declares that he overheard me caution him
 against the great danger of taking more than two drops of castor oil,
 while I recommended strychnine in large doses as a sedative. However
 that may be, I was certainly relieved when our cab pulled up with a
 jerk and the coachman sprang down to open the door.

 "This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge," said Mr. Thaddeus Sholto,
 as he handed her out.





      CHAPTER V
      The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge


 It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached this final stage of our
 night's adventures. We had left the damp fog of the great city behind
 us, and the night was fairly fine. A warm wind blew from the
 westward, and heavy clouds moved slowly across the sky, with half a
 moon peeping occasionally through the rifts. It was clear enough to
 see for some distance, but Thaddeus Sholto took down one of the
 side-lamps from the carriage to give us a better light upon our way.

 Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds, and was girt round with a
 very high stone wall topped with broken glass. A single narrow
 iron-clamped door formed the only means of entrance. On this our
 guide knocked with a peculiar postman-like rat-tat.

 "Who is there?" cried a gruff voice from within.

 "It is I, McMurdo. You surely know my knock by this time."

 There was a grumbling sound and a clanking and jarring of keys. The
 door swung heavily back, and a short, deep-chested man stood in the
 opening, with the yellow light of the lantern shining upon his
 protruded face and twinkling distrustful eyes.

 "That you, Mr. Thaddeus? But who are the others? I had no orders
 about them from the master."

 "No, McMurdo? You surprise me! I told my brother last night that I
 should bring some friends.

 "He ain't been out o' his room to-day, Mr. Thaddeus, and I have no
 orders. You know very well that I must stick to regulations. I can
 let you in, but your friends must just stop where they are."

 This was an unexpected obstacle. Thaddeus Sholto looked about him in
 a perplexed and helpless manner. "This is too bad of you, McMurdo!"
 he said. "If I guarantee them, that is enough for you. There is the
 young lady, too. She cannot wait on the public road at this hour."

 "Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus," said the porter, inexorably. "Folk may be
 friends o' yours, and yet no friends o' the master's. He pays me well
 to do my duty, and my duty I'll do. I don't know none o' your
 friends."

 "Oh, yes you do, McMurdo," cried Sherlock Holmes, genially. "I don't
 think you can have forgotten me. Don't you remember the amateur who
 fought three rounds with you at Alison's rooms on the night of your
 benefit four years back?"

 "Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize-fighter. "God's truth!
 how could I have mistook you? If instead o' standin' there so quiet
 you had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours under
 the jaw, I'd ha' known you without a question. Ah, you're one that
 has wasted your gifts, you have! You might have aimed high, if you
 had joined the fancy."

 "You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still one of the
 scientific professions open to me," said Holmes, laughing. "Our
 friend won't keep us out in the cold now, I am sure."

 "In you come, sir, in you come,--you and your friends," he answered.
 "Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very strict. Had to be
 certain of your friends before I let them in."

 Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge clump
 of a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a
 moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in a garret window. The vast
 size of the building, with its gloom and its deathly silence, struck
 a chill to the heart. Even Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at ease, and
 the lantern quivered and rattled in his hand.

 "I cannot understand it," he said. "There must be some mistake. I
 distinctly told Bartholomew that we should be here, and yet there is
 no light in his window. I do not know what to make of it."

 "Does he always guard the premises in this way?" asked Holmes.

 "Yes; he has followed my father's custom. He was the favorite son,
 you know, and I sometimes think that my father may have told him more
 than he ever told me. That is Bartholomew's window up there where the
 moonshine strikes. It is quite bright, but there is no light from
 within, I think."

 "None," said Holmes. "But I see the glint of a light in that little
 window beside the door."

 "Ah, that is the housekeeper's room. That is where old Mrs. Bernstone
 sits. She can tell us all about it. But perhaps you would not mind
 waiting here for a minute or two, for if we all go in together and
 she has no word of our coming she may be alarmed. But hush! what is
 that?"

 He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of light
 flickered and wavered all round us. Miss Morstan seized my wrist, and
 we all stood with thumping hearts, straining our ears. From the great
 black house there sounded through the silent night the saddest and
 most pitiful of sounds,--the shrill, broken whimpering of a
 frightened woman.

 "It is Mrs. Bernstone," said Sholto. "She is the only woman in the
 house. Wait here. I shall be back in a moment." He hurried for the
 door, and knocked in his peculiar way. We could see a tall old woman
 admit him, and sway with pleasure at the very sight of him.

 "Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come! I am so glad you
 have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!" We heard her reiterated rejoicings
 until the door was closed and her voice died away into a muffled
 monotone.

 Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung it slowly round, and
 peered keenly at the house, and at the great rubbish-heaps which
 cumbered the grounds. Miss Morstan and I stood together, and her hand
 was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we two
 who had never seen each other before that day, between whom no word
 or even look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of
 trouble our hands instinctively sought for each other. I have
 marvelled at it since, but at the time it seemed the most natural
 thing that I should go out to her so, and, as she has often told me,
 there was in her also the instinct to turn to me for comfort and
 protection. So we stood hand in hand, like two children, and there
 was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us.

 "What a strange place!" she said, looking round.

 "It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in
 it. I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near
 Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work."

 "And from the same cause," said Holmes. "These are the traces of the
 treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years looking
 for it. No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit."

 At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto
 came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his
 eyes.

 "There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am
 frightened! My nerves cannot stand it." He was, indeed, half
 blubbering with fear, and his twitching feeble face peeping out from
 the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing expression of a
 terrified child.

 "Come into the house," said Holmes, in his crisp, firm way.

 "Yes, do!" pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. "I really do not feel equal to
 giving directions."

 We all followed him into the housekeeper's room, which stood upon the
 left-hand side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up and down
 with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight of
 Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon her.

 "God bless your sweet calm face!" she cried, with an hysterical sob.
 "It does me good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this
 day!"

 Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand, and murmured some few
 words of kindly womanly comfort which brought the color back into the
 others bloodless cheeks.

 "Master has locked himself in and will now answer me," she explained.
 "All day I have waited to hear from him, for he often likes to be
 alone; but an hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went
 up and peeped through the key-hole. You must go up, Mr.
 Thaddeus,--you must go up and look for yourself. I have seen Mr.
 Bartholomew Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I
 never saw him with such a face on him as that."

 Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus Sholto's
 teeth were chattering in his head. So shaken was he that I had to
 pass my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees
 were trembling under him. Twice as we ascended Holmes whipped his
 lens out of his pocket and carefully examined marks which appeared to
 me to be mere shapeless smudges of dust upon the cocoa-nut matting
 which served as a stair-carpet. He walked slowly from step to step,
 holding the lamp, and shooting keen glances to right and left. Miss
 Morstan had remained behind with the frightened housekeeper.

 The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some
 length, with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of it
 and three doors upon the left. Holmes advanced along it in the same
 slow and methodical way, while we kept close at his heels, with our
 long black shadows streaming backwards down the corridor. The third
 door was that which we were seeking. Holmes knocked without receiving
 any answer, and then tried to turn the handle and force it open. It
 was locked on the inside, however, and by a broad and powerful bolt,
 as we could see when we set our lamp up against it. The key being
 turned, however, the hole was not entirely closed. Sherlock Holmes
 bent down to it, and instantly rose again with a sharp intaking of
 the breath.

 "There is something devilish in this, Watson," said he, more moved
 than I had ever before seen him. "What do you make of it?"

 I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror. Moonlight was
 streaming into the room, and it was bright with a vague and shifty
 radiance. Looking straight at me, and suspended, as it were, in the
 air, for all beneath was in shadow, there hung a face,--the very face
 of our companion Thaddeus. There was the same high, shining head, the
 same circular bristle of red hair, the same bloodless countenance.
 The features were set, however, in a horrible smile, a fixed and
 unnatural grin, which in that still and moonlit room was more jarring
 to the nerves than any scowl or contortion. So like was the face to
 that of our little friend that I looked round at him to make sure
 that he was indeed with us. Then I recalled to mind that he had
 mentioned to us that his brother and he were twins.

 "This is terrible!" I said to Holmes. "What is to be done?"

 "The door must come down," he answered, and, springing against it, he
 put all his weight upon the lock. It creaked and groaned, but did not
 yield. Together we flung ourselves upon it once more, and this time
 it gave way with a sudden snap, and we found ourselves within
 Bartholomew Sholto's chamber.

 It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory. A double
 line of glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the wall opposite
 the door, and the table was littered over with Bunsen burners,
 test-tubes, and retorts. In the corners stood carboys of acid in
 wicker baskets. One of these appeared to leak or to have been broken,
 for a stream of dark-colored liquid had trickled out from it, and the
 air was heavy with a peculiarly pungent, tar-like odor. A set of
 steps stood at one side of the room, in the midst of a litter of lath
 and plaster, and above them there was an opening in the ceiling large
 enough for a man to pass through. At the foot of the steps a long
 coil of rope was thrown carelessly together.

 By the table, in a wooden arm-chair, the master of the house was
 seated all in a heap, with his head sunk upon his left shoulder, and
 that ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face. He was stiff and cold,
 and had clearly been dead many hours. It seemed to me that not only
 his features but all his limbs were twisted and turned in the most
 fantastic fashion. By his hand upon the table there lay a peculiar
 instrument,--a brown, close-grained stick, with a stone head like a
 hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse twine. Beside it was a torn
 sheet of note-paper with some words scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced
 at it, and then handed it to me.

 "You see," he said, with a significant raising of the eyebrows.

 In the light of the lantern I read, with a thrill of horror, "The
 sign of the four."

 "In God's name, what does it all mean?" I asked.

 "It means murder," said he, stooping over the dead man. "Ah, I
 expected it. Look here!" He pointed to what looked like a long, dark
 thorn stuck in the skin just above the ear.

 "It looks like a thorn," said I.

 "It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be careful, for it is
 poisoned."

 I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came away from the skin
 so readily that hardly any mark was left behind. One tiny speck of
 blood showed where the puncture had been.

 "This is all an insoluble mystery to me," said I. "It grows darker
 instead of clearer."

 "On the contrary," he answered, "it clears every instant. I only
 require a few missing links to have an entirely connected case."

 We had almost forgotten our companion's presence since we entered the
 chamber. He was still standing in the door-way, the very picture of
 terror, wringing his hands and moaning to himself. Suddenly, however,
 he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry.

 "The treasure is gone!" he said. "They have robbed him of the
 treasure! There is the hole through which we lowered it. I helped him
 to do it! I was the last person who saw him! I left him here last
 night, and I heard him lock the door as I came down-stairs."

 "What time was that?"

 "It was ten o'clock. And now he is dead, and the police will be
 called in, and I shall be suspected of having had a hand in it. Oh,
 yes, I am sure I shall. But you don't think so, gentlemen? Surely you
 don't think that it was I? Is it likely that I would have brought you
 here if it were I? Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know that I shall go mad!"
 He jerked his arms and stamped his feet in a kind of convulsive
 frenzy.

 "You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes, kindly,
 putting his hand upon his shoulder. "Take my advice, and drive down
 to the station to report this matter to the police. Offer to assist
 them in every way. We shall wait here until your return."

 The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard him
 stumbling down the stairs in the dark.





      CHAPTER VI
      Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration


 "Now, Watson," said Holmes, rubbing his hands, "we have half an hour
 to ourselves. Let us make good use of it. My case is, as I have told
 you, almost complete; but we must not err on the side of
 over-confidence. Simple as the case seems now, there may be something
 deeper underlying it."

 "Simple!" I ejaculated.

 "Surely," said he, with something of the air of a clinical professor
 expounding to his class. "Just sit in the corner there, that your
 footprints may not complicate matters. Now to work! In the first
 place, how did these folk come, and how did they go? The door has not
 been opened since last night. How of the window?" He carried the lamp
 across to it, muttering his observations aloud the while, but
 addressing them to himself rather than to me. "Window is snibbed on
 the inner side. Framework is solid. No hinges at the side. Let us
 open it. No water-pipe near. Roof quite out of reach. Yet a man has
 mounted by the window. It rained a little last night. Here is the
 print of a foot in mould upon the sill. And here is a circular muddy
 mark, and here again upon the floor, and here again by the table. See
 here, Watson! This is really a very pretty demonstration."

 I looked at the round, well-defined muddy discs. "This is not a
 footmark," said I.

 "It is something much more valuable to us. It is the impression of a
 wooden stump. You see here on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot
 with the broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the
 timber-toe."

 "It is the wooden-legged man."

 "Quite so. But there has been some one else,--a very able and
 efficient ally. Could you scale that wall, doctor?"

 I looked out of the open window. The moon still shone brightly on
 that angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet from the ground,
 and, look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a
 crevice in the brick-work.

 "It is absolutely impossible," I answered.

 "Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend up here who
 lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing
 one end of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you
 were an active man, you might swarm up, wooden leg and all. You would
 depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up
 the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the
 inside, and get away in the way that he originally came. As a minor
 point it may be noted," he continued, fingering the rope, "that our
 wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional
 sailor. His hands were far from horny. My lens discloses more than
 one blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I
 gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin
 off his hand."

 "This is all very well," said I, "but the thing becomes more
 unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he
 into the room?"

 "Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of
 interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the
 commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals
 of crime in this country,--though parallel cases suggest themselves
 from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia."

 "How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is
 inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?"

 "The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered
 that possibility."

 "How then?" I persisted.

 "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How
 often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible
 whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? We know that
 he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also
 know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is
 no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?"

 "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried.

 "Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the
 kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches
 to the room above,--the secret room in which the treasure was found."

 He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he
 swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached
 down for the lamp and held it while I followed him.

 The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way
 and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin
 lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from
 beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner
 shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any
 sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor.

 "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand
 against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to
 the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping
 at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One
 entered. Let us see if we can find one other traces of his
 individuality."

 He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the
 second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face.
 For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes.
 The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked
 foot,--clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the
 size of those of an ordinary man.

 "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing."

 He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered
 for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory
 failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is
 nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down."

 "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly,
 when we had regained the lower room once more.

 "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a
 touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be
 instructive to compare results."

 "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered.

 "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way.
 "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will
 look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about
 the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long
 thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes
 gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and
 furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound
 picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible
 criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity
 against the law, instead of exerting them in its defense. As he
 hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out
 into a loud crow of delight.

 "We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little
 trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the
 creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here
 at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked,
 You see, and the stuff has leaked out."

 "What then?" I asked.

 "Why, we have got him, that's all," said he. "I know a dog that would
 follow that scent to the world's end. If a pack can track a trailed
 herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow
 so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of
 three. The answer should give us the--But halloo! here are the
 accredited representatives of the law."

 Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were audible from below,
 and the hall door shut with a loud crash.

 "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this
 poor fellow's arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?"

 "The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered.

 "Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding
 the usual rigor mortis. Coupled with this distortion of the face,
 this Hippocratic smile, or 'risus sardonicus,' as the old writers
 called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?"

 "Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered,--"some
 strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus."

 "That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn
 muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for
 the means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I
 discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force
 into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would
 be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in
 his chair. Now examine the thorn."

 I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was
 long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though
 some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been
 trimmed and rounded off with a knife.

 "Is that an English thorn?" he asked.

 "No, it certainly is not."

 "With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference.
 But here are the regulars: so the auxiliary forces may beat a
 retreat."

 As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on
 the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a gray suit strode
 heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a
 pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from
 between swollen and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an
 inspector in uniform, and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto.

 "Here's a business!" he cried, in a muffled, husky voice. "Here's a
 pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be as
 full as a rabbit-warren!"

 "I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes,
 quietly.

 "Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It's Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the
 theorist. Remember you! I'll never forget how you lectured us all on
 causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It's
 true you set us on the right track; but you'll own now that it was
 more by good luck than good guidance."

 "It was a piece of very simple reasoning."

 "Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is all
 this? Bad business! Bad business! Stern facts here,--no room for
 theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over another
 case! I was at the station when the message arrived. What d'you think
 the man died of?"

 "Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over," said Holmes,
 dryly.

 "No, no. Still, we can't deny that you hit the nail on the head
 sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a
 million missing. How was the window?"

 "Fastened; but there are steps on the sill."

 "Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to do
 with the matter. That's common sense. Man might have died in a fit;
 but then the jewels are missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes
 come upon me at times.--Just step outside, sergeant, and you, Mr.
 Sholto. Your friend can remain.--What do you think of this, Holmes?
 Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The
 brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure.
 How's that?"

 "On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door
 on the inside."

 "Hum! There's a flaw there. Let us apply common sense to the matter.
 This Thaddeus Sholto was with his brother; there was a quarrel; so
 much we know. The brother is dead and the jewels are gone. So much
 also we know. No one saw the brother from the time Thaddeus left him.
 His bed had not been slept in. Thaddeus is evidently in a most
 disturbed state of mind. His appearance is--well, not attractive. You
 see that I am weaving my web round Thaddeus. The net begins to close
 upon him."

 "You are not quite in possession of the facts yet," said Holmes.
 "This splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to be
 poisoned, was in the man's scalp where you still see the mark; this
 card, inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside it lay
 this rather curious stone-headed instrument. How does all that fit
 into your theory?"

 "Confirms it in every respect," said the fat detective, pompously.
 "House is full of Indian curiosities. Thaddeus brought this up, and
 if this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made
 murderous use of it as any other man. The card is some
 hocus-pocus,--a blind, as like as not. The only question is, how did
 he depart? Ah, of course, here is a hole in the roof." With great
 activity, considering his bulk, he sprang up the steps and squeezed
 through into the garret, and immediately afterwards we heard his
 exulting voice proclaiming that he had found the trap-door.

 "He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders.
 "He has occasional glimmerings of reason. Il n'y a pas des sots si
 incommodes que ceux qui ont de l'esprit!"

 "You see!" said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again.
 "Facts are better than mere theories, after all. My view of the case
 is confirmed. There is a trap-door communicating with the roof, and
 it is partly open."

 "It was I who opened it."

 "Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?" He seemed a little crestfallen
 at the discovery. "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows how our
 gentleman got away. Inspector!"

 "Yes, sir," from the passage.

 "Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way.--Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to
 inform you that anything which you may say will be used against you.
 I arrest you in the Queen's name as being concerned in the death of
 your brother."

 "There, now! Didn't I tell you!" cried the poor little man, throwing
 out his hands, and looking from one to the other of us.

 "Don't trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto," said Holmes. "I think
 that I can engage to clear you of the charge."

 "Don't promise too much, Mr. Theorist,--don't promise too much!"
 snapped the detective. "You may find it a harder matter than you
 think."

 "Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you a free
 present of the name and description of one of the two people who were
 in this room last night. His name, I have every reason to believe, is
 Jonathan Small. He is a poorly-educated man, small, active, with his
 right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the
 inner side. His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an
 iron band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned,
 and has been a convict. These few indications may be of some
 assistance to you, coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of
 skin missing from the palm of his hand. The other man--"

 "Ah! the other man--?" asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice, but
 impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of
 the other's manner.

 "Is a rather curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his
 heel. "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the
 pair of them. A word with you, Watson."

 He led me out to the head of the stair. "This unexpected occurrence,"
 he said, "has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose
 of our journey."

 "I have just been thinking so," I answered. "It is not right that
 Miss Morstan should remain in this stricken house."

 "No. You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester,
 in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here
 if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"

 "By no means. I don't think I could rest until I know more of this
 fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life,
 but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange
 surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like,
 however, to see the matter through with you, now that I have got so
 far."

 "Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered. "We
 shall work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to
 exult over any mare's-nest which he may choose to construct. When you
 have dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to No. 3 Pinchin Lane,
 down near the water's edge at Lambeth. The third house on the
 right-hand side is a bird-stuffer's: Sherman is the name. You will
 see a weasel holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock old Sherman
 up, and tell him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You
 will bring Toby back in the cab with you."

 "A dog, I suppose."

 "Yes,--a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent. I would
 rather have Toby's help than that of the whole detective force of
 London."

 "I shall bring him, then," said I. "It is one now. I ought to be back
 before three, if I can get a fresh horse."

 "And I," said Holmes, "shall see what I can learn from Mrs.
 Bernstone, and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me,
 sleeps in the next garret. Then I shall study the great Jones's
 methods and listen to his not too delicate sarcasms. 'Wir sind
 gewohnt, daÃŸ die Menschen verhÃ¶hnen was sie nicht verstehen.' Goethe
 is always pithy."





      CHAPTER VII
      The Episode of the Barrel


 The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss
 Morstan back to her home. After the angelic fashion of women, she had
 borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was some one weaker
 than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by the
 side of the frightened housekeeper. In the cab, however, she first
 turned faint, and then burst into a passion of weeping,--so sorely
 had she been tried by the adventures of the night. She has told me
 since that she thought me cold and distant upon that journey. She
 little guessed the struggle within my breast, or the effort of
 self-restraint which held me back. My sympathies and my love went out
 to her, even as my hand had in the garden. I felt that years of the
 conventionalities of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave
 nature as had this one day of strange experiences. Yet there were two
 thoughts which sealed the words of affection upon my lips. She was
 weak and helpless, shaken in mind and nerve. It was to take her at a
 disadvantage to obtrude love upon her at such a time. Worse still,
 she was rich. If Holmes's researches were successful, she would be an
 heiress. Was it fair, was it honorable, that a half-pay surgeon
 should take such advantage of an intimacy which chance had brought
 about? Might she not look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker? I
 could not bear to risk that such a thought should cross her mind.
 This Agra treasure intervened like an impassable barrier between us.

 It was nearly two o'clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The
 servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so
 interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan had received
 that she had sat up in the hope of her return. She opened the door
 herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how
 tenderly her arm stole round the other's waist and how motherly was
 the voice in which she greeted her. She was clearly no mere paid
 dependant, but an honored friend. I was introduced, and Mrs.
 Forrester earnestly begged me to step in and tell her our adventures.
 I explained, however, the importance of my errand, and promised
 faithfully to call and report any progress which we might make with
 the case. As we drove away I stole a glance back, and I still seem to
 see that little group on the step, the two graceful, clinging
 figures, the half-opened door, the hall light shining through stained
 glass, the barometer, and the bright stair-rods. It was soothing to
 catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English home in the
 midst of the wild, dark business which had absorbed us.

 And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and darker it
 grew. I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of events as I
 rattled on through the silent gas-lit streets. There was the original
 problem: that at least was pretty clear now. The death of Captain
 Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the advertisement, the
 letter,--we had had light upon all those events. They had only led
 us, however, to a deeper and far more tragic mystery. The Indian
 treasure, the curious plan found among Morstan's baggage, the strange
 scene at Major Sholto's death, the rediscovery of the treasure
 immediately followed by the murder of the discoverer, the very
 singular accompaniments to the crime, the footsteps, the remarkable
 weapons, the words upon the card, corresponding with those upon
 Captain Morstan's chart,--here was indeed a labyrinth in which a man
 less singularly endowed than my fellow-lodger might well despair of
 ever finding the clue.

 Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied brick houses in the
 lower quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time at No. 3
 before I could make my impression. At last, however, there was the
 glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the
 upper window.

 "Go on, you drunken vagabone," said the face. "If you kick up any
 more row I'll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs upon
 you."

 "If you'll let one out it's just what I have come for," said I.

 "Go on!" yelled the voice. "So help me gracious, I have a wiper in
 the bag, an' I'll drop it on your 'ead if you don't hook it."

 "But I want a dog," I cried.

 "I won't be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman. "Now stand clear, for
 when I say 'three,' down goes the wiper."

 "Mr. Sherlock Holmes--" I began, but the words had a most magical
 effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a minute
 the door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old
 man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted
 glasses.

 "A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," said he.  "Step in,
 sir. Keep clear of the badger; for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty,
 would you take a nip at the gentleman?" This to a stoat which thrust
 its wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. "Don't
 mind that, sir: it's only a slow-worm. It hain't got no fangs, so I
 gives it the run o' the room, for it keeps the bettles down. You must
 not mind my bein' just a little short wi' you at first, for I'm guyed
 at by the children, and there's many a one just comes down this lane
 to knock me up. What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, sir?"

 "He wanted a dog of yours."

 "Ah! that would be Toby."

 "Yes, Toby was the name."

 "Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here." He moved slowly forward with
 his candle among the queer animal family which he had gathered round
 him. In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that there
 were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny
 and corner. Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn
 fowls, who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other as
 our voices disturbed their slumbers.

 Toby proved to an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel
 and half lurcher, brown-and-white in color, with a very clumsy
 waddling gait. It accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar
 which the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an
 alliance, it followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about
 accompanying me. It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I
 found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The
 ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found, been arrested as an accessory,
 and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off to the station. Two
 constables guarded the narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass with
 the dog on my mentioning the detective's name.

 Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his hands in his pockets,
 smoking his pipe.

 "Ah, you have him there!" said he. "Good dog, then! Athelney Jones
 has gone. We have had an immense display of energy since you left. He
 has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the
 housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves,
 but for a sergeant up-stairs. Leave the dog here, and come up."

 We tied Toby to the hall table, and reascended the stairs. The room
 was as we had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the
 central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the
 corner.

 "Lend me your bull's-eye, sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie this
 bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank
 you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings.--Just you carry them
 down with you, Watson. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my
 handkerchief into the creasote. That will do. Now come up into the
 garret with me for a moment."

 We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more
 upon the footsteps in the dust.

 "I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks," he said. "Do you
 observe anything noteworthy about them?"

 "They belong," I said, "to a child or a small woman."

 "Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"

 "They appear to be much as other footmarks."

 "Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the
 dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief
 difference?"

 "Your toes are all cramped together. The other print has each toe
 distinctly divided."

 "Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you
 kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the
 wood-work? I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my
 hand."

 I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry
 smell.

 "That is where he put his foot in getting out. If you can trace him,
 I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run
 down-stairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin."

 By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on
 the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling
 very slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of
 chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more
 upon the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him
 seated at one of the corner eaves.

 "That You, Watson?" he cried.

 "Yes."

 "This is the place. What is that black thing down there?"

 "A water-barrel."

 "Top on it?"

 "Yes."

 "No sign of a ladder?"

 "No."

 "Confound the fellow! It's a most break-neck place. I ought to be
 able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels
 pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow."

 There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily
 down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came on to the
 barrel, and from there to the earth.

 "It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing on his stockings and
 boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he
 had dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express
 it."

 The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven
 out of colored grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it.
 In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were
 half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the
 other, like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto.

 "They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don't prick
 yourself. I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are that they
 are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding one in
 our skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself.
 Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?"

 "Certainly," I answered.

 "Your leg will stand it?"

 "Oh, yes."

 "Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby, smell it!" He
 pushed the creasote handkerchief under the dog's nose, while the
 creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a most
 comical cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet of
 a famous vintage. Holmes then threw the handkerchief to a distance,
 fastened a stout cord to the mongrel's collar, and let him to the
 foot of the water-barrel. The creature instantly broke into a
 succession of high, tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the
 ground, and his tail in the air, pattered off upon the trail at a
 pace which strained his leash and kept us at the top of our speed.

 The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some
 distance in the cold gray light. The square, massive house, with its
 black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and
 forlorn, behind us. Our course let right across the grounds, in and
 out among the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and
 intersected. The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and
 ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized
 with the black tragedy which hung over it.

 On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly,
 underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a
 young beech. Where the two walls joined, several bricks had been
 loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the
 lower side, as though they had frequently been used as a ladder.
 Holmes clambered up, and, taking the dog from me, he dropped it over
 upon the other side.

 "There's the print of wooden-leg's hand," he remarked, as I mounted
 up beside him. "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white
 plaster. What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy rain
 since yesterday! The scent will lie upon the road in spite of their
 eight-and-twenty hours' start."

 I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great
 traffic which had passed along the London road in the interval. My
 fears were soon appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved,
 but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly, the pungent
 smell of the creasote rose high above all other contending scents.

 "Do not imagine," said Holmes, "that I depend for my success in this
 case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot
 in the chemical. I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace
 them in many different ways. This, however, is the readiest and,
 since fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable if I
 neglected it. It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the
 pretty little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to
 be. There might have been some credit to be gained out of it, but for
 this too palpable clue."

 "There is credit, and to spare," said I. "I assure you, Holmes, that
 I marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case,
 even more than I did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems to
 me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could you
 describe with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"

 "Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I don't wish to be
 theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in
 command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as to buried
 treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan
 Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain
 Morstan's possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his
 associates,--the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called
 it. Aided by this chart, the officers--or one of them--gets the
 treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some
 condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did
 not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious.
 The chart is dated at a time when Morstan was brought into close
 association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure
 because he and his associates were themselves convicts and could not
 get away."

 "But that is mere speculation," said I.

 "It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the
 facts. Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto
 remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his
 treasure. Then he receives a letter from India which gives him a
 great fright. What was that?"

 "A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free."

 "Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for he would have known
 what their term of imprisonment was. It would not have been a
 surprise to him. What does he do then? He guards himself against a
 wooden-legged man,--a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white
 tradesman for him, and actually fires a pistol at him. Now, only one
 white man's name is on the chart. The others are Hindoos or
 Mohammedans. There is no other white man. Therefore we may say with
 confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan
 Small. Does the reasoning strike yo as being faulty?"

 "No: it is clear and concise."

 "Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small. Let
 us look at it from his point of view. He comes to England with the
 double idea of regaining what he would consider to be his rights and
 of having his revenge upon the man who had wronged him. He found out
 where Sholto lived, and very possibly he established communications
 with some one inside the house. There is this butler, Lal Rao, whom
 we have not seen. Mrs. Bernstone gives him far from a good character.
 Small could not find out, however, where the treasure was hid, for no
 one ever knew, save the major and one faithful servant who had died.
 Suddenly Small learns that the major is on his death-bed. In a frenzy
 lest the secret of the treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of
 the guards, makes his way to the dying man's window, and is only
 deterred from entering by the presence of his two sons. Mad with
 hate, however, against the dead man, he enters the room that night,
 searches his private papers in the hope of discovering some
 memorandum relating to the treasure, and finally leaves a memento of
 his visit in the short inscription upon the card. He had doubtless
 planned beforehand that should he slay the major he would leave some
 such record upon the body as a sign that it was not a common murder,
 but, from the point of view of the four associates, something in the
 nature of an act of justice. Whimsical and bizarre conceits of this
 kind are common enough in the annals of crime, and usually afford
 valuable indications as to the criminal. Do you follow all this?"

 "Very clearly."

 "Now, what could Jonathan Small do? He could only continue to keep a
 secret watch upon the efforts made to find the treasure. Possibly he
 leaves England and only comes back at intervals. Then comes the
 discovery of the garret, and he is instantly informed of it. We again
 trace the presence of some confederate in the household. Jonathan,
 with his wooden leg, is utterly unable to reach the lofty room of
 Bartholomew Sholto. He takes with him, however, a rather curious
 associate, who gets over this difficulty, but dips his naked foot
 into creasote, whence come Toby, and a six-mile limp for a half-pay
 officer with a damaged tendo Achillis."

 "But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, who committed the
 crime."

 "Quite so. And rather to Jonathan's disgust, to judge by the way the
 stamped about when he got into the room. He bore no grudge against
 Bartholomew Sholto, and would have preferred if he could have been
 simply bound and gagged. He did not wish to put his head in a halter.
 There was no help for it, however: the savage instincts of his
 companion had broken out, and the poison had done its work: so
 Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the treasure-box to the
 ground, and followed it himself. That was the train of events as far
 as I can decipher them. Of course as to his personal appearance he
 must be middle-aged, and must be sunburned after serving his time in
 such an oven as the Andamans. His height is readily calculated from
 the length of his stride, and we know that he was bearded. His
 hairiness was the one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus
 Sholto when he saw him at the window. I don't know that there is
 anything else."

 "The associate?"

 "Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that. But you will know all
 about it soon enough. How sweet the morning air is! See how that one
 little cloud floats like a pink feather from some gigantic flamingo.
 Now the red rim of the sun pushes itself over the London cloud-bank.
 It shines on a good many folk, but on none, I dare bet, who are on a
 stranger errand than you and I. How small we feel with our petty
 ambitions and strivings in the presence of the great elemental forces
 of nature! Are you well up in your Jean Paul?"

 "Fairly so. I worked back to him through Carlyle."

 "That was like following the brook to the parent lake. He makes one
 curious but profound remark. It is that the chief proof of man's real
 greatness lies in his perception of his own smallness. It argues, you
 see, a power of comparison and of appreciation which is in itself a
 proof of nobility. There is much food for thought in Richter. You
 have not a pistol, have you?"

 "I have my stick."

 "It is just possible that we may need something of the sort if we get
 to their lair. Jonathan I shall leave to you, but if the other turns
 nasty I shall shoot him dead." He took out his revolver as he spoke,
 and, having loaded two of the chambers, he put it back into the
 right-hand pocket of his jacket.

 We had during this time been following the guidance of Toby down the
 half-rural villa-lined roads which lead to the metropolis. Now,
 however, we were beginning to come among continuous streets, where
 laborers and dockmen were already astir, and slatternly women were
 taking down shutters and brushing door-steps. At the square-topped
 corner public houses business was just beginning, and rough-looking
 men were emerging, rubbing their sleeves across their beards after
 their morning wet. Strange dogs sauntered up and stared wonderingly
 at us as we passed, but our inimitable Toby looked neither to the
 right nor to the left, but trotted onwards with his nose to the
 ground and an occasional eager whine which spoke of a hot scent.

 We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell, and now found
 ourselves in Kennington Lane, having borne away through the
 side-streets to the east of the Oval. The men whom we pursued seemed
 to have taken a curiously zigzag road, with the idea probably of
 escaping observation. They had never kept to the main road if a
 parallel side-street would serve their turn. At the foot of
 Kennington Lane they had edged away to the left through Bond Street
 and Miles Street. Where the latter street turns into Knight's Place,
 Toby ceased to advance, but began to run backwards and forwards with
 one ear cocked and the other drooping, the very picture of canine
 indecision. Then he waddled round in circles, looking up to us from
 time to time, as if to ask for sympathy in his embarrassment.

 "What the deuce is the matter with the dog?" growled Holmes. "They
 surely would not take a cab, or go off in a balloon."

 "Perhaps they stood here for some time," I suggested.

 "Ah! it's all right. He's off again," said my companion, in a tone of
 relief.

 He was indeed off, for after sniffing round again he suddenly made up
 his mind, and darted away with an energy and determination such as he
 had not yet shown. The scent appeared to be much hotter than before,
 for he had not even to put his nose on the ground, but tugged at his
 leash and tried to break into a run. I cold see by the gleam in
 Holmes's eyes that he thought we were nearing the end of our journey.

 Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we came to Broderick and
 Nelson's large timber-yard, just past the White Eagle tavern. Here
 the dog, frantic with excitement, turned down through the side-gate
 into the enclosure, where the sawyers were already at work. On the
 dog raced through sawdust and shavings, down an alley, round a
 passage, between two wood-piles, and finally, with a triumphant yelp,
 sprang upon a large barrel which still stood upon the hand-trolley on
 which it had been brought. With lolling tongue and blinking eyes,
 Toby stood upon the cask, looking from one to the other of us for
 some sign of appreciation. The staves of the barrel and the wheels of
 the trolley were smeared with a dark liquid, and the whole air was
 heavy with the smell of creasote.

 Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each other, and then burst
 simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.





      CHAPTER VIII
      The Baker Street Irregulars


 "What now?" I asked. "Toby has lost his character for infallibility."

 "He acted according to his lights," said Holmes, lifting him down
 from the barrel and walking him out of the timber-yard. "If you
 consider how much creasote is carted about London in one day, it is
 no great wonder that our trail should have been crossed. It is much
 used now, especially for the seasoning of wood. Poor Toby is not to
 blame."

 "We must get on the main scent again, I suppose."

 "Yes. And, fortunately, we have no distance to go. Evidently what
 puzzled the dog at the corner of Knight's Place was that there were
 two different trails running in opposite directions. We took the
 wrong one. It only remains to follow the other."

 There was no difficulty about this. On leading Toby to the place
 where he had committed his fault, he cast about in a wide circle and
 finally dashed off in a fresh direction.

 "We must take care that he does not now bring us to the place where
 the creasote-barrel came from," I observed.

 "I had thought of that. But you notice that he keeps on the pavement,
 whereas the barrel passed down the roadway. No, we are on the true
 scent now."

 It tended down towards the river-side, running through Belmont Place
 and Prince's Street. At the end of Broad Street it ran right down to
 the water's edge, where there was a small wooden wharf. Toby led us
 to the very edge of this, and there stood whining, looking out on the
 dark current beyond.

 "We are out of luck," said Holmes. "They have taken to a boat here."
 Several small punts and skiffs were lying about in the water and on
 the edge of the wharf. We took Toby round to each in turn, but,
 though he sniffed earnestly, he made no sign.

 Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick house, with a
 wooden placard slung out through the second window. "Mordecai Smith"
 was printed across it in large letters, and, underneath, "Boats to
 hire by the hour or day." A second inscription above the door
 informed us that a steam launch was kept,--a statement which was
 confirmed by a great pile of coke upon the jetty. Sherlock Holmes
 looked slowly round, and his face assumed an ominous expression.

 "This looks bad," said he. "These fellows are sharper than I
 expected. They seem to have covered their tracks. There has, I fear,
 been preconcerted management here."

 He was approaching the door of the house, when it opened, and a
 little, curly-headed lad of six came running out, followed by a
 stoutish, red-faced woman with a large sponge in her hand.

 "You come back and be washed, Jack," she shouted. "Come back, you
 young imp; for if your father comes home and finds you like that,
 he'll let us hear of it."

 "Dear little chap!" said Holmes, strategically. "What a rosy-cheeked
 young rascal! Now, Jack, is there anything you would like?"

 The youth pondered for a moment. "I'd like a shillin'," said he.

 "Nothing you would like better?"

 "I'd like two shillin' better," the prodigy answered, after some
 thought.

 "Here you are, then! Catch!--A fine child, Mrs. Smith!"

 "Lor' bless you, sir, he is that, and forward. He gets a'most too
 much for me to manage, 'specially when my man is away days at a
 time."

 "Away, is he?" said Holmes, in a disappointed voice. "I am sorry for
 that, for I wanted to speak to Mr. Smith."

 "He's been away since yesterday mornin', sir, and, truth to tell, I
 am beginnin' to feel frightened about him. But if it was about a
 boat, sir, maybe I could serve as well."

 "I wanted to hire his steam launch."

 "Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that he has gone.
 That's what puzzles me; for I know there ain't more coals in her than
 would take her to about Woolwich and back. If he'd been away in the
 barge I'd ha' thought nothin'; for many a time a job has taken him as
 far as Gravesend, and then if there was much doin' there he might ha'
 stayed over. But what good is a steam launch without coals?"

 "He might have bought some at a wharf down the river."

 "He might, sir, but it weren't his way. Many a time I've heard him
 call out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags. Besides, I
 don't like that wooden-legged man, wi' his ugly face and outlandish
 talk. What did he want always knockin' about here for?"

 "A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with bland surprise.

 "Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that's called more'n once for
 my old man. It was him that roused him up yesternight, and, what's
 more, my man knew he was comin', for he had steam up in the launch. I
 tell you straight, sir, I don't feel easy in my mind about it."

 "But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "You
 are frightening yourself about nothing. How could you possibly tell
 that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night? I don't
 quite understand how you can be so sure."

 "His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o' thick and foggy.
 He tapped at the winder,--about three it would be. 'Show a leg,
 matey,' says he: 'time to turn out guard.' My old man woke up
 Jim,--that's my eldest,--and away they went, without so much as a
 word to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin' on the stones."

 "And was this wooden-legged man alone?"

 "Couldn't say, I am sure, sir. I didn't hear no one else."

 "I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have
 heard good reports of the--Let me see, what is her name?"

 "The Aurora, sir."

 "Ah! She's not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad
 in the beam?"

 "No, indeed. She's as trim a little thing as any on the river. She's
 been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."

 "Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going
 down the river; and if I should see anything of the Aurora I shall
 let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?"

 "No, sir. Black with a white band."

 "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs.
 Smith.--There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take
 it and cross the river.

 "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in
 the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their
 information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do,
 they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them
 under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want."

 "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I.

 "What would you do, then?"

 "I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the
 Aurora."

 "My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at
 any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich.
 Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for
 miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set
 about it alone."

 "Employ the police, then."

 "No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He
 is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would
 injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out
 myself, now that we have gone so far."

 "Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?"

 "Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their
 heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are
 likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly
 safe they will be in no hurry. Jones's energy will be of use to us
 there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily
 press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong
 scent."

 "What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank
 Penitentiary.

 "Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour's
 sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again.
 Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be
 of use to us yet."

 We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes
 despatched his wire. "Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we
 resumed our journey.

 "I am sure I don't know."

 "You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force
 whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?"

 "Well," said I, laughing.

 "This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail,
 I have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to
 my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his
 gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast."

 It was between eight and nine o'clock now, and I was conscious of a
 strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was
 limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the
 professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I
 look at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as
 the death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him,
 and could feel no intense antipathy to his murderers. The treasure,
 however, was a different matter. That, or part of it, belonged
 rightfully to Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it
 I was ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if I found it
 it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a
 petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as
 that. If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had a tenfold
 stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure.

 A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up
 wonderfully. When I came down to our room I found the breakfast laid
 and Holmes pouring out the coffee.

 "Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper.
 "The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up
 between them. But you have had enough of the case. Better have your
 ham and eggs first."

 I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed
 "Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood."

 "About twelve o'clock last night," said the Standard, "Mr.
 Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found
 dead in his room under circumstances which point to foul play. As far
 as we can learn, no actual traces of violence were found upon Mr.
 Sholto's person, but a valuable collection of Indian gems which the
 deceased gentleman had inherited from his father has been carried
 off. The discovery was first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr.
 Watson, who had called at the house with Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother
 of the deceased. By a singular piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney
 Jones, the well-known member of the detective police force, happened
 to be at the Norwood Police Station, and was on the ground within
 half an hour of the first alarm. His trained and experienced
 faculties were at once directed towards the detection of the
 criminals, with the gratifying result that the brother, Thaddeus
 Sholto, has already been arrested, together with the housekeeper,
 Mrs. Bernstone, an Indian butler named Lal Rao, and a porter, or
 gatekeeper, named McMurdo. It is quite certain that the thief or
 thieves were well acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones's
 well-known technical knowledge and his powers of minute observation
 have enabled him to prove conclusively that the miscreants could not
 have entered by the door or by the window, but must have made their
 way across the roof of the building, and so through a trap-door into
 a room which communicated with that in which the body was found. This
 fact, which has been very clearly made out, proves conclusively that
 it was no mere haphazard burglary. The prompt and energetic action of
 the officers of the law shows the great advantage of the presence on
 such occasions of a single vigorous and masterful mind. We cannot but
 think that it supplies an argument to those who would wish to see our
 detectives more decentralized, and so brought into closer and more
 effective touch with the cases which it is their duty to
 investigate."

 "Isn't it gorgeous!" said Holmes, grinning over his coffee-cup. "What
 do you think of it?"

 "I think that we have had a close shave ourselves of being arrested
 for the crime."

 "So do I. I wouldn't answer for our safety now, if he should happen
 to have another of his attacks of energy."

 At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell, and I could hear
 Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, raising her voice in a wail of
 expostulation and dismay.

 "By heaven, Holmes," I said, half rising, "I believe that they are
 really after us."

 "No, it's not quite so bad as that. It is the unofficial force,--the
 Baker Street irregulars."

 As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked feet upon the
 stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in rushed a dozen dirty and
 ragged little street-Arabs. There was some show of discipline among
 them, despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly drew up in
 line and stood facing us with expectant faces. One of their number,
 taller and older than the others, stood forward with an air of
 lounging superiority which was very funny in such a disreputable
 little carecrow.

 "Got your message, sir," said he, "and brought 'em on sharp. Three
 bob and a tanner for tickets."

 "Here you are," said Holmes, producing some silver. "In future they
 can report to you, Wiggins, and you to me. I cannot have the house
 invaded in this way. However, it is just as well that you should all
 hear the instructions. I want to find the whereabouts of a steam
 launch called the Aurora, owner Mordecai Smith, black with two red
 streaks, funnel black with a white band. She is down the river
 somewhere. I want one boy to be at Mordecai Smith's landing-stage
 opposite Millbank to say if the boat comes back. You must divide it
 out among yourselves, and do both banks thoroughly. Let me know the
 moment you have news. Is that all clear?"

 "Yes, guv'nor," said Wiggins.

 "The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy who finds the boat.
 Here's a day in advance. Now off you go!" He handed them a shilling
 each, and away they buzzed down the stairs, and I saw them a moment
 later streaming down the street.

 "If the launch is above water they will find her," said Holmes, as he
 rose from the table and lit his pipe. "They can go everywhere, see
 everything, overhear every one. I expect to hear before evening that
 they have spotted her. In the mean while, we can do nothing but await
 results. We cannot pick up the broken trail until we find either the
 Aurora or Mr. Mordecai Smith."

 "Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say. Are you going to bed,
 Holmes?"

 "No: I am not tired. I have a curious constitution. I never remember
 feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me completely. I am
 going to smoke and to think over this queer business to which my fair
 client has introduced us. If ever man had an easy task, this of ours
 ought to be. Wooden-legged men are not so common, but the other man
 must, I should think, be absolutely unique."

 "That other man again!"

 "I have no wish to make a mystery of him,--to you, anyway. But you
 must have formed your own opinion. Now, do consider the data.
 Diminutive footmarks, toes never fettered by boots, naked feet,
 stone-headed wooden mace, great agility, small poisoned darts. What
 do you make of all this?"

 "A savage!" I exclaimed. "Perhaps one of those Indians who were the
 associates of Jonathan Small."

 "Hardly that," said he. "When first I saw signs of strange weapons I
 was inclined to think so; but the remarkable character of the
 footmarks caused me to reconsider my views. Some of the inhabitants
 of the Indian Peninsula are small men, but none could have left such
 marks as that. The Hindoo proper has long and thin feet. The
 sandal-wearing Mohammedan has the great toe well separated from the
 others, because the thong is commonly passed between. These little
 darts, too, could only be shot in one way. They are from a blow-pipe.
 Now, then, where are we to find our savage?"

 "South American," I hazarded.

 He stretched his hand up, and took down a bulky volume from the
 shelf. "This is the first volume of a gazetteer which is now being
 published. It may be looked upon as the very latest authority. What
 have we here? 'Andaman Islands, situated 340 miles to the north of
 Sumatra, in the Bay of Bengal.' Hum! hum!  What's all this? Moist
 climate, coral reefs, sharks, Port Blair, convict-barracks, Rutland
 Island, cottonwoods--Ah, here we are. 'The aborigines of the Andaman
 Islands may perhaps claim the distinction of being the smallest race
 upon this earth, though some anthropologists prefer the Bushmen of
 Africa, the Digger Indians of America, and the Terra del Fuegians.
 The average height is rather below four feet, although many
 full-grown adults may be found who are very much smaller than this.
 They are a fierce, morose, and intractable people, though capable of
 forming most devoted friendships when their confidence has once been
 gained.' Mark that, Watson. Now, then, listen to this. 'They are
 naturally hideous, having large, misshapen heads, small, fierce eyes,
 and distorted features. Their feet and hands, however, are remarkably
 small. So intractable and fierce are they that all the efforts of the
 British official have failed to win them over in any degree. They
 have always been a terror to shipwrecked crews, braining the
 survivors with their stone-headed clubs, or shooting them with their
 poisoned arrows. These massacres are invariably concluded by a
 cannibal feast.' Nice, amiable people, Watson! If this fellow had
 been left to his own unaided devices this affair might have taken an
 even more ghastly turn. I fancy that, even as it is, Jonathan Small
 would give a good deal not to have employed him."

 "But how came he to have so singular a companion?"

 "Ah, that is more than I can tell. Since, however, we had already
 determined that Small had come from the Andamans, it is not so very
 wonderful that this islander should be with him. No doubt we shall
 know all about it in time. Look here, Watson; you look regularly
 done. Lie down there on the sofa, and see if I can put you to sleep."

 He took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out
 he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air,--his own, no doubt,
 for he had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a vague
 remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face, and the rise and
 fall of his bow. Then I seemed to be floated peacefully away upon a
 soft sea of sound, until I found myself in dream-land, with the sweet
 face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me.





      CHAPTER IX
      A Break in the Chain


 It was late in the afternoon before I woke, strengthened and
 refreshed. Sherlock Holmes still sat exactly as I had left him, save
 that he had laid aside his violin and was deep in a book. He looked
 across at me, as I stirred, and I noticed that his face was dark and
 troubled.

 "You have slept soundly," he said. "I feared that our talk would wake
 you."

 "I heard nothing," I answered. "Have you had fresh news, then?"

 "Unfortunately, no. I confess that I am surprised and disappointed. I
 expected something definite by this time.  Wiggins has just been up
 to report. He says that no trace can be found of the launch. It is a
 provoking check, for every hour is of importance."

 "Can I do anything? I am perfectly fresh now, and quite ready for
 another night's outing."

 "No, we can do nothing. We can only wait. If we go ourselves, the
 message might come in our absence, and delay be caused. You can do
 what you will, but I must remain on guard."

 "Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call upon Mrs. Cecil
 Forrester. She asked me to, yesterday."

 "On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?" asked Holmes, with the twinkle of a smile
 in his eyes.

 "Well, of course Miss Morstan too. They were anxious to hear what
 happened."

 "I would not tell them too much," said Holmes. "Women are never to be
 entirely trusted,--not the best of them."

 I did not pause to argue over this atrocious sentiment. "I shall be
 back in an hour or two," I remarked.

 "All right! Good luck! But, I say, if you are crossing the river you
 may as well return Toby, for I don't think it is at all likely that
 we shall have any use for him now."

 I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, together with a
 half-sovereign, at the old naturalist's in Pinchin Lane. At
 Camberwell I found Miss Morstan a little weary after her night's
 adventures, but very eager to hear the news. Mrs. Forrester, too, was
 full of curiosity. I told them all that we had done, suppressing,
 however, the more dreadful parts of the tragedy. Thus, although I
 spoke of Mr. Sholto's death, I said nothing of the exact manner and
 method of it. With all my omissions, however, there was enough to
 startle and amaze them.

 "It is a romance!" cried Mrs. Forrester. "An injured lady, half a
 million in treasure, a black cannibal, and a wooden-legged ruffian.
 They take the place of the conventional dragon or wicked earl."

 "And two knight-errants to the rescue," added Miss Morstan, with a
 bright glance at me.

 "Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue of this search. I
 don't think that you are nearly excited enough. Just imagine what it
 must be to be so rich, and to have the world at your feet!"

 It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that she showed
 no sign of elation at the prospect. On the contrary, she gave a toss
 of her proud head, as though the matter were one in which she took
 small interest.

 "It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious," she said. "Nothing
 else is of any consequence; but I think that he has behaved most
 kindly and honorably throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this
 dreadful and unfounded charge."

 It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite dark by the time I
 reached home. My companion's book and pipe lay by his chair, but he
 had disappeared. I looked about in the hope of seeing a note, but
 there was none.

 "I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone out," I said to Mrs. 
 Hudson as she came up to lower the blinds.

 "No, sir. He has gone to his room, sir. Do you know, sir," sinking
 her voice into an impressive whisper, "I am afraid for his health?"

 "Why so, Mrs. Hudson?"

 "Well, he's that strange, sir. After you was gone he walked and he
 walked, up and down, and up and down, until I was weary of the sound
 of his footstep. Then I heard him talking to himself and muttering,
 and every time the bell rang out he came on the stairhead, with 'What
 is that, Mrs. Hudson?' And now he has slammed off to his room, but I
 can hear him walking away the same as ever. I hope he's not going to
 be ill, sir. I ventured to say something to him about cooling
 medicine, but he turned on me, sir, with such a look that I don't
 know how ever I got out of the room."

 "I don't think that you have any cause to be uneasy, Mrs. Hudson," I
 answered. "I have seen him like this before. He has some small matter
 upon his mind which makes him restless." I tried to speak lightly to
 our worthy landlady, but I was myself somewhat uneasy when through
 the long night I still from time to time heard the dull sound of his
 tread, and knew how his keen spirit was chafing against this
 involuntary inaction.

 At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard, with a little fleck of
 feverish color upon either cheek.

 "You are knocking yourself up, old man," I remarked. "I heard you
 marching about in the night."

 "No, I could not sleep," he answered. "This infernal problem is
 consuming me. It is too much to be balked by so petty an obstacle,
 when all else had been overcome. I know the men, the launch,
 everything; and yet I can get no news. I have set other agencies at
 work, and used every means at my disposal. The whole river has been
 searched on either side, but there is no news, nor has Mrs. Smith
 heard of her husband. I shall come to the conclusion soon that they
 have scuttled the craft. But there are objections to that."

 "Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on a wrong scent."

 "No, I think that may be dismissed. I had inquiries made, and there
 is a launch of that description."

 "Could it have gone up the river?"

 "I have considered that possibility too, and there is a search-party
 who will work up as far as Richmond. If no news comes to-day, I shall
 start off myself to-morrow, and go for the men rather than the boat.
 But surely, surely, we shall hear something."

 We did not, however. Not a word came to us either from Wiggins or
 from the other agencies. There were articles in most of the papers
 upon the Norwood tragedy. They all appeared to be rather hostile to
 the unfortunate Thaddeus Sholto. No fresh details were to be found,
 however, in any of them, save that an inquest was to be held upon the
 following day. I walked over to Camberwell in the evening to report
 our ill success to the ladies, and on my return I found Holmes
 dejected and somewhat morose. He would hardly reply to my questions,
 and busied himself all evening in an abstruse chemical analysis which
 involved much heating of retorts and distilling of vapors, ending at
 last in a smell which fairly drove me out of the apartment. Up to the
 small hours of the morning I could hear the clinking of his
 test-tubes which told me that he was still engaged in his malodorous
 experiment.

 In the early dawn I woke with a start, and was surprised to find him
 standing by my bedside, clad in a rude sailor dress with a
 pea-jacket, and a coarse red scarf round his neck.

 "I am off down the river, Watson," said he. "I have been turning it
 over in my mind, and I can see only one way out of it. It is worth
 trying, at all events."

 "Surely I can come with you, then?" said I.

 "No; you can be much more useful if you will remain here as my
 representative. I am loath to go, for it is quite on the cards that
 some message may come during the day, though Wiggins was despondent
 about it last night. I want you to open all notes and telegrams, and
 to act on your own judgment if any news should come. Can I rely upon
 you?"

 "Most certainly."

 "I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to me, for I can
 hardly tell yet where I may find myself. If I am in luck, however, I
 may not be gone so very long. I shall have news of some sort or other
 before I get back."

 I had heard nothing of him by breakfast-time. On opening the
 Standard, however, I found that there was a fresh allusion to the
 business.

 "With reference to the Upper Norwood tragedy," it remarked, "we have
 reason to believe that the matter promises to be even more complex
 and mysterious than was originally supposed. Fresh evidence has shown
 that it is quite impossible that Mr. Thaddeus Sholto could have been
 in any way concerned in the matter. He and the housekeeper, Mrs.
 Bernstone, were both released yesterday evening. It is believed,
 however, that the police have a clue as to the real culprits, and
 that it is being prosecuted by Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard,
 with all his well-known energy and sagacity. Further arrests may be
 expected at any moment."

 "That is satisfactory so far as it goes," thought I. "Friend Sholto
 is safe, at any rate. I wonder what the fresh clue may be; though it
 seems to be a stereotyped form whenever the police have made a
 blunder."

 I tossed the paper down upon the table, but at that moment my eye
 caught an advertisement in the agony column. It ran in this way:

 "Lost.--Whereas Mordecai Smith, boatman, and his son, Jim, left
 Smith's Wharf at or about three o'clock last Tuesday morning in the
 steam launch Aurora, black with two red stripes, funnel black with a
 white band, the sum of five pounds will be paid to any one who can
 give information to Mrs. Smith, at Smith's Wharf, or at 221b Baker
 Street, as to the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith and the
 launch Aurora."

 This was clearly Holmes's doing. The Baker Street address was enough
 to prove that. It struck me as rather ingenious, because it might be
 read by the fugitives without their seeing in it more than the
 natural anxiety of a wife for her missing husband.

 It was a long day. Every time that a knock came to the door, or a
 sharp step passed in the street, I imagined that it was either Holmes
 returning or an answer to his advertisement. I tried to read, but my
 thoughts would wander off to our strange quest and to the
 ill-assorted and villainous pair whom we were pursuing. Could there
 be, I wondered, some radical flaw in my companion's reasoning. Might
 he be suffering from some huge self-deception? Was it not possible
 that his nimble and speculative mind had built up this wild theory
 upon faulty premises? I had never known him to be wrong; and yet the
 keenest reasoner may occasionally be deceived. He was likely, I
 thought, to fall into error through the over-refinement of his
 logic,--his preference for a subtle and bizarre explanation when a
 plainer and more commonplace one lay ready to his hand. Yet, on the
 other hand, I had myself seen the evidence, and I had heard the
 reasons for his deductions. When I looked back on the long chain of
 curious circumstances, many of them trivial in themselves, but all
 tending in the same direction, I could not disguise from myself that
 even if Holmes's explanation were incorrect the true theory must be
 equally outrÃ© and startling.

 At three o'clock in the afternoon there was a loud peal at the bell,
 an authoritative voice in the hall, and, to my surprise, no less a
 person than Mr. Athelney Jones was shown up to me. Very different was
 he, however, from the brusque and masterful professor of common sense
 who had taken over the case so confidently at Upper Norwood. His
 expression was downcast, and his bearing meek and even apologetic.

 "Good-day, sir; good-day," said he. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is out, I
 understand."

 "Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be back. But perhaps you
 would care to wait. Take that chair and try one of these cigars."

 "Thank you; I don't mind if I do," said he, mopping his face with a
 red bandanna handkerchief.

 "And a whiskey-and-soda?"

 "Well, half a glass. It is very hot for the time of year; and I have
 had a good deal to worry and try me. You know my theory about this
 Norwood case?"

 "I remember that you expressed one."

 "Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it. I had my net drawn
 tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when pop he went through a hole in the
 middle of it. He was able to prove an alibi which could not be
 shaken. From the time that he left his brother's room he was never
 out of sight of some one or other. So it could not be he who climbed
 over roofs and through trap-doors. It's a very dark case, and my
 professional credit is at stake. I should be very glad of a little
 assistance."

 "We all need help sometimes," said I.

 "Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful man, sir," said he,
 in a husky and confidential voice. "He's a man who is not to be beat.
 I have known that young man go into a good many cases, but I never
 saw the case yet that he could not throw a light upon. He is
 irregular in his methods, and a little quick perhaps in jumping at
 theories, but, on the whole, I think he would have made a most
 promising officer, and I don't care who knows it. I have had a wire
 from him this morning, by which I understand that he has got some
 clue to this Sholto business. Here is the message."

 He took the telegram out of his pocket, and handed it to me. It was
 dated from Poplar at twelve o'clock. "Go to Baker Street at once," it
 said. "If I have not returned, wait for me. I am close on the track
 of the Sholto gang. You can come with us to-night if you want to be
 in at the finish."

 "This sounds well. He has evidently picked up the scent again," said
 I.

 "Ah, then he has been at fault too," exclaimed Jones, with evident
 satisfaction. "Even the best of us are thrown off sometimes. Of
 course this may prove to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an
 officer of the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some one
 at the door. Perhaps this is he."

 A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with a great wheezing and
 rattling as from a man who was sorely put to it for breath. Once or
 twice he stopped, as though the climb were too much for him, but at
 last he made his way to our door and entered. His appearance
 corresponded to the sounds which we had heard. He was an aged man,
 clad in seafaring garb, with an old pea-jacket buttoned up to his
 throat. His back was bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing
 was painfully asthmatic. As he leaned upon a thick oaken cudgel his
 shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the air into his lungs. He had
 a colored scarf round his chin, and I could see little of his face
 save a pair of keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and
 long gray side-whiskers. Altogether he gave me the impression of a
 respectable master mariner who had fallen into years and poverty.

 "What is it, my man?" I asked.

 He looked about him in the slow methodical fashion of old age.

 "Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?" said he.

 "No; but I am acting for him. You can tell me any message you have
 for him."

 "It was to him himself I was to tell it," said he.

 "But I tell you that I am acting for him. Was it about Mordecai
 Smith's boat?"

 "Yes. I knows well where it is. An' I knows where the men he is after
 are. An' I knows where the treasure is. I knows all about it."

 "Then tell me, and I shall let him know."

 "It was to him I was to tell it," he repeated, with the petulant
 obstinacy of a very old man.

 "Well, you must wait for him."

 "No, no; I ain't goin' to lose a whole day to please no one. If Mr.
 Holmes ain't here, then Mr. Holmes must find it all out for himself.
 I don't care about the look of either of you, and I won't tell a
 word."

 He shuffled towards the door, but Athelney Jones got in front of him.

 "Wait a bit, my friend," said he. "You have important information,
 and you must not walk off. We shall keep you, whether you like or
 not, until our friend returns."

 The old man made a little run towards the door, but, as Athelney
 Jones put his broad back up against it, he recognized the uselessness
 of resistance.

 "Pretty sort o' treatment this!" he cried, stamping his stick. "I
 come here to see a gentleman, and you two, who I never saw in my
 life, seize me and treat me in this fashion!"

 "You will be none the worse," I said. "We shall recompense you for
 the loss of your time. Sit over here on the sofa, and you will not
 have long to wait."

 He came across sullenly enough, and seated himself with his face
 resting on his hands. Jones and I resumed our cigars and our talk.
 Suddenly, however, Holmes's voice broke in upon us.

 "I think that you might offer me a cigar too," he said.

 We both started in our chairs. There was Holmes sitting close to us
 with an air of quiet amusement.

 "Holmes!" I exclaimed. "You here! But where is the old man?"

 "Here is the old man," said he, holding out a heap of white hair.
 "Here he is,--wig, whiskers, eyebrows, and all. I thought my disguise
 was pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would stand that
 test."

 "Ah, you rogue!" cried Jones, highly delighted. "You would have made
 an actor, and a rare one. You had the proper workhouse cough, and
 those weak legs of yours are worth ten pound a week. I thought I knew
 the glint of your eye, though. You didn't get away from us so easily,
 you see."

 "I have been working in that get-up all day," said he, lighting his
 cigar. "You see, a good many of the criminal classes begin to know
 me,--especially since our friend here took to publishing some of my
 cases: so I can only go on the war-path under some simple disguise
 like this. You got my wire?"

 "Yes; that was what brought me here."

 "How has your case prospered?"

 "It has all come to nothing. I have had to release two of my
 prisoners, and there is no evidence against the other two."

 "Never mind. We shall give you two others in the place of them. But
 you must put yourself under my orders. You are welcome to all the
 official credit, but you must act on the line that I point out. Is
 that agreed?"

 "Entirely, if you will help me to the men."

 "Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast police-boat--a
 steam launch--to be at the Westminster Stairs at seven o'clock."

 "That is easily managed. There is always one about there; but I can
 step across the road and telephone to make sure."

 "Then I shall want two stanch men, in case of resistance."

 "There will be two or three in the boat. What else?"

 "When we secure the men we shall get the treasure. I think that it
 would be a pleasure to my friend here to take the box round to the
 young lady to whom half of it rightfully belongs. Let her be the
 first to open it.--Eh, Watson?"

 "It would be a great pleasure to me."

 "Rather an irregular proceeding," said Jones, shaking his head.
 "However, the whole thing is irregular, and I suppose we must wink at
 it. The treasure must afterwards be handed over to the authorities
 until after the official investigation."

 "Certainly. That is easily managed. One other point. I should much
 like to have a few details about this matter from the lips of
 Jonathan Small himself. You know I like to work the detail of my
 cases out. There is no objection to my having an unofficial interview
 with him, either here in my rooms or elsewhere, as long as he is
 efficiently guarded?"

 "Well, you are master of the situation. I have had no proof yet of
 the existence of this Jonathan Small. However, if you can catch him I
 don't see how I can refuse you an interview with him."

 "That is understood, then?"

 "Perfectly. Is there anything else?"

 "Only that I insist upon your dining with us. It will be ready in
 half an hour. I have oysters and a brace of grouse, with something a
 little choice in white wines.--Watson, you have never yet recognized
 my merits as a housekeeper."





      CHAPTER X
      The End of the Islander


 Our meal was a merry one. Holmes coud talk exceedingly well when he
 chose, and that night he did choose. He appeared to be in a state of
 nervous exaltation. I have never known him so brilliant. He spoke on
 a quick succession of subjects,--on miracle-plays, on medieval
 pottery, on Stradivarius violins, on the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on
 the war-ships of the future,--handling each as though he had made a
 special study of it. His bright humor marked the reaction from his
 black depression of the preceding days. Athelney Jones proved to be a
 sociable soul in his hours of relaxation, and face his dinner with
 the air of a bon vivant. For myself, I felt elated at the thought
 that we were nearing the end of our task, and I caught something of
 Holmes's gaiety. None of us alluded during dinner to the cause which
 had brought us together.

 When the cloth was cleared, Holmes glanced at this watch, and filled
 up three glasses with port. "One bumper," said he, "to the success of
 our little expedition. And now it is high time we were off. Have you
 a pistol, Watson?"

 "I have my old service-revolver in my desk."

 "You had best take it, then. It is well to be prepared. I see that
 the cab is at the door. I ordered it for half-past six."

 It was a little past seven before we reached the Westminster wharf,
 and found our launch awaiting us. Holmes eyed it critically.

 "Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?"

 "Yes,--that green lamp at the side."

 "Then take it off."

 The small change was made, we stepped on board, and the ropes were
 cast off. Jones, Holmes, and I sat in the stern. There was one man at
 the rudder, one to tend the engines, and two burly police-inspectors
 forward.

 "Where to?" asked Jones.

 "To the Tower. Tell them to stop opposite Jacobson's Yard."

 Our craft was evidently a very fast one. We shot past the long lines
 of loaded barges as though they were stationary. Holmes smiled with
 satisfaction as we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind us.

 "We ought to be able to catch anything on the river," he said.

 "Well, hardly that. But there are not many launches to beat us."

 "We shall have to catch the Aurora, and she has a name for being a
 clipper. I will tell you how the land lies, Watson. You recollect how
 annoyed I was at being balked by so small a thing?"

 "Yes."

 "Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical
 analysis. One of our greatest statesmen has said that a change of
 work is the best rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving
 the hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to our problem of
 the Sholtos, and thought the whole matter out again. My boys had been
 up the river and down the river without result. The launch was not at
 any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned. Yet it could hardly
 have been scuttled to hide their traces,--though that always remained
 as a possible hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small
 had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not think him capable
 of anything in the nature of delicate finesse. That is usually a
 product of higher education. I then reflected that since he had
 certainly been in London some time--as we had evidence that he
 maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge--he could hardly
 leave at a moment's notice, but would need some little time, if it
 were only a day, to arrange his affairs. That was the balance of
 probability, at any rate."

 "It seems to me to be a little weak," said I. "It is more probable
 that he had arranged his affairs before ever he set out upon his
 expedition."

 "No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would be too valuable a
 retreat in case of need for him to give it up until he was sure that
 he could do without it. But a second consideration struck me.
 Jonathan Small must have felt that the peculiar appearance of his
 companion, however much he may have top-coated him, would give rise
 to gossip, and possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy. He
 was quite sharp enough to see that. They had started from their
 head-quarters under cover of darkness, and he would wish to get back
 before it was broad light. Now, it was past three o'clock, according
 to Mrs. Smith, when they got the boat. It would be quite bright, and
 people would be about in an hour or so. Therefore, I argued, they did
 not go very far. They paid Smith well to hold his tongue, reserved
 his launch for the final escape, and hurried to their lodgings with
 the treasure-box. In a couple of nights, when they had time to see
 what view the papers took, and whether there was any suspicion, they
 would make their way under cover of darkness to some ship at
 Gravesend or in the Downs, where no doubt they had already arranged
 for passages to America or the Colonies."

 "But the launch? They could not have taken that to their lodgings."

 "Quite so. I argued that the launch must be no great way off, in
 spite of its invisibility. I then put myself in the place of Small,
 and looked at it as a man of his capacity would. He would probably
 consider that to send back the launch or to keep it at a wharf would
 make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on his track. How,
 then, could he conceal the launch and yet have her at hand when
 wanted? I wondered what I should do myself if I were in his shoes. I
 could only think of one way of doing it. I might land the launch over
 to some boat-builder or repairer, with directions to make a trifling
 change in her. She would then be removed to his shed or hard, and so
 be effectually concealed, while at the same time I could have her at
 a few hours' notice."

 "That seems simple enough."

 "It is just these very simple things which are extremely liable to be
 overlooked. However, I determined to act on the idea. I started at
 once in this harmless seaman's rig and inquired at all the yards down
 the river. I drew blank at fifteen, but at the
 sixteenth--Jacobson's--I learned that the Aurora had been handed over
 to them two days ago by a wooden-legged man, with some trivial
 directions as to her rudder. 'There ain't naught amiss with her
 rudder,' said the foreman. 'There she lies, with the red streaks.' At
 that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing
 owner? He was rather the worse for liquor. I should not, of course,
 have known him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of his
 launch. 'I want her to-night at eight o'clock,' said he,--'eight
 o'clock sharp, mind, for I have two gentlemen who won't be kept
 waiting.' They had evidently paid him well, for he was very flush of
 money, chucking shillings about to the men. I followed him some
 distance, but he subsided into an ale-house: so I went back to the
 yard, and, happening to pick up one of my boys on the way, I
 stationed him as a sentry over the launch. He is to stand at water's
 edge and wave his handkerchief to us when they start. We shall be
 lying off in the stream, and it will be a strange thing if we do not
 take men, treasure, and all."

 "You have planned it all very neatly, whether they are the right men
 or not," said Jones; "but if the affair were in my hands I should
 have had a body of police in Jacobson's Yard, and arrested them when
 they came down."

 "Which would have been never. This man Small is a pretty shrewd
 fellow. He would send a scout on ahead, and if anything made him
 suspicious lie snug for another week."

 "But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and so been led to their
 hiding-place," said I.

 "In that case I should have wasted my day. I think that it is a
 hundred to one against Smith knowing where they live. As long as he
 has liquor and good pay, why should he ask questions? They send him
 messages what to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and
 this is the best."

 While this conversation had been proceeding, we had been shooting the
 long series of bridges which span the Thames. As we passed the City
 the last rays of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit of
 St. Paul's. It was twilight before we reached the Tower.

 "That is Jacobson's Yard," said Holmes, pointing to a bristle of
 masts and rigging on the Surrey side. "Cruise gently up and down here
 under cover of this string of lighters." He took a pair of
 night-glasses from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. "I
 see my sentry at his post," he remarked, "but no sign of a
 handkerchief."

 "Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie in wait for them,"
 said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the
 policemen and stokers, who had a very vague idea of what was going
 forward.

 "We have no right to take anything for granted," Holmes answered. "It
 is certainly ten to one that they go down-stream, but we cannot be
 certain. From this point we can see the entrance of the yard, and
 they can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and plenty of light.
 We must stay where we are. See how the folk swarm over yonder in the
 gaslight."

 "They are coming from work in the yard."

 "Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one has some little
 immortal spark concealed about him. You would not think it, to look
 at them. There is no a priori probability about it. A strange enigma
 is man!"

 "Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal," I suggested.

 "Winwood Reade is good upon the subject," said Holmes. "He remarks
 that, while the individual man is an insoluble puzzle, in the
 aggregate he becomes a mathematical certainty. You can, for example,
 never foretell what any one man will do, but you can say with
 precision what an average number will be up to. Individuals vary, but
 percentages remain constant. So says the statistician. But do I see a
 handkerchief? Surely there is a white flutter over yonder."

 "Yes, it is your boy," I cried. "I can see him plainly."

 "And there is the Aurora," exclaimed Holmes, "and going like the
 devil! Full speed ahead, engineer. Make after that launch with the
 yellow light. By heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she proves
 to have the heels of us!"

 She had slipped unseen through the yard-entrance and passed behind
 two or three small craft, so that she had fairly got her speed up
 before we saw her. Now she was flying down the stream, near in to the
 shore, going at a tremendous rate. Jones looked gravely at her and
 shook his head.

 "She is very fast," he said. "I doubt if we shall catch her."

 "We must catch her!" cried Holmes, between his teeth. "Heap it on,
 stokers! Make her do all she can! If we burn the boat we must have
 them!"

 We were fairly after her now. The furnaces roared, and the powerful
 engines whizzed and clanked, like a great metallic heart. Her sharp,
 steep prow cut through the river-water and sent two rolling waves to
 right and to left of us. With every throb of the engines we sprang
 and quivered like a living thing. One great yellow lantern in our
 bows threw a long, flickering funnel of light in front of us. Right
 ahead a dark blur upon the water showed where the Aurora lay, and the
 swirl of white foam behind her spoke of the pace at which she was
 going. We flashed past barges, steamers, merchant-vessels, in and
 out, behind this one and round the other. Voices hailed us out of the
 darkness, but still the Aurora thundered on, and still we followed
 close upon her track.

 "Pile it on, men, pile it on!" cried Holmes, looking down into the
 engine-room, while the fierce glow from below beat upon his eager,
 aquiline face. "Get every pound of steam you can."

 "I think we gain a little," said Jones, with his eyes on the Aurora.

 "I am sure of it," said I. "We shall be up with her in a very few
 minutes."

 At that moment, however, as our evil fate would have it, a tug with
 three barges in tow blundered in between us. It was only by putting
 our helm hard down that we avoided a collision, and before we could
 round them and recover our way the Aurora had gained a good two
 hundred yards. She was still, however, well in view, and the murky
 uncertain twilight was setting into a clear starlit night. Our
 boilers were strained to their utmost, and the frail shell vibrated
 and creaked with the fierce energy which was driving us along. We had
 shot through the Pool, past the West India Docks, down the long
 Deptford Reach, and up again after rounding the Isle of Dogs. The
 dull blur in front of us resolved itself now clearly enough into the
 dainty Aurora. Jones turned our search-light upon her, so that we
 could plainly see the figures upon her deck. One man sat by the
 stern, with something black between his knees over which he stooped.
 Beside him lay a dark mass which looked like a Newfoundland dog. The
 boy held the tiller, while against the red glare of the furnace I
 could see old Smith, stripped to the waist, and shovelling coals for
 dear life. They may have had some doubt at first as to whether we
 were really pursuing them, but now as we followed every winding and
 turning which they took there could no longer be any question about
 it. At Greenwich we were about three hundred paces behind them. At
 Blackwall we could not have been more than two hundred and fifty. I
 have coursed many creatures in many countries during my checkered
 career, but never did sport give me such a wild thrill as this mad,
 flying man-hunt down the Thames. Steadily we drew in upon them, yard
 by yard. In the silence of the night we could hear the panting and
 clanking of their machinery. The man in the stern still crouched upon
 the deck, and his arms were moving as though he were busy, while
 every now and then he would look up and measure with a glance the
 distance which still separated us. Nearer we came and nearer. Jones
 yelled to them to stop. We were not more than four boat's lengths
 behind them, both boats flying at a tremendous pace. It was a clear
 reach of the river, with Barking Level upon one side and the
 melancholy Plumstead Marshes upon the other. At our hail the man in
 the stern sprang up from the deck and shook his two clinched fists at
 us, cursing the while in a high, cracked voice. He was a good-sized,
 powerful man, and as he stood poising himself with legs astride I
 could see that from the thigh downwards there was but a wooden stump
 upon the right side. At the sound of his strident, angry cries there
 was movement in the huddled bundle upon the deck. It straightened
 itself into a little black man--the smallest I have ever seen--with a
 great, misshapen head and a shock of tangled, dishevelled hair.
 Holmes had already drawn his revolver, and I whipped out mine at the
 sight of this savage, distorted creature. He was wrapped in some sort
 of dark ulster or blanket, which left only his face exposed; but that
 face was enough to give a man a sleepless night. Never have I seen
 features so deeply marked with all bestiality and cruelty. His small
 eyes glowed and burned with a sombre light, and his thick lips were
 writhed back from his teeth, which grinned and chattered at us with a
 half animal fury.

 "Fire if he raises his hand," said Holmes, quietly. We were within a
 boat's-length by this time, and almost within touch of our quarry. I
 can see the two of them now as they stood, the white man with his
 legs far apart, shrieking out curses, and the unhallowed dwarf with
 his hideous face, and his strong yellow teeth gnashing at us in the
 light of our lantern.

 It was well that we had so clear a view of him. Even as we looked he
 plucked out from under his covering a short, round piece of wood,
 like a school-ruler, and clapped it to his lips. Our pistols rang out
 together. He whirled round, threw up his arms, and with a kind of
 choking cough fell sideways into the stream. I caught one glimpse of
 his venomous, menacing eyes amid the white swirl of the waters. At
 the same moment the wooden-legged man threw himself upon the rudder
 and put it hard down, so that his boat made straight in for the
 southern bank, while we shot past her stern, only clearing her by a
 few feet. We were round after her in an instant, but she was already
 nearly at the bank. It was a wild and desolate place, where the moon
 glimmered upon a wide expanse of marsh-land, with pools of stagnant
 water and beds of decaying vegetation. The launch with a dull thud
 ran up upon the mud-bank, with her bow in the air and her stern flush
 with the water. The fugitive sprang out, but his stump instantly sank
 its whole length into the sodden soil. In vain he struggled and
 writhed. Not one step could he possibly take either forwards or
 backwards. He yelled in impotent rage, and kicked frantically into
 the mud with his other foot, but his struggles only bored his wooden
 pin the deeper into the sticky bank. When we brought our launch
 alongside he was so firmly anchored that it was only by throwing the
 end of a rope over his shoulders that we were able to haul him out,
 and to drag him, like some evil fish, over our side. The two Smiths,
 father and son, sat sullenly in their launch, but came aboard meekly
 enough when commanded. The Aurora herself we hauled off and made fast
 to our stern. A solid iron chest of Indian workmanship stood upon the
 deck. This, there could be no question, was the same that had
 contained the ill-omened treasure of the Sholtos. There was no key,
 but it was of considerable weight, so we transferred it carefully to
 our own little cabin. As we steamed slowly up-stream again, we
 flashed our search-light in every direction, but there was no sign of
 the Islander. Somewhere in the dark ooze at the bottom of the Thames
 lie the bones of that strange visitor to our shores.

 "See here," said Holmes, pointing to the wooden hatchway. "We were
 hardly quick enough with our pistols." There, sure enough, just
 behind where we had been standing, stuck one of those murderous darts
 which we knew so well. It must have whizzed between us at the instant
 that we fired. Holmes smiled at it and shrugged his shoulders in his
 easy fashion, but I confess that it turned me sick to think of the
 horrible death which had passed so close to us that night.





      CHAPTER XI
      The Great Agra Treasure


 Our captive sat in the cabin opposite to the iron box which he had
 done so much and waited so long to gain. He was a sunburned,
 reckless-eyed fellow, with a net-work of lines and wrinkles all over
 his mahogany features, which told of a hard, open-air life. There was
 a singular prominence about his bearded chin which marked a man who
 was not to be easily turned from his purpose. His age may have been
 fifty or thereabouts, for his black, curly hair was thickly shot with
 gray. His face in repose was not an unpleasing one, though his heavy
 brows and aggressive chin gave him, as I had lately seen, a terrible
 expression when moved to anger. He sat now with his handcuffed hands
 upon his lap, and his head sunk upon his breast, while he looked with
 his keen, twinkling eyes at the box which had been the cause of his
 ill-doings. It seemed to me that there was more sorrow than anger in
 his rigid and contained countenance. Once he looked up at me with a
 gleam of something like humour in his eyes.

 "Well, Jonathan Small," said Holmes, lighting a cigar, "I am sorry
 that it has come to this."

 "And so am I, sir," he answered, frankly. "I don't believe that I can
 swing over the job. I give you my word on the book that I never
 raised hand against Mr. Sholto. It was that little hell-hound Tonga
 who shot one of his cursed darts into him. I had no part in it, sir.
 I was as grieved as if it had been my blood-relation. I welted the
 little devil with the slack end of the rope for it, but it was done,
 and I could not undo it again."

 "Have a cigar," said Holmes; "and you had best take a pull out of my
 flask, for you are very wet. How could you expect so small and weak a
 man as this black fellow to overpower Mr. Sholto and hold him while
 you were climbing the rope?"

 "You seem to know as much about it as if you were there, sir. The
 truth is that I hoped to find the room clear. I knew the habits of
 the house pretty well, and it was the time when Mr. Sholto usually
 went down to his supper. I shall make no secret of the business. The
 best defence that I can make is just the simple truth. Now, if it had
 been the old major I would have swung for him with a light heart. I
 would have thought no more of knifing him than of smoking this cigar.
 But it's cursed hard that I should be lagged over this young Sholto,
 with whom I had no quarrel whatever."

 "You are under the charge of Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard. He
 is going to bring you up to my rooms, and I shall ask you for a true
 account of the matter. You must make a clean breast of it, for if you
 do I hope that I may be of use to you.  I think I can prove that the
 poison acts so quickly that the man was dead before ever you reached
 the room."

 "That he was, sir. I never got such a turn in my life as when I saw
 him grinning at me with his head on his shoulder as I climbed through
 the window. It fairly shook me, sir. I'd have half killed Tonga for
 it if he had not scrambled off. That was how he came to leave his
 club, and some of his darts too, as he tells me, which I dare say
 helped to put you on our track; though how you kept on it is more
 than I can tell. I don't feel no malice against you for it. But it
 does seem a queer thing," he added, with a bitter smile, "that I who
 have a fair claim to nigh upon half a million of money should spend
 the first half of my life building a breakwater in the Andamans, and
 am like to spend the other half digging drains at Dartmoor. It was an
 evil day for me when first I clapped eyes upon the merchant Achmet
 and had to do with the Agra treasure, which never brought anything
 but a curse yet upon the man who owned it. To him it brought murder,
 to Major Sholto it brought fear and guilt, to me it has meant slavery
 for life."

 At this moment Athelney Jones thrust his broad face and heavy
 shoulders into the tiny cabin. "Quite a family party," he remarked.
 "I think I shall have a pull at that flask, Holmes.  Well, I think we
 may all congratulate each other. Pity we didn't take the other alive;
 but there was no choice. I say, Holmes, you must confess that you cut
 it rather fine. It was all we could do to overhaul her."

 "All is well that ends well," said Holmes. "But I certainly did not
 know that the Aurora was such a clipper."

 "Smith says she is one of the fastest launches on the river, and that
 if he had had another man to help him with the engines we should
 never have caught her. He swears he knew nothing of this Norwood
 business."

 "Neither he did," cried our prisoner,--"not a word. I chose his
 launch because I heard that she was a flier. We told him nothing, but
 we paid him well, and he was to get something handsome if we reached
 our vessel, the Esmeralda, at Gravesend, outward bound for the
 Brazils."

 "Well, if he has done no wrong we shall see that no wrong comes to
 him. If we are pretty quick in catching our men, we are not so quick
 in condemning them." It was amusing to notice how the consequential
 Jones was already beginning to give himself airs on the strength of
 the capture. From the slight smile which played over Sherlock
 Holmes's face, I could see that the speech had not been lost upon
 him.

 "We will be at Vauxhall Bridge presently," said Jones, "and shall
 land you, Dr. Watson, with the treasure-box. I need hardly tell you
 that I am taking a very grave responsibility upon myself in doing
 this. It is most irregular; but of course an agreement is an
 agreement. I must, however, as a matter of duty, send an inspector
 with you, since you have so valuable a charge. You will drive, no
 doubt?"

 "Yes, I shall drive."

 "It is a pity there is no key, that we may make an inventory first.
 You will have to break it open. Where is the key, my man?"

 "At the bottom of the river," said Small, shortly.

 "Hum! There was no use your giving this unnecessary trouble. We have
 had work enough already through you. However, doctor, I need not warn
 you to be careful. Bring the box back with you to the Baker Street
 rooms. You will find us there, on our way to the station."

 They landed me at Vauxhall, with my heavy iron box, and with a bluff,
 genial inspector as my companion. A quarter of an hour's drive
 brought us to Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The servant seemed surprised at
 so late a visitor. Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for the evening, she
 explained, and likely to be very late. Miss Morstan, however, was in
 the drawing-room: so to the drawing-room I went, box in hand, leaving
 the obliging inspector in the cab.

 She was seated by the open window, dressed in some sort of white
 diaphanous material, with a little touch of scarlet at the neck and
 waist. The soft light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she leaned
 back in the basket chair, playing over her sweet, grave face, and
 tinting with a dull, metallic sparkle the rich coils of her luxuriant
 hair. One white arm and hand drooped over the side of the chair, and
 her whole pose and figure spoke of an absorbing melancholy. At the
 sound of my foot-fall she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright
 flush of surprise and of pleasure colored her pale cheeks.

 "I heard a cab drive up," she said. "I thought that Mrs. Forrester
 had come back very early, but I never dreamed that it might be you.
 What news have you brought me?"

 "I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down the
 box upon the table and speaking jovially and boisterously, though my
 heart was heavy within me. "I have brought you something which is
 worth all the news in the world. I have brought you a fortune."

 She glanced at iron box. "Is that the treasure, then?" she asked,
 coolly enough.

 "Yes, this is the great Agra treasure. Half of it is yours and half
 is Thaddeus Sholto's. You will have a couple of hundred thousand
 each. Think of that! An annuity of ten thousand pounds. There will be
 few richer young ladies in England. Is it not glorious?"

 I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and that
 she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her
 eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously.

 "If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you."

 "No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes.
 With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue
 which has taxed even his analytical genius.  As it was, we very
 nearly lost it at the last moment."

 "Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson," said she.

 I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her
 last,--Holmes's new method of search, the discovery of the Aurora,
 the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and
 the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and
 shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the
 dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I
 feared that she was about to faint.

 "It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water.
 "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed
 my friends in such horrible peril."

 "That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no
 more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the
 treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it
 with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see
 it."

 "It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no
 eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that
 it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize
 which had cost so much to win.

 "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian
 work, I suppose?"

 "Yes; it is Benares metal-work."

 "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone
 must be of some value. Where is the key?"

 "Small threw it into the Thames," I answered. "I must borrow Mrs.
 Forrester's poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp,
 wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end
 of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open
 with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We
 both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty!

 No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch
 thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest
 constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or
 crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and
 completely empty.

 "The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly.

 As I listened to the words and realized what they meant, a great
 shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra
 treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed.
 It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realize
 nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank
 God!" I ejaculated from my very heart.

 She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say
 that?" she asked.

 "Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She
 did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a
 man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my
 lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is
 why I said, 'Thank God.'"

 "Then I say, 'Thank God,' too," she whispered, as I drew her to my
 side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had
 gained one.





      CHAPTER XII
      The Strange Story of Jonathan Small


 A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary
 time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him
 the empty box.

 "There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money
 there is no pay. This night's work would have been worth a tenner
 each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there."

 "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. "He will see that you
 are rewarded, treasure or no."

 The inspector shook his head despondently, however. "It's a bad job,"
 he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think."

 His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank
 enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. They
 had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had
 changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon
 the way. My companion lounged in his arm-chair with his usual
 listless expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with
 his wooden leg cocked over his sound one. As I exhibited the empty
 box he leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud.

 "This is your doing, Small," said Athelney Jones, angrily.

 "Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand upon it," he
 cried, exultantly. "It is my treasure; and if I can't have the loot
 I'll take darned good care that no one else does. I tell you that no
 living man has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in the
 Andaman convict-barracks and myself. I know now that I cannot have
 the use of it, and I know that they cannot. I have acted all through
 for them as much as for myself. It's been the sign of four with us
 always. Well I know that they would have had me do just what I have
 done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to
 kith or kin of Sholto or of Morstan. It was not to make them rich
 that we did for Achmet. You'll find the treasure where the key is,
 and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us,
 I put the loot away in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this
 journey."

 "You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly. "If you
 had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would have been
 easier for you to have thrown box and all."

 "Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover," he answered,
 with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt
 me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a
 river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a
 harder job. It went to my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when
 you came up with us. However, there's no good grieving over it. I've
 had ups in my life, and I've had downs, but I've learned not to cry
 over spilled milk."

 "This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective. "If you
 had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would
 have had a better chance at your trial."

 "Justice!" snarled the ex-convict. "A pretty justice! Whose loot is
 this, if it is not ours? Where is the justice that I should give it
 up to those who have never earned it? Look how I have earned it!
 Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under
 the mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict-huts,
 bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed
 black-faced policeman who loved to take it out of a white man. That
 was how I earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice
 because I cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only that
 another may enjoy it! I would rather swing a score of times, or have
 one of Tonga's darts in my hide, than live in a convict's cell and
 feel that another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that
 should be mine." Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this
 came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the
 handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned movement of his
 hands. I could understand, as I saw the fury and the passion of the
 man, that it was no groundless or unnatural terror which had
 possessed Major Sholto when he first learned that the injured convict
 was upon his track.

 "You forget that we know nothing of all this," said Holmes quietly.
 "We have not heard your story, and we cannot tell how far justice may
 originally have been on your side."

 "Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me, though I can see
 that I have you to thank that I have these bracelets upon my wrists.
 Still, I bear no grudge for that. It is all fair and above-board. If
 you want to hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What I say
 to you is God's truth, every word of it. Thank you; you can put the
 glass beside me here, and I'll put my lips to it if I am dry.

 "I am a Worcestershire man myself,--born near Pershore. I dare say
 you would find a heap of Smalls living there now if you were to look.
 I have often thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is
 that I was never much of a credit to the family, and I doubt if they
 would be so very glad to see me. They were all steady, chapel-going
 folk, small farmers, well known and respected over the country-side,
 while I was always a bit of a rover. At last, however, when I was
 about eighteen, I gave them no more trouble, for I got into a mess
 over a girl, and could only get out of it again by taking the queen's
 shilling and joining the 3d Buffs, which was just starting for India.

 "I wasn't destined to do much soldiering, however. I had just got
 past the goose-step, and learned to handle my musket, when I was fool
 enough to go swimming in the Ganges. Luckily for me, my company
 sergeant, John Holder, was in the water at the same time, and he was
 one of the finest swimmers in the service. A crocodile took me, just
 as I was half-way across, and nipped off my right leg as clean as a
 surgeon could have done it, just above the knee. What with the shock
 and the loss of blood, I fainted, and should have drowned if Holder
 had not caught hold of me and paddled for the bank. I was five months
 in hospital over it, and when at last I was able to limp out of it
 with this timber toe strapped to my stump I found myself invalided
 out of the army and unfitted for any active occupation.

 "I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my luck at this time, for
 I was a useless cripple though not yet in my twentieth year. However,
 my misfortune soon proved to be a blessing in disguise. A man named
 Abelwhite, who had come out there as an indigo-planter, wanted an
 overseer to look after his coolies and keep them up to their work. He
 happened to be a friend of our colonel's, who had taken an interest
 in me since the accident. To make a long story short, the colonel
 recommended me strongly for the post and, as the work was mostly to
 be done on horseback, my leg was no great obstacle, for I had enough
 knee left to keep good grip on the saddle. What I had to do was to
 ride over the plantation, to keep an eye on the men as they worked,
 and to report the idlers. The pay was fair, I had comfortable
 quarters, and altogether I was content to spend the remainder of my
 life in indigo-planting. Mr. Abelwhite was a kind man, and he would
 often drop into my little shanty and smoke a pipe with me, for white
 folk out there feel their hearts warm to each other as they never do
 here at home.

 "Well, I was never in luck's way long. Suddenly, without a note of
 warning, the great mutiny broke upon us. One month India lay as still
 and peaceful, to all appearance, as Surrey or Kent; the next there
 were two hundred thousand black devils let loose, and the country was
 a perfect hell. Of course you know all about it, gentlemen,--a deal
 more than I do, very like, since reading is not in my line. I only
 know what I saw with my own eyes. Our plantation was at a place
 called Muttra, near the border of the Northwest Provinces. Night
 after night the whole sky was alight with the burning bungalows, and
 day after day we had small companies of Europeans passing through our
 estate with their wives and children, on their way to Agra, where
 were the nearest troops. Mr. Abelwhite was an obstinate man. He had
 it in his head that the affair had been exaggerated, and that it
 would blow over as suddenly as it had sprung up. There he sat on his
 veranda, drinking whiskey-pegs and smoking cheroots, while the
 country was in a blaze about him. Of course we stuck by him, I and
 Dawson, who, with his wife, used to do the book-work and the
 managing. Well, one fine day the crash came. I had been away on a
 distant plantation, and was riding slowly home in the evening, when
 my eye fell upon something all huddled together at the bottom of a
 steep nullah. I rode down to see what it was, and the cold struck
 through my heart when I found it was Dawson's wife, all cut into
 ribbons, and half eaten by jackals and native dogs. A little further
 up the road Dawson himself was lying on his face, quite dead, with an
 empty revolver in his hand and four Sepoys lying across each other in
 front of him. I reined up my horse, wondering which way I should
 turn, but at that moment I saw thick smoke curling up from
 Abelwhite's bungalow and the flames beginning to burst through the
 roof. I knew then that I could do my employer no good, but would only
 throw my own life away if I meddled in the matter. From where I stood
 I could see hundreds of the black fiends, with their red coats still
 on their backs, dancing and howling round the burning house. Some of
 them pointed at me, and a couple of bullets sang past my head; so I
 broke away across the paddy-fields, and found myself late at night
 safe within the walls at Agra.

 "As it proved, however, there was no great safety there, either. The
 whole country was up like a swarm of bees. Wherever the English could
 collect in little bands they held just the ground that their guns
 commanded. Everywhere else they were helpless fugitives. It was a
 fight of the millions against the hundreds; and the cruellest part of
 it was that these men that we fought against, foot, horse, and
 gunners, were our own picked troops, whom we had taught and trained,
 handling our own weapons, and blowing our own bugle-calls. At Agra
 there were the 3d Bengal Fusiliers, some Sikhs, two troops of horse,
 and a battery of artillery. A volunteer corps of clerks and merchants
 had been formed, and this I joined, wooden leg and all. We went out
 to meet the rebels at Shahgunge early in July, and we beat them back
 for a time, but our powder gave out, and we had to fall back upon the
 city. Nothing but the worst news came to us from every side,--which
 is not to be wondered at, for if you look at the map you will see
 that we were right in the heart of it. Lucknow is rather better than
 a hundred miles to the east, and Cawnpore about as far to the south.
 From every point on the compass there was nothing but torture and
 murder and outrage.

 "The city of Agra is a great place, swarming with fanatics and fierce
 devil-worshippers of all sorts. Our handful of men were lost among
 the narrow, winding streets. Our leader moved across the river,
 therefore, and took up his position in the old fort at Agra. I don't
 know if any of you gentlemen have ever read or heard anything of that
 old fort. It is a very queer place,--the queerest that ever I was in,
 and I have been in some rum corners, too. First of all, it is
 enormous in size. I should think that the enclosure must be acres and
 acres. There is a modern part, which took all our garrison, women,
 children, stores, and everything else, with plenty of room over. But
 the modern part is nothing like the size of the old quarter, where
 nobody goes, and which is given over to the scorpions and the
 centipedes. It is all full of great deserted halls, and winding
 passages, and long corridors twisting in and out, so that it is easy
 enough for folk to get lost in it. For this reason it was seldom that
 any one went into it, though now and again a party with torches might
 go exploring.

 "The river washes along the front of the old fort, and so protects
 it, but on the sides and behind there are many doors, and these had
 to be guarded, of course, in the old quarter as well as in that which
 was actually held by our troops. We were short-handed, with hardly
 men enough to man the angles of the building and to serve the guns.
 It was impossible for us, therefore, to station a strong guard at
 every one of the innumerable gates. What we did was to organize a
 central guard-house in the middle of the fort, and to leave each gate
 under the charge of one white man and two or three natives. I was
 selected to take charge during certain hours of the night of a small
 isolated door upon the southwest side of the building. Two Sikh
 troopers were placed under my command, and I was instructed if
 anything went wrong to fire my musket, when I might rely upon help
 coming at once from the central guard. As the guard was a good two
 hundred paces away, however, and as the space between was cut up into
 a labyrinth of passages and corridors, I had great doubts as to
 whether they could arrive in time to be of any use in case of an
 actual attack.

 "Well, I was pretty proud at having this small command given me,
 since I was a raw recruit, and a game-legged one at that. For two
 nights I kept the watch with my Punjaubees. They were tall,
 fierce-looking chaps, Mahomet Singh and Abdullah Khan by name, both
 old fighting-men who had borne arms against us at Chilian-wallah.
 They could talk English pretty well, but I could get little out of
 them. They preferred to stand together and jabber all night in their
 queer Sikh lingo. For myself, I used to stand outside the gate-way,
 looking down on the broad, winding river and on the twinkling lights
 of the great city. The beating of drums, the rattle of tomtoms, and
 the yells and howls of the rebels, drunk with opium and with bang,
 were enough to remind us all night of our dangerous neighbors across
 the stream. Every two hours the officer of the night used to come
 round to all the posts, to make sure that all was well.

 "The third night of my watch was dark and dirty, with a small,
 driving rain. It was dreary work standing in the gate-way hour after
 hour in such weather. I tried again and again to make my Sikhs talk,
 but without much success. At two in the morning the rounds passed,
 and broke for a moment the weariness of the night. Finding that my
 companions would not be led into conversation, I took out my pipe,
 and laid down my musket to strike the match. In an instant the two
 Sikhs were upon me. One of them snatched my firelock up and levelled
 it at my head, while the other held a great knife to my throat and
 swore between his teeth that he would plunge it into me if I moved a
 step.

 "My first thought was that these fellows were in league with the
 rebels, and that this was the beginning of an assault. If our door
 were in the hands of the Sepoys the place must fall, and the women
 and children be treated as they were in Cawnpore. Maybe you gentlemen
 think that I am just making out a case for myself, but I give you my
 word that when I thought of that, though I felt the point of the
 knife at my throat, I opened my mouth with the intention of giving a
 scream, if it was my last one, which might alarm the main guard. The
 man who held me seemed to know my thoughts; for, even as I braced
 myself to it, he whispered, 'Don't make a noise. The fort is safe
 enough. There are no rebel dogs on this side of the river.' There was
 the ring of truth in what he said, and I knew that if I raised my
 voice I was a dead man. I could read it in the fellow's brown eyes. I
 waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it was that they wanted
 from me.

 "'Listen to me, Sahib,' said the taller and fiercer of the pair, the
 one whom they called Abdullah Khan. 'You must either be with us now
 or you must be silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for us
 to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us on your oath on
 the cross of the Christians, or your body this night shall be thrown
 into the ditch and we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel
 army. There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or life? We
 can only give you three minutes to decide, for the time is passing,
 and all must be done before the rounds come again.'

 "'How can I decide?' said I. 'You have not told me what you want of
 me. But I tell you now that if it is anything against the safety of
 the fort I will have no truck with it, so you can drive home your
 knife and welcome.'

 "'It is nothing against the fort,' said he. 'We only ask you to do
 that which your countrymen come to this land for. We ask you to be
 rich. If you will be one of us this night, we will swear to you upon
 the naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no Sikh was ever
 known to break, that you shall have your fair share of the loot. A
 quarter of the treasure shall be yours. We can say no fairer.'

 "'But what is the treasure, then?' I asked. 'I am as ready to be rich
 as you can be, if you will but show me how it can be done.'

 "'You will swear, then,' said he, 'by the bones of your father, by
 the honor of your mother, by the cross of your faith, to raise no
 hand and speak no word against us, either now or afterwards?'

 "'I will swear it,' I answered, 'provided that the fort is not
 endangered.'

 "'Then my comrade and I will swear that you shall have a quarter of
 the treasure which shall be equally divided among the four of us.'

 "'There are but three,' said I.

 "'No; Dost Akbar must have his share. We can tell the tale to you
 while we await them. Do you stand at the gate, Mahomet Singh, and
 give notice of their coming. The thing stands thus, Sahib, and I tell
 it to you because I know that an oath is binding upon a Feringhee,
 and that we may trust you. Had you been a lying Hindoo, though you
 had sworn by all the gods in their false temples, your blood would
 have been upon the knife, and your body in the water. But the Sikh
 knows the Englishman, and the Englishman knows the Sikh. Hearken,
 then, to what I have to say.

 "'There is a rajah in the northern provinces who has much wealth,
 though his lands are small. Much has come to him from his father, and
 more still he has set by himself, for he is of a low nature and
 hoards his gold rather than spend it. When the troubles broke out he
 would be friends both with the lion and the tiger,--with the Sepoy
 and with the Company's raj. Soon, however, it seemed to him that the
 white men's day was come, for through all the land he could hear of
 nothing but of their death and their overthrow. Yet, being a careful
 man, he made such plans that, come what might, half at least of his
 treasure should be left to him. That which was in gold and silver he
 kept by him in the vaults of his palace, but the most precious stones
 and the choicest pearls that he had he put in an iron box, and sent
 it by a trusty servant who, under the guise of a merchant, should
 take it to the fort at Agra, there to lie until the land is at peace.
 Thus, if the rebels won he would have his money, but if the Company
 conquered his jewels would be saved to him. Having thus divided his
 hoard, he threw himself into the cause of the Sepoys, since they were
 strong upon his borders. By doing this, mark you, Sahib, his property
 becomes the due of those who have been true to their salt.

 "'This pretended merchant, who travels under the name of Achmet, is
 now in the city of Agra, and desires to gain his way into the fort.
 He has with him as travelling-companion my foster-brother Dost Akbar,
 who knows his secret. Dost Akbar has promised this night to lead him
 to a side-postern of the fort, and has chosen this one for his
 purpose. Here he will come presently, and here he will find Mahomet
 Singh and myself awaiting him. The place is lonely, and none shall
 know of his coming. The world shall know of the merchant Achmet no
 more, but the great treasure of the rajah shall be divided among us.
 What say you to it, Sahib?'

 "In Worcestershire the life of a man seems a great and a sacred
 thing; but it is very different when there is fire and blood all
 round you and you have been used to meeting death at every turn.
 Whether Achmet the merchant lived or died was a thing as light as air
 to me, but at the talk about the treasure my heart turned to it, and
 I thought of what I might do in the old country with it, and how my
 folk would stare when they saw their ne'er-do-well coming back with
 his pockets full of gold moidores. I had, therefore, already made up
 my mind. Abdullah Khan, however, thinking that I hesitated, pressed
 the matter more closely.

 "'Consider, Sahib,' said he, 'that if this man is taken by the
 commandant he will be hung or shot, and his jewels taken by the
 government, so that no man will be a rupee the better for them. Now,
 since we do the taking of him, why should we not do the rest as well?
 The jewels will be as well with us as in the Company's coffers. There
 will be enough to make every one of us rich men and great chiefs. No
 one can know about the matter, for here we are cut off from all men.
 What could be better for the purpose?  Say again, then, Sahib,
 whether you are with us, or if we must look upon you as an enemy.'

 "'I am with you heart and soul,' said I.

 "'It is well,' he answered, handing me back my firelock. 'You see
 that we trust you, for your word, like ours, is not to be broken. We
 have now only to wait for my brother and the merchant.'

 "'Does your brother know, then, of what you will do?' I asked.

 "'The plan is his. He has devised it. We will go to the gate and
 share the watch with Mahomet Singh.'

 "The rain was still falling steadily, for it was just the beginning
 of the wet season. Brown, heavy clouds were drifting across the sky,
 and it was hard to see more than a stone-cast. A deep moat lay in
 front of our door, but the water was in places nearly dried up, and
 it could easily be crossed. It was strange to me to be standing there
 with those two wild Punjaubees waiting for the man who was coming to
 his death.

 "Suddenly my eye caught the glint of a shaded lantern at the other
 side of the moat. It vanished among the mound-heaps, and then
 appeared again coming slowly in our direction.

 "'Here they are!' I exclaimed.

 "'You will challenge him, Sahib, as usual,' whispered Abdullah. 'Give
 him no cause for fear. Send us in with him, and we shall do the rest
 while you stay here on guard. Have the lantern ready to uncover, that
 we may be sure that it is indeed the man.'

 "The light had flickered onwards, now stopping and now advancing,
 until I could see two dark figures upon the other side of the moat. I
 let them scramble down the sloping bank, splash through the mire, and
 climb half-way up to the gate, before I challenged them.

 "'Who goes there?' said I, in a subdued voice.

 "'Friends,' came the answer. I uncovered my lantern and threw a flood
 of light upon them. The first was an enormous Sikh, with a black
 beard which swept nearly down to his cummerbund. Outside of a show I
 have never seen so tall a man. The other was a little, fat, round
 fellow, with a great yellow turban, and a bundle in his hand, done up
 in a shawl. He seemed to be all in a quiver with fear, for his hands
 twitched as if he had the ague, and his head kept turning to left and
 right with two bright little twinkling eyes, like a mouse when he
 ventures out from his hole. It gave me the chills to think of killing
 him, but I thought of the treasure, and my heart set as hard as a
 flint within me. When he saw my white face he gave a little chirrup
 of joy and came running up towards me.

 "'Your protection, Sahib,' he panted,--'your protection for the
 unhappy merchant Achmet. I have travelled across Rajpootana that I
 might seek the shelter of the fort at Agra. I have been robbed and
 beaten and abused because I have been the friend of the Company. It
 is a blessed night this when I am once more in safety,--I and my poor
 possessions.'

 "'What have you in the bundle?' I asked.

 "'An iron box,' he answered, 'which contains one or two little family
 matters which are of no value to others, but which I should be sorry
 to lose. Yet I am not a beggar; and I shall reward you, young Sahib,
 and your governor also, if he will give me the shelter I ask.'

 "I could not trust myself to speak longer with the man. The more I
 looked at his fat, frightened face, the harder did it seem that we
 should slay him in cold blood. It was best to get it over.

 "'Take him to the main guard,' said I. The two Sikhs closed in upon
 him on each side, and the giant walked behind, while they marched in
 through the dark gate-way. Never was a man so compassed round with
 death. I remained at the gate-way with the lantern.

 "I could hear the measured tramp of their footsteps sounding through
 the lonely corridors. Suddenly it ceased, and I heard voices, and a
 scuffle, with the sound of blows. A moment later there came, to my
 horror, a rush of footsteps coming in my direction, with the loud
 breathing of a running man. I turned my lantern down the long,
 straight passage, and there was the fat man, running like the wind,
 with a smear of blood across his face, and close at his heels,
 bounding like a tiger, the great black-bearded Sikh, with a knife
 flashing in his hand. I have never seen a man run so fast as that
 little merchant. He was gaining on the Sikh, and I could see that if
 he once passed me and got to the open air he would save himself yet.
 My heart softened to him, but again the thought of his treasure
 turned me hard and bitter. I cast my firelock between his legs as he
 raced past, and he rolled twice over like a shot rabbit. Ere he could
 stagger to his feet the Sikh was upon him, and buried his knife twice
 in his side. The man never uttered moan nor moved muscle, but lay
 were he had fallen. I think myself that he may have broken his neck
 with the fall. You see, gentlemen, that I am keeping my promise. I am
 telling you every work of the business just exactly as it happened,
 whether it is in my favor or not."

 He stopped, and held out his manacled hands for the whiskey-and-water
 which Holmes had brewed for him. For myself, I confess that I had now
 conceived the utmost horror of the man, not only for this
 cold-blooded business in which he had been concerned, but even more
 for the somewhat flippant and careless way in which he narrated it.
 Whatever punishment was in store for him, I felt that he might expect
 no sympathy from me. Sherlock Holmes and Jones sat with their hands
 upon their knees, deeply interested in the story, but with the same
 disgust written upon their faces.  He may have observed it, for there
 was a touch of defiance in his voice and manner as he proceeded.

 "It was all very bad, no doubt," said he. "I should like to know how
 many fellows in my shoes would have refused a share of this loot when
 they knew that they would have their throats cut for their pains.
 Besides, it was my life or his when once he was in the fort. If he
 had got out, the whole business would come to light, and I should
 have been court-martialled and shot as likely as not; for people were
 not very lenient at a time like that."

 "Go on with your story," said Holmes, shortly.

 "Well, we carried him in, Abdullah, Akbar, and I. A fine weight he
 was, too, for all that he was so short. Mahomet Singh was left to
 guard the door. We took him to a place which the Sikhs had already
 prepared. It was some distance off, where a winding passage leads to
 a great empty hall, the brick walls of which were all crumbling to
 pieces. The earth floor had sunk in at one place, making a natural
 grave, so we left Achmet the merchant there, having first covered him
 over with loose bricks. This done, we all went back to the treasure.

 "It lay where he had dropped it when he was first attacked. The box
 was the same which now lies open upon your table. A key was hung by a
 silken cord to that carved handle upon the top. We opened it, and the
 light of the lantern gleamed upon a collection of gems such as I have
 read of and thought about when I was a little lad at Pershore. It was
 blinding to look upon them. When we had feasted our eyes we took them
 all out and made a list of them. There were one hundred and
 forty-three diamonds of the first water, including one which has been
 called, I believe, 'the Great Mogul' and is said to be the second
 largest stone in existence. Then there were ninety-seven very fine
 emeralds, and one hundred and seventy rubies, some of which, however,
 were small. There were forty carbuncles, two hundred and ten
 sapphires, sixty-one agates, and a great quantity of beryls, onyxes,
 cats'-eyes, turquoises, and other stones, the very names of which I
 did not know at the time, though I have become more familiar with
 them since. Besides this, there were nearly three hundred very fine
 pearls, twelve of which were set in a gold coronet. By the way, these
 last had been taken out of the chest and were not there when I
 recovered it.

 "After we had counted our treasures we put them back into the chest
 and carried them to the gate-way to show them to Mahomet Singh. Then
 we solemnly renewed our oath to stand by each other and be true to
 our secret. We agreed to conceal our loot in a safe place until the
 country should be at peace again, and then to divide it equally among
 ourselves. There was no use dividing it at present, for if gems of
 such value were found upon us it would cause suspicion, and there was
 no privacy in the fort nor any place where we could keep them. We
 carried the box, therefore, into the same hall where we had buried
 the body, and there, under certain bricks in the best-preserved wall,
 we made a hollow and put our treasure. We made careful note of the
 place, and next day I drew four plans, one for each of us, and put
 the sign of the four of us at the bottom, for we had sworn that we
 should each always act for all, so that none might take advantage.
 That is an oath that I can put my hand to my heart and swear that I
 have never broken.

 "Well, there's no use my telling you gentlemen what came of the
 Indian mutiny. After Wilson took Delhi and Sir Colin relieved Lucknow
 the back of the business was broken. Fresh troops came pouring in,
 and Nana Sahib made himself scarce over the frontier. A flying column
 under Colonel Greathed came round to Agra and cleared the Pandies
 away from it. Peace seemed to be settling upon the country, and we
 four were beginning to hope that the time was at hand when we might
 safely go off with our shares of the plunder. In a moment, however,
 our hopes were shattered by our being arrested as the murderers of
 Achmet.

 "It came about in this way. When the rajah put his jewels into the
 hands of Achmet he did it because he knew that he was a trusty man.
 They are suspicious folk in the East, however: so what does this
 rajah do but take a second even more trusty servant and set him to
 play the spy upon the first? This second man was ordered never to let
 Achmet out of his sight, and he followed him like his shadow. He went
 after him that night and saw him pass through the doorway. Of course
 he thought he had taken refuge in the fort, and applied for admission
 there himself next day, but could find no trace of Achmet. This
 seemed to him so strange that he spoke about it to a sergeant of
 guides, who brought it to the ears of the commandant. A thorough
 search was quickly made, and the body was discovered. Thus at the
 very moment that we thought that all was safe we were all four seized
 and brought to trial on a charge of murder,--three of us because we
 had held the gate that night, and the fourth because he was known to
 have been in the company of the murdered man. Not a word about the
 jewels came out at the trial, for the rajah had been deposed and
 driven out of India: so no one had any particular interest in them.
 The murder, however, was clearly made out, and it was certain that we
 must all have been concerned in it. The three Sikhs got penal
 servitude for life, and I was condemned to death, though my sentence
 was afterwards commuted into the same as the others.

 "It was rather a queer position that we found ourselves in then.
 There we were all four tied by the leg and with precious little
 chance of ever getting out again, while we each held a secret which
 might have put each of us in a palace if we could only have made use
 of it. It was enough to make a man eat his heart out to have to stand
 the kick and the cuff of every petty jack-in-office, to have rice to
 eat and water to drink, when that gorgeous fortune was ready for him
 outside, just waiting to be picked up. It might have driven me mad;
 but I was always a pretty stubborn one, so I just held on and bided
 my time.

 "At last it seemed to me to have come. I was changed from Agra to
 Madras, and from there to Blair Island in the Andamans. There are
 very few white convicts at this settlement, and, as I had behaved
 well from the first, I soon found myself a sort of privileged person.
 I was given a hut in Hope Town, which is a small place on the slopes
 of Mount Harriet, and I was left pretty much to myself. It is a
 dreary, fever-stricken place, and all beyond our little clearings was
 infested with wild cannibal natives, who were ready enough to blow a
 poisoned dart at us if they saw a chance. There was digging, and
 ditching, and yam-planting, and a dozen other things to be done, so
 we were busy enough all day; though in the evening we had a little
 time to ourselves. Among other things, I learned to dispense drugs
 for the surgeon, and picked up a smattering of his knowledge. All the
 time I was on the lookout for a chance of escape; but it is hundreds
 of miles from any other land, and there is little or no wind in those
 seas: so it was a terribly difficult job to get away.

 "The surgeon, Dr. Somerton, was a fast, sporting young chap, and the
 other young officers would meet in his rooms of an evening and play
 cards. The surgery, where I used to make up my drugs, was next to his
 sitting-room, with a small window between us. Often, if I felt
 lonesome, I used to turn out the lamp in the surgery, and then,
 standing there, I could hear their talk and watch their play. I am
 fond of a hand at cards myself, and it was almost as good as having
 one to watch the others. There was Major Sholto, Captain Morstan, and
 Lieutenant Bromley Brown, who were in command of the native troops,
 and there was the surgeon himself, and two or three prison-officials,
 crafty old hands who played a nice sly safe game. A very snug little
 party they used to make.

 "Well, there was one thing which very soon struck me, and that was
 that the soldiers used always to lose and the civilians to win. Mind,
 I don't say that there was anything unfair, but so it was. These
 prison-chaps had done little else than play cards ever since they had
 been at the Andamans, and they knew each other's game to a point,
 while the others just played to pass the time and threw their cards
 down anyhow. Night after night the soldiers got up poorer men, and
 the poorer they got the more keen they were to play. Major Sholto was
 the hardest hit. He used to pay in notes and gold at first, but soon
 it came to notes of hand and for big sums. He sometimes would win for
 a few deals, just to give him heart, and then the luck would set in
 against him worse than ever. All day he would wander about as black
 as thunder, and he took to drinking a deal more than was good for
 him.

 "One night he lost even more heavily than usual. I was sitting in my
 hut when he and Captain Morstan came stumbling along on the way to
 their quarters. They were bosom friends, those two, and never far
 apart. The major was raving about his losses.

 "'It's all up, Morstan,' he was saying, as they passed my hut. 'I
 shall have to send in my papers. I am a ruined man.'

 "'Nonsense, old chap!' said the other, slapping him upon the
 shoulder. 'I've had a nasty facer myself, but--' That was all I could
 hear, but it was enough to set me thinking.

 A couple of days later Major Sholto was strolling on the beach: so I
 took the chance of speaking to him.

 "'I wish to have your advice, major,' said I.

 "'Well, Small, what is it?' he asked, taking his cheroot from his
 lips.

 "'I wanted to ask you, sir,' said I, 'who is the proper person to
 whom hidden treasure should be handed over. I know where half a
 million worth lies, and, as I cannot use it myself, I thought perhaps
 the best thing that I could do would be to hand it over to the proper
 authorities, and then perhaps they would get my sentence shortened
 for me.'

 "'Half a million, Small?' he gasped, looking hard at me to see if I
 was in earnest.

 "'Quite that, sir,--in jewels and pearls. It lies there ready for
 anyone. And the queer thing about it is that the real owner is
 outlawed and cannot hold property, so that it belongs to the first
 comer.'

 "'To government, Small,' he stammered,--'to government.' But he said
 it in a halting fashion, and I knew in my heart that I had got him.

 "'You think, then, sir, that I should give the information to the
 Governor-General?' said I, quietly.

 "'Well, well, you must not do anything rash, or that you might
 repent. Let me hear all about it, Small. Give me the facts.'

 "I told him the whole story, with small changes so that he could not
 identify the places. When I had finished he stood stock still and
 full of thought. I could see by the twitch of his lip that there was
 a struggle going on within him.

 "'This is a very important matter, Small,' he said, at last. 'You
 must not say a word to any one about it, and I shall see you again
 soon.'

 "Two nights later he and his friend Captain Morstan came to my hut in
 the dead of the night with a lantern.

 "'I want you just to let Captain Morstan hear that story from your
 own lips, Small,' said he.

 "I repeated it as I had told it before.

 "'It rings true, eh?' said he. 'It's good enough to act upon?'

 "Captain Morstan nodded.

 "'Look here, Small,' said the major. 'We have been talking it over,
 my friend here and I, and we have come to the conclusion that this
 secret of yours is hardly a government matter, after all, but is a
 private concern of your own, which of course you have the power of
 disposing of as you think best. Now, the question is, what price
 would you ask for it? We might be inclined to take it up, and at
 least look into it, if we could agree as to terms.' He tried to speak
 in a cool, careless way, but his eyes were shining with excitement
 and greed.

 "'Why, as to that, gentlemen,' I answered, trying also to be cool,
 but feeling as excited as he did, 'there is only one bargain which a
 man in my position can make. I shall want you to help me to my
 freedom, and to help my three companions to theirs.  We shall then
 take yo into partnership, and give you a fifth share to divide
 between you.'

 "'Hum!' said he. 'A fifth share! That is not very tempting.'

 "'It would come to fifty thousand apiece,' said I.

 "'But how can we gain your freedom? You know very well that you ask
 an impossibility.'

 "'Nothing of the sort,' I answered. 'I have thought it all out to the
 last detail. The only bar to our escape is that we can get no boat
 fit for the voyage, and no provisions to last us for so long a time.
 There are plenty of little yachts and yawls at Calcutta or Madras
 which would serve our turn well. Do you bring one over. We shall
 engage to get aboard her by night, and if you will drop us on any
 part of the Indian coast you will have done your part of the
 bargain.'

 "'If there were only one,' he said.

 "'None or all,' I answered. 'We have sworn it. The four of us must
 always act together.'

 "'You see, Morstan,' said he, 'Small is a man of his word. He does
 not flinch from his friend. I think we may very well trust him.'

 "'It's a dirty business,' the other answered. 'Yet, as you say, the
 money would save our commissions handsomely.'

 "'Well, Small,' said the major, 'we must, I suppose, try and meet
 you. We must first, of course, test the truth of your story. Tell me
 where the box is hid, and I shall get leave of absence and go back to
 India in the monthly relief-boat to inquire into the affair.'

 "'Not so fast,' said I, growing colder as he got hot. 'I must have
 the consent of my three comrades. I tell you that it is four or none
 with us.'

 "'Nonsense!' he broke in. 'What have three black fellows to do with
 our agreement?'

 "'Black or blue,' said I, 'they are in with me, and we all go
 together.'

 "Well, the matter ended by a second meeting, at which Mahomet Singh,
 Abdullah Khan, and Dost Akbar were all present. We talked the matter
 over again, and at last we came to an arrangement. We were to provide
 both the officers with charts of the part of the Agra fort and mark
 the place in the wall where the treasure was hid. Major Sholto was to
 go to India to test our story. If he found the box he was to leave it
 there, to send out a small yacht provisioned for a voyage, which was
 to lie off Rutland Island, and to which we were to make our way, and
 finally to return to his duties. Captain Morstan was then to apply
 for leave of absence, to meet us at Agra, and there we were to have a
 final division of the treasure, he taking the major's share as well
 as his own. All this we sealed by the most solemn oaths that the mind
 could think or the lips utter. I sat up all night with paper and ink,
 and by the morning I had the two charts all ready, signed with the
 sign of four,--that is, of Abdullah, Akbar, Mahomet, and myself.

 "Well, gentlemen, I weary you with my long story, and I know that my
 friend Mr. Jones is impatient to get me safely stowed in chokey. I'll
 make it as short as I can. The villain Sholto went off to India, but
 he never came back again. Captain Morstan showed me his name among a
 list of passengers in one of the mail-boats very shortly afterwards.
 His uncle had died, leaving him a fortune, and he had left the army,
 yet he could stoop to treat five men as he had treated us. Morstan
 went over to Agra shortly afterwards, and found, as we expected, that
 the treasure was indeed gone. The scoundrel had stolen it all,
 without carrying out one of the conditions on which we had sold him
 the secret. From that day I lived only for vengeance. I thought of it
 by day and I nursed it by night. It became an overpowering, absorbing
 passion with me. I cared nothing for the law,--nothing for the
 gallows. To escape, to track down Sholto, to have my hand upon his
 throat,--that was my one thought. Even the Agra treasure had come to
 be a smaller thing in my mind than the slaying of Sholto.

 "Well, I have set my mind on many things in this life, and never one
 which I did not carry out. But it was weary years before my time
 came. I have told you that I had picked up something of medicine. One
 day when Dr. Somerton was down with a fever a little Andaman Islander
 was picked up by a convict-gang in the woods. He was sick to death,
 and had gone to a lonely place to die. I took him in hand, though he
 was as venomous as a young snake, and after a couple of months I got
 him all right and able to walk. He took a kind of fancy to me then,
 and would hardly go back to his woods, but was always hanging about
 my hut. I learned a little of his lingo from him, and this made him
 all the fonder of me.

 "Tonga--for that was his name--was a fine boatman, and owned a big,
 roomy canoe of his own. When I found that he was devoted to me and
 would do anything to serve me, I saw my chance of escape. I talked it
 over with him. He was to bring his boat round on a certain night to
 an old wharf which was never guarded, and there he was to pick me up.
 I gave him directions to have several gourds of water and a lot of
 yams, cocoa-nuts, and sweet potatoes.

 "He was stanch and true, was little Tonga. No man ever had a more
 faithful mate. At the night named he had his boat at the wharf. As it
 chanced, however, there was one of the convict-guard down there,--a
 vile Pathan who had never missed a chance of insulting and injuring
 me. I had always vowed vengeance, and now I had my chance. It was as
 if fate had placed him in my way that I might pay my debt before I
 left the island. He stood on the bank with his back to me, and his
 carbine on his shoulder. I looked about for a stone to beat out his
 brains with, but none could I see.

 "Then a queer thought came into my head and showed me where I could
 lay my hand on a weapon. I sat down in the darkness and unstrapped my
 wooden leg. With three long hops I was on him. He put his carbine to
 his shoulder, but I struck him full, and knocked the whole front of
 his skull in. You can see the split in the wood now where I hit him.
 We both went down together, for I could not keep my balance, but when
 I got up I found him still lying quiet enough. I made for the boat,
 and in an hour we were well out at sea. Tonga had brought all his
 earthly possessions with him, his arms and his gods. Among other
 things, he had a long bamboo spear, and some Andaman cocoa-nut
 matting, with which I made a sort of sail. For ten days we were
 beating about, trusting to luck, and on the eleventh we were picked
 up by a trader which was going from Singapore to Jiddah with a cargo
 of Malay pilgrims. They were a rum crowd, and Tonga and I soon
 managed to settle down among them. They had one very good quality:
 they let you alone and asked no questions.

 "Well, if I were to tell you all the adventures that my little chum
 and I went through, you would not thank me, for I would have you here
 until the sun was shining. Here and there we drifted about the world,
 something always turning up to keep us from London. All the time,
 however, I never lost sight of my purpose. I would dream of Sholto at
 night. A hundred times I have killed him in my sleep. At last,
 however, some three or four years ago, we found ourselves in England.
 I had no great difficulty in finding where Sholto lived, and I set to
 work to discover whether he had realized the treasure, or if he still
 had it. I made friends with someone who could help me,--I name no
 names, for I don't want to get any one else in a hole,--and I soon
 found that he still had the jewels. Then I tried to get at him in
 many ways; but he was pretty sly, and had always two prize-fighters,
 besides his sons and his khitmutgar, on guard over him.

 "One day, however, I got word that he was dying. I hurried at once to
 the garden, mad that he should slip out of my clutches like that,
 and, looking through the window, I saw him lying in his bed, with his
 sons on each side of him. I'd have come through and taken my chance
 with the three of them, only even as I looked at him his jaw dropped,
 and I knew that he was gone. I got into his room that same night,
 though, and I searched his papers to see if there was any record of
 where he had hidden our jewels. There was not a line, however: so I
 came away, bitter and savage as a man could be. Before I left I
 bethought me that if I ever met my Sikh friends again it would be a
 satisfaction to know that I had left some mark of our hatred: so I
 scrawled down the sign of the four of us, as it had been on the
 chart, and I pinned it on his bosom. It was too much that he should
 be taken to the grave without some token from the men whom he had
 robbed and befooled.

 "We earned a living at this time by my exhibiting poor Tonga at fairs
 and other such places as the black cannibal. He would eat raw meat
 and dance his war-dance: so we always had a hatful of pennies after a
 day's work. I still heard all the news from Pondicherry Lodge, and
 for some years there was no news to hear, except that they were
 hunting for the treasure. At last, however, came what we had waited
 for so long. The treasure had been found. It was up at the top of the
 house, in Mr. Bartholomew Sholto's chemical laboratory. I came at
 once and had a look at the place, but I could not see how with my
 wooden leg I was to make my way up to it. I learned, however, about a
 trap-door in the roof, and also about Mr. Sholto's supper-hour. It
 seemed to me that I could manage the thing easily through Tonga. I
 brought him out with me with a long rope wound round his waist. He
 could climb like a cat, and he soon made his way through the roof,
 but, as ill luck would have it, Bartholomew Sholto was still in the
 room, to his cost. Tonga thought he had done something very clever in
 killing him, for when I came up by the rope I found him strutting
 about as proud as a peacock. Very much surprised was he when I made
 at him with the rope's end and cursed him for a little blood-thirsty
 imp. I took the treasure-box and let it down, and then slid down
 myself, having first left the sign of the four upon the table, to
 show that the jewels had come back at last to those who had most
 right to them. Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed the window, and
 made off the way that he had come.

 "I don't know that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a
 waterman speak of the speed of Smith's launch, the Aurora, so I
 thought she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old
 Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship.
 He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in
 our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you,
 gentlemen, it is not to amuse you,--for you have not done me a very
 good turn,--but it is because I believe the best defence I can make
 is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I
 have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the
 death of his son."

 "A very remarkable account," said Sherlock Holmes. "A fitting wind-up
 to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me
 in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your
 own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had
 lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat."

 "He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blow-pipe
 at the time."

 "Ah, of course," said Holmes. "I had not thought of that."

 "Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?" asked
 the convict, affably.

 "I think not, thank you," my companion answered.

 "Well, Holmes," said Athelney Jones, "You are a man to be humored,
 and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is
 duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend
 asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller
 here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two
 inspectors down-stairs. I am much obliged to you both for your
 assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to
 you."

 "Good-night, gentlemen both," said Jonathan Small.

 "You first, Small," remarked the wary Jones as they left the room.
 "I'll take particular care that you don't club me with your wooden
 leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman
 Isles."

 "Well, and there is the end of our little drama," I remarked, after
 we had set some time smoking in silence. "I fear that it may be the
 last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your
 methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honor to accept me as a husband
 in prospective."

 He gave a most dismal groan. "I feared as much," said he. "I really
 cannot congratulate you."

 I was a little hurt. "Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my
 choice?" I asked.

 "Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I
 ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have
 been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in
 which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her
 father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is
 opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I
 should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment."

 "I trust," said I, laughing, "that my judgment may survive the
 ordeal. But you look weary."

 "Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag
 for a week."

 "Strange," said I, "how terms of what in another man I should call
 laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigor."

 "Yes," he answered, "there are in me the makings of a very fine
 loafer and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often think of
 those lines of old Goethe,--

          Schade, daÃŸ die Natur nur einen Mensch aus Dir schuf,
         Denn zum wÃ¼rdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff.

 "By the way, a propos of this Norwood business, you see that they
 had, as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none
 other than Lal Rao, the butler: so Jones actually has the undivided
 honor of having caught one fish in his great haul."

 "The division seems rather unfair," I remarked. "You have done all
 the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the
 credit, pray what remains for you?"

 "For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the
 cocaine-bottle." And he stretched his long white hand up for it.






                    THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES





                          A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA





                            Table of contents
                                 Chapter 1
                                 Chapter 2
                                 Chapter 3















      CHAPTER I



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

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

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

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

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

 "Seven!" I answered.

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

 "Then, how do you know?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Frequently."

 "How often?"

 "Well, some hundreds of times."

 "Then how many are there?"

 "How many? I don't know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "But your client--"

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

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

 "Come in!" said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "I promise," said Holmes.

 "And I."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Precisely so. But how--"

 "Was there a secret marriage?"

 "None."

 "No legal papers or certificates?"

 "None."

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

 "There is the writing."

 "Pooh, pooh! Forgery."

 "My private note-paper."

 "Stolen."

 "My own seal."

 "Imitated."

 "My photograph."

 "Bought."

 "We were both in the photograph."

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

 "I was mad--insane."

 "You have compromised yourself seriously."

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

 "It must be recovered."

 "We have tried and failed."

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

 "She will not sell."

 "Stolen, then."

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

 "No sign of it?"

 "Absolutely none."

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

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

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

 "To ruin me."

 "But how?"

 "I am about to be married."

 "So I have heard."

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

 "And Irene Adler?"

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

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

 "I am sure."

 "And why?"

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

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

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

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

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

 "Then, as to money?"

 "You have carte blanche."

 "Absolutely?"

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

 "And for present expenses?"

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

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

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

 "And Mademoiselle's address?" he asked.

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

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

 "It was."

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





      CHAPTER II



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

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

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

 "What is it?"

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

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

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

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

 "And what of Irene Adler?" I asked.

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

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

 "I am following you closely," I answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "'What then?' I asked.

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

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

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

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

 "Which are?"

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

 "I shall be delighted."

 "You don't mind breaking the law?"

 "Not in the least."

 "Nor running a chance of arrest?"

 "Not in a good cause."

 "Oh, the cause is excellent!"

 "Then I am your man."

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

 "But what is it you wish?"

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

 "And what then?"

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

 "I am to be neutral?"

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

 "Yes."

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

 "Yes."

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

 "Entirely."

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

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

 "Precisely."

 "Then you may entirely rely on me."

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

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

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

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

 "Where, indeed?"

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

 "Where, then?"

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

 "But it has twice been burgled."

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

 "But how will you look?"

 "I will not look."

 "What then?"

 "I will get her to show me."

 "But she will refuse."

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

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

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

 "He is dead," cried several voices.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "You have the photograph?"

 "I know where it is."

 "And how did you find out?"

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

 "I am still in the dark."

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

 "I guessed as much."

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

 "That also I could fathom."

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

 "How did that help you?"

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

 "And now?" I asked.

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

 "And when will you call?"

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

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

 "Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

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

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





      CHAPTER III



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

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

 "Not yet."

 "But you have hopes?"

 "I have hopes."

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

 "We must have a cab."

 "No, my brougham is waiting."

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

 "Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.

 "Married! When?"

 "Yesterday."

 "But to whom?"

 "To an English lawyer named Norton."

 "But she could not love him."

 "I am in hopes that she does."

 "And why in hopes?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Never to return."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "You have but to name it."

 "This photograph!"

 The King stared at him in amazement.

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

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

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






                          THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

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

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

 "I was afraid that you were engaged."

 "So I am. Very much so."

 "Then I can wait in the next room."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Well, but China?"

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

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

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

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

 I took the paper from him and read as follows:

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

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

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

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

 "Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"

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

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

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

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

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

 "He is still with you, I presume?"

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

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

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

 "'Why that?' I asks.

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

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

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

 "'Never.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "I answered that I had not.

 "His face fell immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "'Ten to two.'

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

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

 "'Is Â£4 a week.'

 "'And the work?'

 "'Is purely nominal.'

 "'What do you call purely nominal?'

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

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

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

 "'And the work?'

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

 "'Certainly,' I answered.

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

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

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

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

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

 "To an end?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "'What, the red-headed man?'

 "'Yes.'

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

 "'Where could I find him?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "About a month then."

 "How did he come?"

 "In answer to an advertisement."

 "Was he the only applicant?"

 "No, I had a dozen."

 "Why did you pick him?"

 "Because he was handy and would come cheap."

 "At half-wages, in fact."

 "Yes."

 "What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Not him."

 "What then?"

 "The knees of his trousers."

 "And what did you see?"

 "What I expected to see."

 "Why did you beat the pavement?"

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

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

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

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

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

 "Yes, it would be as well."

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

 "Why serious?"

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

 "At what time?"

 "Ten will be early enough."

 "I shall be at Baker Street at ten."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Your French gold?"

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

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

 "And sit in the dark?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






                           A CASE OF IDENTITY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "And your mother is alive?"

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

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

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

 "Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle Ned in
 Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4Â½ per cent. Two
 thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the
 interest."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "No?"

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

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

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

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

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

 "What office?"

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

 "Where did he live, then?"

 "He slept on the premises."

 "And you don't know his address?"

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

 "Where did you address your letters, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

 "It missed him, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "None."

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

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

 "And your father? Did you tell him?"

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

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

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

 "I fear not."

 "Then what has happened to him?"

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

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

 "Thank you. And your address?"

 "No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.

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

 "It surprised me."

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

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

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

 I held the little printed slip to the light.

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

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

 "They are typewritten," I remarked.

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

 "Of what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "And how did you verify them?"

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

 "And Miss Sutherland?"

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






                       THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "That sounds a little paradoxical."

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

 "It is a murder, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "How on earth--"

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

 "What are they?"

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

 "It was a confession," I ejaculated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "I think that it is very probable."

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

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

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

 "In what way?" asked Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

 "The doctor?"

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

 "Ha! In Victoria! That is important."

 "Yes, at the mines."

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

 "Yes, certainly."

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

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

 "I will, Miss Turner."

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

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

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

 "Yes, but only for you and me."

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

 "Ample."

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

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

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

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

 "And what did you learn from him?"

 "Nothing."

 "Could he throw no light?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes.

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

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

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

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

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

 "And that is--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "I see no marks."

 "There are none."

 "How do you know, then?"

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

 "And the murderer?"

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

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

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

 "And leave your case unfinished?"

 "No, finished."

 "But the mystery?"

 "It is solved."

 "Who was the criminal, then?"

 "The gentleman I describe."

 "But who is he?"

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

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

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

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

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

 "Pray do so."

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

 "What of this 'Cooee!' then?"

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

 "What of the rat, then?"

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

 "ARAT," I read.

 "And now?" He raised his hand.

 "BALLARAT."

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

 "It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.

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

 "Certainly."

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

 "Quite so."

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

 "But how did you gain them?"

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

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

 "Yes, they were peculiar boots."

 "But his lameness?"

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

 "But his left-handedness."

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

 "And the cigar-holder?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






                          THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS

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

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

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

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

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

 "A client, then?"

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

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

 "Come in!" said he.

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

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

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

 "Yes, from Horsham."

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

 "I have come for advice."

 "That is easily got."

 "And help."

 "That is not always so easy."

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

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

 "He said that you could solve anything."

 "He said too much."

 "That you are never beaten."

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

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

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

 "Then you may be so with me."

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

 "It is no ordinary one."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Thank you. Pray proceed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "'Then let me do so?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "What have you done?" asked Holmes.

 "Nothing."

 "Nothing?"

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

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

 "I have seen the police."

 "Ah!"

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

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

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

 "Has he come with you to-night?"

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

 Again Holmes raved in the air.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

 "What shall I do?"

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

 "Entirely."

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

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

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

 "By train from Waterloo."

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

 "I am armed."

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

 "I shall see you at Horsham, then?"

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

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

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

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

 "Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "A greater distance to travel."

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

 "Then I do not see the point."

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

 "It is possible."

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

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

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

 "But of what society?"

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

 "I never have."

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

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

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

 "Then the page we have seen--"

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

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

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

 "What steps will you take?" I asked.

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

 "You will not go there first?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "To the police?"

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

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

 "You are hungry," I remarked.

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

 "Nothing?"

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

 "And how have you succeeded?"

 "Well."

 "You have a clue?"

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

 "What do you mean?"

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

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

 "And who is this Captain Calhoun?"

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

 "How did you trace it, then?"

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

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

 "Texas, I think."

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

 "What then?"

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

 "Yes?"

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

 "What will you do, then?"

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

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






                      THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Nearly eleven."

 "Of what day?"

 "Of Friday, June 19th."

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

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

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

 "Yes, I have one waiting."

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

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

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

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

 "I have a cab outside."

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

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

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

 "I was certainly surprised to find you there."

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

 "I came to find a friend."

 "And I to find an enemy."

 "An enemy?"

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

 "What! You do not mean bodies?"

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

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

 "If I can be of use."

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

 "The Cedars?"

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

 "Where is it, then?"

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

 "But I am all in the dark."

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

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

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

 "You forget that I know nothing about it."

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

 "Proceed, then."

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

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

 "It is very clear."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Pray continue your narrative."

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

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

 "I cannot imagine."

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

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

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

 "It certainly sounds feasible."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "No good news?"

 "None."

 "No bad?"

 "No."

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

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

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

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

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

 "Certainly, madam."

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

 "Upon what point?"

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

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

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

 "You think that he is dead?"

 "I do."

 "Murdered?"

 "I don't say that. Perhaps."

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

 "On Monday."

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

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

 "What!" he roared.

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

 "May I see it?"

 "Certainly."

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

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

 "No, but the enclosure is."

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

 "How can you tell that?"

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

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

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

 "One of his hands."

 "One?"

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

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

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

 "None. Neville wrote those words."

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

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

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

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

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

 "That is possible."

 "If so, much may have happened between."

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

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

 "I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable."

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

 "No."

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

 "Very much so."

 "Was the window open?"

 "Yes."

 "Then he might have called to you?"

 "He might."

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

 "Yes."

 "A call for help, you thought?"

 "Yes. He waved his hands."

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

 "It is possible."

 "And you thought he was pulled back?"

 "He disappeared so suddenly."

 "He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?"

 "No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the
 Lascar was at the foot of the stairs."

 "Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary
 clothes on?"

 "But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat."

 "Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"

 "Never."

 "Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?"

 "Never."

 "Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about
 which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little
 supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow."

 A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our
 disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after
 my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when
 he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even
 for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts,
 looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed
 it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon
 evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He
 took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown,
 and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and
 cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a
 sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged,
 with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front
 of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old
 briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner
 of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent,
 motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline
 features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a
 sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun
 shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the
 smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco
 haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon
 the previous night.

 "Awake, Watson?" he asked.

 "Yes."

 "Game for a morning drive?"

 "Certainly."

 "Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy
 sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." He chuckled to himself
 as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the
 sombre thinker of the previous night.

 As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was
 stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished
 when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the
 horse.

 "I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on his
 boots. "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of
 one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from
 here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now."

 "And where is it?" I asked, smiling.

 "In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not joking," he
 continued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just been there,
 and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag.
 Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock."

 We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the
 bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with
 the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and
 away we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were
 stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of
 villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a
 dream.

 "It has been in some points a singular case," said Holmes, flicking
 the horse on into a gallop. "I confess that I have been as blind as a
 mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at
 all."

 In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from
 their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side.
 Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and
 dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found
 ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force,
 and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the
 horse's head while the other led us in.

 "Who is on duty?" asked Holmes.

 "Inspector Bradstreet, sir."

 "Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?" A tall, stout official had come down
 the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. "I
 wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet." "Certainly, Mr.
 Holmes. Step into my room here." It was a small, office-like room,
 with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from
 the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk.

 "What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

 "I called about that beggarman, Boone--the one who was charged with
 being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of
 Lee."

 "Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries."

 "So I heard. You have him here?"

 "In the cells."

 "Is he quiet?"

 "Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel."

 "Dirty?"

 "Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is
 as black as a tinker's. Well, when once his case has been settled, he
 will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you
 would agree with me that he needed it."

 "I should like to see him very much."

 "Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your
 bag."

 "No, I think that I'll take it."

 "Very good. Come this way, if you please." He led us down a passage,
 opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to
 a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.

 "The third on the right is his," said the inspector. "Here it is!" He
 quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced
 through.

 "He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very well."

 We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face
 towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He
 was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a
 coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He
 was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which
 covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad
 wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by
 its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that
 three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright
 red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

 "He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.

 "He certainly needs a wash," remarked Holmes. "I had an idea that he
 might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me." He
 opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my
 astonishment, a very large bath-sponge.

 "He! he! You are a funny one," chuckled the inspector.

 "Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very
 quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure."

 "Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector. "He doesn't look a
 credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?" He slipped his key into the
 lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half
 turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes
 stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it
 twice vigorously across and down the prisoner's face.

 "Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of
 Lee, in the county of Kent."

 Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man's face peeled off
 under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown
 tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and
 the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A
 twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in
 his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and
 smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy
 bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a
 scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

 "Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed, the missing
 man. I know him from the photograph."

 The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons
 himself to his destiny. "Be it so," said he. "And pray what am I
 charged with?"

 "With making away with Mr. Neville St.--Oh, come, you can't be
 charged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of
 it," said the inspector with a grin. "Well, I have been twenty-seven
 years in the force, but this really takes the cake."

 "If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has
 been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained."

 "No crime, but a very great error has been committed," said Holmes.
 "You would have done better to have trusted your wife."

 "It was not the wife; it was the children," groaned the prisoner.
 "God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God!
 What an exposure! What can I do?"

 Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him
 kindly on the shoulder.

 "If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up," said he,
 "of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you
 convince the police authorities that there is no possible case
 against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details
 should find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I
 am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit
 it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court
 at all."

 "God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately. "I would have
 endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my
 miserable secret as a family blot to my children.

 "You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a
 schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent
 education. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally
 became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor
 wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis,
 and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all
 my adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur
 that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an
 actor I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had
 been famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of
 my attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as
 possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist
 by the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red
 head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the
 business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as
 a beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home
 in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less
 than 26s. 4d.

 "I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until,
 some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served
 upon me for Â£25. I was at my wit's end where to get the money, but a
 sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight's grace from the
 creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time
 in begging in the City under my disguise. In ten days I had the money
 and had paid the debt.

 "Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work
 at Â£2 a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by
 smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground,
 and sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the
 money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat
 day after day in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity
 by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man
 knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to
 lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a
 squalid beggar and in the evenings transform myself into a
 well-dressed man about town. This fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by
 me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret was safe in his
 possession.

 "Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of
 money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could
 earn Â£700 a year--which is less than my average takings--but I had
 exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also in a
 facility of repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a
 recognised character in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied
 by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I
 failed to take Â£2.

 "As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country,
 and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my
 real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City.
 She little knew what.

 "Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room
 above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my
 horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street,
 with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up
 my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar,
 entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her
 voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I
 threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my
 pigments and wig. Even a wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a
 disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in
 the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the
 window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted
 upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which
 was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from
 the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the
 window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would
 have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up
 the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my
 relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I
 was arrested as his murderer.

 "I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was
 determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my
 preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly
 anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a
 moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried
 scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear."

 "That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes.

 "Good God! What a week she must have spent!"

 "The police have watched this Lascar," said Inspector Bradstreet,
 "and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a
 letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of
 his, who forgot all about it for some days."

 "That was it," said Holmes, nodding approvingly; "I have no doubt of
 it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?"

 "Many times; but what was a fine to me?"

 "It must stop here, however," said Bradstreet. "If the police are to
 hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone."

 "I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take."

 "In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may
 be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am
 sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having
 cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results."

 "I reached this one," said my friend, "by sitting upon five pillows
 and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to
 Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast."






                   THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE

 I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning
 after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of
 the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown,
 a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled
 morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the
 couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very
 seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and
 cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat
 of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner
 for the purpose of examination.

 "You are engaged," said I; "perhaps I interrupt you."

 "Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my
 results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one"--he jerked his thumb
 in the direction of the old hat--"but there are points in connection
 with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of
 instruction."

 I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his
 crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were
 thick with the ice crystals. "I suppose," I remarked, "that, homely
 as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it--that
 it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery
 and the punishment of some crime."

 "No, no. No crime," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "Only one of
 those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four
 million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a
 few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of
 humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to
 take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be
 striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had
 experience of such."

 "So much so," I remarked, "that of the last six cases which I have
 added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime."

 "Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler
 papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the
 adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that
 this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know
 Peterson, the commissionaire?" 

 "Yes."

 "It is to him that this trophy belongs."

 "It is his hat."

 "No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look
 upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem.
 And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas
 morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt,
 roasting at this moment in front of Peterson's fire. The facts are
 these: about four o'clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you
 know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small
 jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court
 Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking
 with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his
 shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out
 between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter
 knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend
 himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window
 behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from
 his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and
 seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him,
 dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth
 of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The
 roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was
 left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of
 victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable
 Christmas goose."

 "Which surely he restored to their owner?"

 "My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For Mrs.
 Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to the
 bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.' are
 legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands
 of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it
 is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them."

 "What, then, did Peterson do?"

 "He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,
 knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The
 goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in
 spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten
 without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore,
 to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain
 the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner."

 "Did he not advertise?"

 "No."

 "Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"

 "Only as much as we can deduce."

 "From his hat?"

 "Precisely."

 "But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered
 felt?"

 "Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself
 as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?"

 I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather
 ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape,
 hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk,
 but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker's name; but, as
 Holmes had remarked, the initials "H. B." were scrawled upon one
 side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic
 was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and
 spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some
 attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

 "I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.

 "On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however,
 to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your
 inferences."

 "Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"

 He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion
 which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less suggestive than
 it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there are a few inferences
 which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a
 strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual
 is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly
 well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen
 upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly,
 pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline
 of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably
 drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact
 that his wife has ceased to love him."

 "My dear Holmes!"

 "He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he
 continued, disregarding my remonstrance. "He is a man who leads a
 sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is
 middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last
 few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more
 patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way,
 that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his
 house."

 "You are certainly joking, Holmes."

 "Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you
 these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"

 "I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am
 unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man
 was intellectual?"

 For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over
 the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. "It is a
 question of cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so large a brain
 must have something in it."

 "The decline of his fortunes, then?"

 "This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge
 came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band
 of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to
 buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since,
 then he has assuredly gone down in the world."

 "Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight
 and the moral retrogression?"

 Sherlock Holmes laughed. "Here is the foresight," said he putting his
 finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer.  "They are
 never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a
 certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take
 this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken
 the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he
 has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a
 weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal
 some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is
 a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect."

 "Your reasoning is certainly plausible."

 "The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is
 grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream,
 are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of
 the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut
 by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and
 there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe,
 is not the gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust
 of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the
 time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive
 that the wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be
 in the best of training."

 "But his wife--you said that she had ceased to love him."

 "This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear
 Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when
 your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you
 also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's affection."

 "But he might be a bachelor."

 "Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife.
 Remember the card upon the bird's leg."

 "You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce
 that the gas is not laid on in his house?"

 "One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see
 no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the
 individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning
 tallow--walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and
 a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains
 from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?"

 "Well, it is very ingenious," said I, laughing; "but since, as you
 said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done
 save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of
 energy."

 Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew
 open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment
 with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with
 astonishment.

 "The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!" he gasped.

 "Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off
 through the kitchen window?" Holmes twisted himself round upon the
 sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face.

 "See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!" He held out his
 hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly
 scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of
 such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in
 the dark hollow of his hand.

 Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. "By Jove, Peterson!" said he,
 "this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have
 got?"

 "A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it
 were putty."

 "It's more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone."

 "Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!" I ejaculated.

 "Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have
 read the advertisement about it in The Times every day lately. It is
 absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the
 reward offered of Â£1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of
 the market price."

 "A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" The commissionaire plumped
 down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.

 "That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are
 sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the
 Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the
 gem."

 "It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan," I
 remarked.

 "Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a
 plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady's
 jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has
 been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here,
 I believe." He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates,
 until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the
 following paragraph:

 "Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was
 brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst. abstracted
 from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known
 as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel,
 gave his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the
 dressing-room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery
 in order that he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was
 loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally
 been called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared,
 that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco
 casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was
 accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the
 dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was
 arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found either
 upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the
 Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder's cry of dismay on
 discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room, where
 she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector
 Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who
 struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest
 terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been
 given against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily
 with the offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had
 shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away
 at the conclusion and was carried out of court."

 "Hum! So much for the police-court," said Holmes thoughtfully,
 tossing aside the paper. "The question for us now to solve is the
 sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the
 crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see,
 Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more
 important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came
 from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the
 gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with
 which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously
 to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in
 this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means
 first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the
 evening papers. If this fail, I shall have recourse to other
 methods."

 "What will you say?"

 "Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: 'Found at the
 corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry
 Baker can have the same by applying at 6.30 this evening at 221b,
 Baker Street.' That is clear and concise."

 "Very. But will he see it?"

 "Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man,
 the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance
 in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he
 thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly
 regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again,
 the introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone
 who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are,
 Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the
 evening papers."

 "In which, sir?"

 "Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James's, Evening News,
 Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you."

 "Very well, sir. And this stone?"

 "Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson,
 just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we
 must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which
 your family is now devouring."

 When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held
 it against the light. "It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just see how it
 glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime.
 Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In the larger
 and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone
 is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy
 River in southern China and is remarkable in having every
 characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade
 instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister
 history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide,
 and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain
 weight of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy
 would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I'll lock it up in
 my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have
 it."

 "Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?"

 "I cannot tell."

 "Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had
 anything to do with the matter?"

 "It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely
 innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was
 of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That,
 however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer
 to our advertisement."

 "And you can do nothing until then?"

 "Nothing."

 "In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall
 come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should
 like to see the solution of so tangled a business."

 "Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I
 believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought
 to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop."

 I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six
 when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the
 house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was
 buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle
 which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was
 opened, and we were shown up together to Holmes' room.

 "Mr. Henry Baker, I believe," said he, rising from his armchair and
 greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so
 readily assume. "Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a
 cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for
 summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right
 time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?"

 "Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat."

 He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a
 broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled
 brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his
 extended hand, recalled Holmes' surmise as to his habits. His rusty
 black frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar
 turned up, and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a
 sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing
 his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of
 learning and letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.

 "We have retained these things for some days," said Holmes, "because
 we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I
 am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise."

 Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. "Shillings have not been
 so plentiful with me as they once were," he remarked. "I had no doubt
 that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat
 and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless
 attempt at recovering them."

 "Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat
 it."

 "To eat it!" Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.

 "Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But
 I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about
 the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally
 well?"

 "Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.

 "Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your
 own bird, so if you wish--"

 The man burst into a hearty laugh. "They might be useful to me as
 relics of my adventure," said he, "but beyond that I can hardly see
 what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are going to be
 to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my
 attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the
 sideboard."

 Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of
 his shoulders.

 "There is your hat, then, and there your bird," said he. "By the way,
 would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am
 somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown
 goose."

 "Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly
 gained property under his arm. "There are a few of us who frequent
 the Alpha Inn, near the Museum--we are to be found in the Museum
 itself during the day, you understand. This year our good host,
 Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on
 consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a
 bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar
 to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted
 neither to my years nor my gravity." With a comical pomposity of
 manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way.

 "So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes when he had closed the
 door behind him. "It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever
 about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?"

 "Not particularly."

 "Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up
 this clue while it is still hot."

 "By all means."

 It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats
 about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a
 cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke
 like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly
 as we swung through the doctors' quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley
 Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a
 quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a
 small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs
 down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and
 ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned
 landlord.

 "Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese," said
 he.

 "My geese!" The man seemed surprised.

 "Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who
 was a member of your goose club."

 "Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our geese."

 "Indeed! Whose, then?"

 "Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden."

 "Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?"

 "Breckinridge is his name."

 "Ah! I don't know him. Well, here's your good health landlord, and
 prosperity to your house. Good-night."

 "Now for Mr. Breckinridge," he continued, buttoning up his coat as we
 came out into the frosty air. "Remember, Watson that though we have
 so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the
 other a man who will certainly get seven years' penal servitude
 unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our
 inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line
 of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a
 singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the
 bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!"

 We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag
 of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the
 name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking
 man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to
 put up the shutters.

 "Good-evening. It's a cold night," said Holmes.

 The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.

 "Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing at the bare
 slabs of marble.

 "Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."

 "That's no good."

 "Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."

 "Ah, but I was recommended to you."

 "Who by?"

 "The landlord of the Alpha."

 "Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen."

 "Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?"

 To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the
 salesman.

 "Now, then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and his arms
 akimbo, "what are you driving at? Let's have it straight, now."

 "It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese
 which you supplied to the Alpha."

 "Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!"

 "Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why you should
 be so warm over such a trifle."

 "Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When
 I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the
 business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did you sell the
 geese to?' and 'What will you take for the geese?' One would think
 they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made
 over them."

 "Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been
 making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly. "If you won't tell us the
 bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my opinion on a
 matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is
 country bred."

 "Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town bred," snapped the
 salesman.

 "It's nothing of the kind."

 "I say it is."

 "I don't believe it."

 "D'you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them
 ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to
 the Alpha were town bred."

 "You'll never persuade me to believe that."

 "Will you bet, then?"

 "It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I'll
 have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate."

 The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the books, Bill," said he.

 The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great
 greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.

 "Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, "I thought that I was
 out of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there is still one
 left in my shop. You see this little book?"

 "Well?"

 "That's the list of the folk from whom I buy. D'you see? Well, then,
 here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their
 names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You
 see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town
 suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me."

 "Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road--249," read Holmes.

 "Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger."

 Holmes turned to the page indicated. "Here you are, 'Mrs. Oakshott,
 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.'"

 "Now, then, what's the last entry?"

 "'December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.'"

 "Quite so. There you are. And underneath?"

 "'Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.'"

 "What have you to say now?"

 Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his
 pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of
 a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped
 under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which
 was peculiar to him.

 "When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the 'Pink 'un'
 protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet," said
 he. "I daresay that if I had put Â£100 down in front of him, that man
 would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from
 him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we
 are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which
 remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs.
 Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It
 is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others
 besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should--"

 His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out
 from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little
 rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light
 which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the
 salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists
 fiercely at the cringing figure.

 "I've had enough of you and your geese," he shouted. "I wish you were
 all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with
 your silly talk I'll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here
 and I'll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the
 geese off you?"

 "No; but one of them was mine all the same," whined the little man.

 "Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it."

 "She told me to ask you."

 "Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I've had
 enough of it. Get out of this!" He rushed fiercely forward, and the
 inquirer flitted away into the darkness.

 "Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road," whispered Holmes.
 "Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow."
 Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the
 flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and
 touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in
 the gas-light that every vestige of colour had been driven from his
 face.

 "Who are you, then? What do you want?" he asked in a quavering voice.

 "You will excuse me," said Holmes blandly, "but I could not help
 overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I
 think that I could be of assistance to you."

 "You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?"

 "My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other
 people don't know."

 "But you can know nothing of this?"

 "Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace
 some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a
 salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the
 Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member."

 "Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet," cried the
 little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. "I can
 hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter."

 Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. "In that
 case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this
 wind-swept market-place," said he. "But pray tell me, before we go
 farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting."

 The man hesitated for an instant. "My name is John Robinson," he
 answered with a sidelong glance.

 "No, no; the real name," said Holmes sweetly. "It is always awkward
 doing business with an alias."

 A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. "Well then," said
 he, "my real name is James Ryder."

 "Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step
 into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which
 you would wish to know."

 The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with
 half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he
 is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped
 into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at
 Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high,
 thin breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and
 unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.

 "Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. "The
 fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder.
 Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we
 settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what
 became of those geese?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in
 which you were interested--white, with a black bar across the tail."

 Ryder quivered with emotion. "Oh, sir," he cried, "can you tell me
 where it went to?"

 "It came here."

 "Here?"

 "Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don't wonder that you
 should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead--the
 bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it
 here in my museum."

 Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with
 his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue
 carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant,
 many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face,
 uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.

 "The game's up, Ryder," said Holmes quietly. "Hold up, man, or you'll
 be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He's
 not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a
 dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp
 it is, to be sure!"

 For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy
 brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with
 frightened eyes at his accuser.

 "I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I
 could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me.
 Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case
 complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of
 Morcar's?"

 "It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it," said he in a crackling
 voice.

 "I see--her ladyship's waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden
 wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for
 better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means
 you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very
 pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber,
 had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion
 would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made
 some small job in my lady's room--you and your confederate
 Cusack--and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then,
 when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and
 had this unfortunate man arrested. You then--"

 Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my
 companion's knees. "For God's sake, have mercy!" he shrieked. "Think
 of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went
 wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I'll swear it on a
 Bible. Oh, don't bring it into court! For Christ's sake, don't!"

 "Get back into your chair!" said Holmes sternly. "It is very well to
 cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor
 Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing."

 "I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the
 charge against him will break down."

 "Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of
 the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the
 goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your
 only hope of safety."

 Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. "I will tell you it
 just as it happened, sir," said he. "When Horner had been arrested,
 it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the
 stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not
 take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place
 about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some
 commission, and I made for my sister's house. She had married a man
 named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls
 for the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be
 a policeman or a detective; and, for all that it was a cold night,
 the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton Road.
 My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I
 told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel.
 Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it
 would be best to do.

 "I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has
 just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and
 fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid
 of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew
 one or two things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to
 Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would
 show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him in
 safety? I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from
 the hotel. I might at any moment be seized and searched, and there
 would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the
 wall at the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about
 round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me
 how I could beat the best detective that ever lived.

 "My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick
 of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always
 as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would
 carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and
 behind this I drove one of the birds--a fine big one, white, with a
 barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the
 stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave
 a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its
 crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and out came my sister
 to know what was the matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute
 broke loose and fluttered off among the others.

 "'Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?' says she.

 "'Well,' said I, 'you said you'd give me one for Christmas, and I was
 feeling which was the fattest.'

 "'Oh,' says she, 'we've set yours aside for you--Jem's bird, we call
 it. It's the big white one over yonder. There's twenty-six of them,
 which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the
 market.'

 "'Thank you, Maggie,' says I; 'but if it is all the same to you, I'd
 rather have that one I was handling just now.'

 "'The other is a good three pound heavier,' said she, 'and we
 fattened it expressly for you.'

 "'Never mind. I'll have the other, and I'll take it now,' said I.

 "'Oh, just as you like,' said she, a little huffed. 'Which is it you
 want, then?'

 "'That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the
 flock.'

 "'Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.'

 "Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all
 the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man
 that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he
 choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to
 water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some
 terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my
 sister's, and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be
 seen there.

 "'Where are they all, Maggie?' I cried.

 "'Gone to the dealer's, Jem.'

 "'Which dealer's?'

 "'Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.'

 "'But was there another with a barred tail?' I asked, 'the same as
 the one I chose?'

 "'Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell
 them apart.'

 "Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet
 would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at
 once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone.
 You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me
 like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think
 that I am myself. And now--and now I am myself a branded thief,
 without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character.
 God help me! God help me!" He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his
 face buried in his hands.

 There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by
 the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes' finger-tips upon the edge of
 the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.

 "Get out!" said he.

 "What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!"

 "No more words. Get out!"

 And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the
 stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls
 from the street.

 "After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay
 pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies.
 If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow
 will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose
 that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am
 saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too
 terribly frightened. Send him to jail now, and you make him a
 jail-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance
 has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its
 solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch
 the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also
 a bird will be the chief feature."






                   THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND

 On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have
 during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock
 Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely
 strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the
 love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to
 associate himself with any investigation which did not tend towards
 the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases,
 however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features
 than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of
 the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in question occurred in the
 early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms
 as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed
 them upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the
 time, from which I have only been freed during the last month by the
 untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It is
 perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I have
 reasons to know that there are widespread rumours as to the death of
 Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter even more terrible
 than the truth.

 It was early in April in the year '83 that I woke one morning to find
 Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He
 was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece
 showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him
 in some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was
 myself regular in my habits.

 "Very sorry to knock you up, Watson," said he, "but it's the common
 lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon
 me, and I on you."

 "What is it, then--a fire?"

 "No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a
 considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is
 waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about
 the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people
 up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing
 which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting
 case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I
 thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the
 chance."

 "My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything."

 I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional
 investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as
 intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he
 unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw
 on my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend
 down to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled,
 who had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.

 "Good-morning, madam," said Holmes cheerily. "My name is Sherlock
 Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before
 whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see
 that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw
 up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe
 that you are shivering."

 "It is not cold which makes me shiver," said the woman in a low
 voice, changing her seat as requested.

 "What, then?"

 "It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror." She raised her veil as she
 spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of
 agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened
 eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were
 those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature
 grey, and her expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran
 her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.

 "You must not fear," said he soothingly, bending forward and patting
 her forearm. "We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You
 have come in by train this morning, I see."

 "You know me, then?"

 "No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of
 your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good
 drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the
 station."

 The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my
 companion.

 "There is no mystery, my dear madam," said he, smiling. "The left arm
 of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places.
 The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart
 which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the
 left-hand side of the driver."

 "Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct," said she.
 "I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past,
 and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this
 strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to
 turn to--none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow,
 can be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard
 of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore
 need. It was from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not
 think that you could help me, too, and at least throw a little light
 through the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out
 of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six
 weeks I shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then
 at least you shall not find me ungrateful."

 Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small
 case-book, which he consulted.

 "Farintosh," said he. "Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned
 with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can
 only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to
 your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my
 profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to defray
 whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits you best.
 And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us
 in forming an opinion upon the matter."

 "Alas!" replied our visitor, "the very horror of my situation lies in
 the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so
 entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that
 even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and
 advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a
 nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his
 soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that
 you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart.
 You may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me."

 "I am all attention, madam."

 "My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is
 the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the
 Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey."

 Holmes nodded his head. "The name is familiar to me," said he.

 "The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the
 estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and
 Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive
 heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family
 ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the
 Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the
 two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy
 mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the
 horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my
 stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions,
 obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a
 medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional
 skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In
 a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been
 perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and
 narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long
 term of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and
 disappointed man.

 "When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the
 young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My
 sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the
 time of my mother's re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of
 money--not less than Â£1000 a year--and this she bequeathed to Dr.
 Roylott entirely while we resided with him, with a provision that a
 certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of
 our marriage. Shortly after our return to England my mother died--she
 was killed eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr.
 Roylott then abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice
 in London and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at
 Stoke Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all
 our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.

 "But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time.
 Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours,
 who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back
 in the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom
 came out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might
 cross his path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been
 hereditary in the men of the family, and in my stepfather's case it
 had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence in the
 tropics. A series of disgraceful brawls took place, two of which
 ended in the police-court, until at last he became the terror of the
 village, and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of
 immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.

 "Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a
 stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I could
 gather together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He
 had no friends at all save the wandering gypsies, and he would give
 these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered
 land which represent the family estate, and would accept in return
 the hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes
 for weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are
 sent over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a
 cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are
 feared by the villagers almost as much as their master.

 "You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had
 no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and
 for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty
 at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to
 whiten, even as mine has."

 "Your sister is dead, then?"

 "She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to
 speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have
 described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and
 position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother's maiden sister, Miss
 Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally
 allowed to pay short visits at this lady's house. Julia went there at
 Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines,
 to whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement
 when my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but
 within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding,
 the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only
 companion."

 Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes
 closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids
 now and glanced across at his visitor.

 "Pray be precise as to details," said he.

 "It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is
 seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said,
 very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this
 wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central
 block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott's,
 the second my sister's, and the third my own. There is no
 communication between them, but they all open out into the same
 corridor. Do I make myself plain?"

 "Perfectly so."

 "The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal
 night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he
 had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of
 the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left
 her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time,
 chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o'clock she rose to
 leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back.

 "'Tell me, Helen,' said she, 'have you ever heard anyone whistle in
 the dead of the night?'

 "'Never,' said I.

 "'I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your
 sleep?'

 "'Certainly not. But why?'

 "'Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in
 the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it
 has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from--perhaps from the
 next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you
 whether you had heard it.'

 "'No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the
 plantation.'

 "'Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did
 not hear it also.'

 "'Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.'

 "'Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.' She smiled back
 at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn
 in the lock."

 "Indeed," said Holmes. "Was it your custom always to lock yourselves
 in at night?"

 "Always."

 "And why?"

 "I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah and a
 baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked."

 "Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement."

 "I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending
 misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were
 twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two souls
 which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind was
 howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the
 windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the gale, there burst forth
 the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my sister's
 voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed
 into the corridor. As I opened my door I seemed to hear a low
 whistle, such as my sister described, and a few moments later a
 clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen. As I ran down the
 passage, my sister's door was unlocked, and revolved slowly upon its
 hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing what was about to
 issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister
 appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands
 groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a
 drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that
 moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground.  She
 writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully
 convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognised me, but as
 I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall
 never forget, 'Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled
 band!' There was something else which she would fain have said, and
 she stabbed with her finger into the air in the direction of the
 doctor's room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and choked her
 words. I rushed out, calling loudly for my stepfather, and I met him
 hastening from his room in his dressing-gown. When he reached my
 sister's side she was unconscious, and though he poured brandy down
 her throat and sent for medical aid from the village, all efforts
 were in vain, for she slowly sank and died without having recovered
 her consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved sister."

 "One moment," said Holmes, "are you sure about this whistle and
 metallic sound? Could you swear to it?"

 "That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my
 strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the
 gale and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been
 deceived."

 "Was your sister dressed?"

 "No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the
 charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box."

 "Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the
 alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the
 coroner come to?"

 "He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott's conduct
 had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any
 satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had
 been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by
 old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every
 night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite
 solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with
 the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large
 staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone
 when she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence
 upon her."

 "How about poison?"

 "The doctors examined her for it, but without success."

 "What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?"

 "It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though
 what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine."

 "Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?"

 "Yes, there are nearly always some there."

 "Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band--a speckled
 band?"

 "Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of
 delirium, sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people,
 perhaps to these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know
 whether the spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over
 their heads might have suggested the strange adjective which she
 used."

 Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.

 "These are very deep waters," said he; "pray go on with your
 narrative."

 "Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately
 lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have
 known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in
 marriage. His name is Armitage--Percy Armitage--the second son of Mr.
 Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no
 opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of
 the spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing
 of the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have
 had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in
 the very bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror
 when last night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I
 suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had
 been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but
 nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed
 again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I
 slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and
 drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on this morning with
 the one object of seeing you and asking your advice."

 "You have done wisely," said my friend. "But have you told me all?"

 "Yes, all."

 "Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather."

 "Why, what do you mean?"

 For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed
 the hand that lay upon our visitor's knee. Five little livid spots,
 the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white
 wrist.

 "You have been cruelly used," said Holmes.

 The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. "He is a
 hard man," she said, "and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength."

 There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon
 his hands and stared into the crackling fire.

 "This is a very deep business," he said at last. "There are a
 thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide upon
 our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to
 come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over
 these rooms without the knowledge of your stepfather?"

 "As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most
 important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and
 that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper
 now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of
 the way."

 "Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?"

 "By no means."

 "Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?"

 "I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in
 town. But I shall return by the twelve o'clock train, so as to be
 there in time for your coming."

 "And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some
 small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and
 breakfast?"

 "No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided
 my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this
 afternoon." She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided
 from the room.

 "And what do you think of it all, Watson?" asked Sherlock Holmes,
 leaning back in his chair.

 "It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business."

 "Dark enough and sinister enough."

 "Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are
 sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then
 her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her
 mysterious end."

 "What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the
 very peculiar words of the dying woman?"

 "I cannot think."

 "When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a
 band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the
 fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an
 interest in preventing his stepdaughter's marriage, the dying
 allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner
 heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those
 metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I
 think that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be
 cleared along those lines."

 "But what, then, did the gipsies do?"

 "I cannot imagine."

 "I see many objections to any such theory."

 "And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to
 Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal,
 or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!"

 The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our
 door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed
 himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the
 professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long
 frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging
 in his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross
 bar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from
 side to side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned
 yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned
 from one to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and
 his high, thin, fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to
 a fierce old bird of prey.

 "Which of you is Holmes?" asked this apparition.

 "My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said my companion
 quietly.

 "I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."

 "Indeed, Doctor," said Holmes blandly. "Pray take a seat."

 "I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have
 traced her. What has she been saying to you?"

 "It is a little cold for the time of the year," said Holmes.

 "What has she been saying to you?" screamed the old man furiously.

 "But I have heard that the crocuses promise well," continued my
 companion imperturbably.

 "Ha! You put me off, do you?" said our new visitor, taking a step
 forward and shaking his hunting-crop. "I know you, you scoundrel!  I
 have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler."

 My friend smiled.

 "Holmes, the busybody!"

 His smile broadened.

 "Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!"

 Holmes chuckled heartily. "Your conversation is most entertaining,"
 said he. "When you go out close the door, for there is a decided
 draught."

 "I will go when I have said my say. Don't you dare to meddle with my
 affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a
 dangerous man to fall foul of! See here." He stepped swiftly forward,
 seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.

 "See that you keep yourself out of my grip," he snarled, and hurling
 the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room.

 "He seems a very amiable person," said Holmes, laughing. "I am not
 quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my
 grip was not much more feeble than his own." As he spoke he picked up
 the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.

 "Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official
 detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation,
 however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from
 her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson,
 we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to
 Doctors' Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in
 this matter."

 It was nearly one o'clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his
 excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over
 with notes and figures.

 "I have seen the will of the deceased wife," said he. "To determine
 its exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices
 of the investments with which it is concerned. The total income,
 which at the time of the wife's death was little short of Â£1100, is
 now, through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than Â£750.
 Each daughter can claim an income of Â£250, in case of marriage. It is
 evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would
 have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to
 a very serious extent. My morning's work has not been wasted, since
 it has proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in
 the way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious
 for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are
 interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall
 call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if
 you would slip your revolver into your pocket. An Eley's No. 2 is an
 excellent argument with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into
 knots. That and a tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need."

 At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead,
 where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five
 miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a
 bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and
 wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and
 the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at
 least there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the
 spring and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My
 companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat
 pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried
 in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on
 the shoulder, and pointed over the meadows.

 "Look there!" said he.

 A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening
 into a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there
 jutted out the grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.

 "Stoke Moran?" said he.

 "Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott," remarked the
 driver.

 "There is some building going on there," said Holmes; "that is where
 we are going."

 "There's the village," said the driver, pointing to a cluster of
 roofs some distance to the left; "but if you want to get to the
 house, you'll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the
 foot-path over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking."

 "And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner," observed Holmes, shading his
 eyes. "Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest."

 We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to
 Leatherhead.

 "I thought it as well," said Holmes as we climbed the stile, "that
 this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some
 definite business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss
 Stoner. You see that we have been as good as our word."

 Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face
 which spoke her joy. "I have been waiting so eagerly for you," she
 cried, shaking hands with us warmly. "All has turned out splendidly.
 Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back
 before evening."

 "We have had the pleasure of making the doctor's acquaintance," said
 Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss
 Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.

 "Good heavens!" she cried, "he has followed me, then."

 "So it appears."

 "He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What
 will he say when he returns?"

 "He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more
 cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from
 him to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt's
 at Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take
 us at once to the rooms which we are to examine."

 The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central
 portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out
 on each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and
 blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a
 picture of ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but
 the right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the
 windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed
 that this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been
 erected against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken
 into, but there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our
 visit. Holmes walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and
 examined with deep attention the outsides of the windows.

 "This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the
 centre one to your sister's, and the one next to the main building to
 Dr. Roylott's chamber?"

 "Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one."

 "Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not
 seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall."

 "There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my
 room."

 "Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing
 runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are
 windows in it, of course?"

 "Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through."

 "As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were
 unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go
 into your room and bar your shutters?"

 Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through
 the open window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open,
 but without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be
 passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but
 they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry.
 "Hum!" said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, "my theory
 certainly presents some difficulties. No one could pass these
 shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws
 any light upon the matter."

 A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the
 three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber,
 so we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now
 sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a
 homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after
 the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in
 one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a
 dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles,
 with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the
 room save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards
 round and the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak,
 so old and discoloured that it may have dated from the original
 building of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner
 and sat silent, while his eyes travelled round and round and up and
 down, taking in every detail of the apartment.

 "Where does that bell communicate with?" he asked at last pointing to
 a thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually
 lying upon the pillow.

 "It goes to the housekeeper's room."

 "It looks newer than the other things?"

 "Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago."

 "Your sister asked for it, I suppose?"

 "No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we
 wanted for ourselves."

 "Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You
 will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this
 floor." He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand
 and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the
 cracks between the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work
 with which the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the
 bed and spent some time in staring at it and in running his eye up
 and down the wall. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave
 it a brisk tug.

 "Why, it's a dummy," said he.

 "Won't it ring?"

 "No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You
 can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little
 opening for the ventilator is."

 "How very absurd! I never noticed that before."

 "Very strange!" muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. "There are one
 or two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool
 a builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with
 the same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!"

 "That is also quite modern," said the lady.

 "Done about the same time as the bell-rope?" remarked Holmes.

 "Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time."

 "They seem to have been of a most interesting character--dummy
 bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your
 permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the
 inner apartment."

 Dr. Grimesby Roylott's chamber was larger than that of his
 step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small
 wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an
 armchair beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a
 round table, and a large iron safe were the principal things which
 met the eye. Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of
 them with the keenest interest.

 "What's in here?" he asked, tapping the safe.

 "My stepfather's business papers."

 "Oh! you have seen inside, then?"

 "Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers."

 "There isn't a cat in it, for example?"

 "No. What a strange idea!"

 "Well, look at this!" He took up a small saucer of milk which stood
 on the top of it.

 "No; we don't keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon."

 "Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a
 saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I
 daresay. There is one point which I should wish to determine." He
 squatted down in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of
 it with the greatest attention.

 "Thank you. That is quite settled," said he, rising and putting his
 lens in his pocket. "Hullo! Here is something interesting!"

 The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one
 corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied
 so as to make a loop of whipcord.

 "What do you make of that, Watson?"

 "It's a common enough lash. But I don't know why it should be tied."

 "That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it's a wicked world, and
 when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I
 think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your
 permission we shall walk out upon the lawn."

 I had never seen my friend's face so grim or his brow so dark as it
 was when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had
 walked several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor
 myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself
 from his reverie.

 "It is very essential, Miss Stoner," said he, "that you should
 absolutely follow my advice in every respect."

 "I shall most certainly do so."

 "The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend
 upon your compliance."

 "I assure you that I am in your hands."

 "In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in
 your room."

 Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.

 "Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the
 village inn over there?"

 "Yes, that is the Crown."

 "Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?"

 "Certainly."

 "You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache,
 when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for
 the night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp,
 put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with
 everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used
 to occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could
 manage there for one night."

 "Oh, yes, easily."

 "The rest you will leave in our hands."

 "But what will you do?"

 "We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the
 cause of this noise which has disturbed you."

 "I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,"
 said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion's sleeve.

 "Perhaps I have."

 "Then, for pity's sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister's
 death."

 "I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak."

 "You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if
 she died from some sudden fright."

 "No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more
 tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr.
 Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain.  Good-bye,
 and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest
 assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you."

 Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and
 sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from
 our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the
 inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr.
 Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the
 little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight
 difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse
 roar of the doctor's voice and saw the fury with which he shook his
 clinched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we
 saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in
 one of the sitting-rooms.

 "Do you know, Watson," said Holmes as we sat together in the
 gathering darkness, "I have really some scruples as to taking you
 to-night. There is a distinct element of danger."

 "Can I be of assistance?"

 "Your presence might be invaluable."

 "Then I shall certainly come."

 "It is very kind of you."

 "You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms
 than was visible to me."

 "No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine
 that you saw all that I did."

 "I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that
 could answer I confess is more than I can imagine."

 "You saw the ventilator, too?"

 "Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have
 a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could
 hardly pass through."

 "I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke
 Moran."

 "My dear Holmes!"

 "Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her
 sister could smell Dr. Roylott's cigar. Now, of course that suggested
 at once that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It
 could only be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the
 coroner's inquiry. I deduced a ventilator."

 "But what harm can there be in that?"

 "Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator
 is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does
 not that strike you?"

 "I cannot as yet see any connection."

 "Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?"

 "No."

 "It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like
 that before?"

 "I cannot say that I have."

 "The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same
 relative position to the ventilator and to the rope--or so we may
 call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull."

 "Holmes," I cried, "I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We
 are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime."

 "Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is
 the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and
 Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes
 even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike
 deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is
 over; for goodness' sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds
 for a few hours to something more cheerful."

 About nine o'clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and
 all was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed
 slowly away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a
 single bright light shone out right in front of us.

 "That is our signal," said Holmes, springing to his feet; "it comes
 from the middle window."

 As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord,
 explaining that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and
 that it was possible that we might spend the night there. A moment
 later we were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our
 faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us through the
 gloom to guide us on our sombre errand.

 There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired
 breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees,
 we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the
 window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what
 seemed to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the
 grass with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into
 the darkness.

 "My God!" I whispered; "did you see it?"

 Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a
 vice upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh
 and put his lips to my ear.

 "It is a nice household," he murmured. "That is the baboon."

 I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor affected. There was
 a cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any
 moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following
 Holmes' example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the
 bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp
 onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had
 seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet
 of his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all
 that I could do to distinguish the words:

 "The least sound would be fatal to our plans."

 I nodded to show that I had heard.

 "We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator."

 I nodded again.

 "Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your
 pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the
 bed, and you in that chair."

 I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.

 Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the
 bed beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a
 candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.

 How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a
 sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my
 companion sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state
 of nervous tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the
 least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness.

 From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our
 very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the
 cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones
 of the parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How
 long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and
 three, and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall.

 Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction
 of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a
 strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next
 room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and
 then all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For
 half an hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound
 became audible--a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small
 jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we
 heard it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed
 furiously with his cane at the bell-pull.

 "You see it, Watson?" he yelled. "You see it?"

 But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard
 a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary
 eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend
 lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly
 pale and filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and
 was gazing up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the
 silence of the night the most horrible cry to which I have ever
 listened. It swelled up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and
 fear and anger all mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that
 away down in the village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry
 raised the sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts,
 and I stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of
 it had died away into the silence from which it rose.

 "What can it mean?" I gasped.

 "It means that it is all over," Holmes answered. "And perhaps, after
 all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr.
 Roylott's room."

 With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor.
 Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within.
 Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the
 cocked pistol in my hand.

 It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a
 dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of
 light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this
 table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long
 grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet
 thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the
 short stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day.
 His chin was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful,
 rigid stare at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a
 peculiar yellow band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be
 bound tightly round his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor
 motion.

 "The band! the speckled band!" whispered Holmes.

 I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to
 move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat
 diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.

 "It is a swamp adder!" cried Holmes; "the deadliest snake in India.
 He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in
 truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit
 which he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its
 den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and
 let the county police know what has happened."

 As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man's lap, and
 throwing the noose round the reptile's neck he drew it from its
 horrid perch and, carrying it at arm's length, threw it into the iron
 safe, which he closed upon it.

 Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of
 Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative
 which has already run to too great a length by telling how we broke
 the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the
 morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow
 process of official inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor
 met his fate while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The
 little which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock
 Holmes as we travelled back next day.

 "I had," said he, "come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which
 shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from
 insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the
 word 'band,' which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to explain
 the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light
 of her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent.
 I can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position
 when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened
 an occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the
 door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to
 you, to this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the
 bed. The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was
 clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the
 rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and
 coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and
 when I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished
 with a supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on
 the right track. The idea of using a form of poison which could not
 possibly be discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as
 would occur to a clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern
 training. The rapidity with which such a poison would take effect
 would also, from his point of view, be an advantage. It would be a
 sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could distinguish the two little dark
 punctures which would show where the poison fangs had done their
 work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of course he must recall the
 snake before the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had
 trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to return
 to him when summoned. He would put it through this ventilator at the
 hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl
 down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the
 occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but sooner
 or later she must fall a victim.

 "I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room.
 An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of
 standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he
 should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of
 milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any
 doubts which may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss
 Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the
 door of his safe upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my
 mind, you know the steps which I took in order to put the matter to
 the proof. I heard the creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did
 also, and I instantly lit the light and attacked it."

 "With the result of driving it through the ventilator."

 "And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at
 the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its
 snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this
 way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott's
 death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon
 my conscience."






                  THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER'S THUMB

 Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr.
 Sherlock Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy, there
 were only two which I was the means of introducing to his
 notice--that of Mr. Hatherley's thumb, and that of Colonel
 Warburton's madness. Of these the latter may have afforded a finer
 field for an acute and original observer, but the other was so
 strange in its inception and so dramatic in its details that it may
 be the more worthy of being placed upon record, even if it gave my
 friend fewer openings for those deductive methods of reasoning by
 which he achieved such remarkable results. The story has, I believe,
 been told more than once in the newspapers, but, like all such
 narratives, its effect is much less striking when set forth en bloc
 in a single half-column of print than when the facts slowly evolve
 before your own eyes, and the mystery clears gradually away as each
 new discovery furnishes a step which leads on to the complete truth.
 At the time the circumstances made a deep impression upon me, and the
 lapse of two years has hardly served to weaken the effect.

 It was in the summer of '89, not long after my marriage, that the
 events occurred which I am now about to summarise. I had returned to
 civil practice and had finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker Street
 rooms, although I continually visited him and occasionally even
 persuaded him to forgo his Bohemian habits so far as to come and
 visit us. My practice had steadily increased, and as I happened to
 live at no very great distance from Paddington Station, I got a few
 patients from among the officials. One of these, whom I had cured of
 a painful and lingering disease, was never weary of advertising my
 virtues and of endeavouring to send me on every sufferer over whom he
 might have any influence.

 One morning, at a little before seven o'clock, I was awakened by the
 maid tapping at the door to announce that two men had come from
 Paddington and were waiting in the consulting-room. I dressed
 hurriedly, for I knew by experience that railway cases were seldom
 trivial, and hastened downstairs. As I descended, my old ally, the
 guard, came out of the room and closed the door tightly behind him.

 "I've got him here," he whispered, jerking his thumb over his
 shoulder; "he's all right."

 "What is it, then?" I asked, for his manner suggested that it was
 some strange creature which he had caged up in my room.

 "It's a new patient," he whispered. "I thought I'd bring him round
 myself; then he couldn't slip away. There he is, all safe and sound.
 I must go now, Doctor; I have my dooties, just the same as you." And
 off he went, this trusty tout, without even giving me time to thank
 him.

 I entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman seated by the
 table. He was quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed with a soft
 cloth cap which he had laid down upon my books. Round one of his
 hands he had a handkerchief wrapped, which was mottled all over with
 bloodstains. He was young, not more than five-and-twenty, I should
 say, with a strong, masculine face; but he was exceedingly pale and
 gave me the impression of a man who was suffering from some strong
 agitation, which it took all his strength of mind to control.

 "I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor," said he, "but I have
 had a very serious accident during the night. I came in by train this
 morning, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find a
 doctor, a worthy fellow very kindly escorted me here. I gave the maid
 a card, but I see that she has left it upon the side-table."

 I took it up and glanced at it. "Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic
 engineer, 16A, Victoria Street (3rd floor)." That was the name,
 style, and abode of my morning visitor. "I regret that I have kept
 you waiting," said I, sitting down in my library-chair. "You are
 fresh from a night journey, I understand, which is in itself a
 monotonous occupation."

 "Oh, my night could not be called monotonous," said he, and laughed.
 He laughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note, leaning back in
 his chair and shaking his sides. All my medical instincts rose up
 against that laugh.

 "Stop it!" I cried; "pull yourself together!" and I poured out some
 water from a caraffe.

 It was useless, however. He was off in one of those hysterical
 outbursts which come upon a strong nature when some great crisis is
 over and gone. Presently he came to himself once more, very weary and
 pale-looking.

 "I have been making a fool of myself," he gasped.

 "Not at all. Drink this." I dashed some brandy into the water, and
 the colour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks.

 "That's better!" said he. "And now, Doctor, perhaps you would kindly
 attend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my thumb used to
 be."

 He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even my
 hardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were four protruding
 fingers and a horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb should have
 been. It had been hacked or torn right out from the roots.

 "Good heavens!" I cried, "this is a terrible injury. It must have
 bled considerably."

 "Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think that I must
 have been senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that it
 was still bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very tightly
 round the wrist and braced it up with a twig."

 "Excellent! You should have been a surgeon."

 "It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own
 province."

 "This has been done," said I, examining the wound, "by a very heavy
 and sharp instrument."

 "A thing like a cleaver," said he.

 "An accident, I presume?"

 "By no means."

 "What! a murderous attack?"

 "Very murderous indeed."

 "You horrify me."

 I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and finally covered it
 over with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. He lay back without
 wincing, though he bit his lip from time to time.

 "How is that?" I asked when I had finished.

 "Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel a new man. I
 was very weak, but I have had a good deal to go through."

 "Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently
 trying to your nerves."

 "Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police; but,
 between ourselves, if it were not for the convincing evidence of this
 wound of mine, I should be surprised if they believed my statement,
 for it is a very extraordinary one, and I have not much in the way of
 proof with which to back it up; and, even if they believe me, the
 clues which I can give them are so vague that it is a question
 whether justice will be done."

 "Ha!" cried I, "if it is anything in the nature of a problem which
 you desire to see solved, I should strongly recommend you to come to
 my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the official
 police."

 "Oh, I have heard of that fellow," answered my visitor, "and I should
 be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of course I must
 use the official police as well. Would you give me an introduction to
 him?"

 "I'll do better. I'll take you round to him myself."

 "I should be immensely obliged to you."

 "We'll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to have a
 little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?"

 "Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my story."

 "Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an
 instant." I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my wife,
 and in five minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my new
 acquaintance to Baker Street.

 Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his sitting-room
 in his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of The Times and
 smoking his before-breakfast pipe, which was composed of all the
 plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the day before, all
 carefully dried and collected on the corner of the mantelpiece. He
 received us in his quietly genial fashion, ordered fresh rashers and
 eggs, and joined us in a hearty meal. When it was concluded he
 settled our new acquaintance upon the sofa, placed a pillow beneath
 his head, and laid a glass of brandy and water within his reach.

 "It is easy to see that your experience has been no common one, Mr.
 Hatherley," said he. "Pray, lie down there and make yourself
 absolutely at home. Tell us what you can, but stop when you are tired
 and keep up your strength with a little stimulant."

 "Thank you," said my patient. "but I have felt another man since the
 doctor bandaged me, and I think that your breakfast has completed the
 cure. I shall take up as little of your valuable time as possible, so
 I shall start at once upon my peculiar experiences."

 Holmes sat in his big armchair with the weary, heavy-lidded
 expression which veiled his keen and eager nature, while I sat
 opposite to him, and we listened in silence to the strange story
 which our visitor detailed to us.

 "You must know," said he, "that I am an orphan and a bachelor,
 residing alone in lodgings in London. By profession I am a hydraulic
 engineer, and I have had considerable experience of my work during
 the seven years that I was apprenticed to Venner & Matheson, the
 well-known firm, of Greenwich. Two years ago, having served my time,
 and having also come into a fair sum of money through my poor
 father's death, I determined to start in business for myself and took
 professional chambers in Victoria Street.

 "I suppose that everyone finds his first independent start in
 business a dreary experience. To me it has been exceptionally so.
 During two years I have had three consultations and one small job,
 and that is absolutely all that my profession has brought me. My
 gross takings amount to Â£27 10s. Every day, from nine in the morning
 until four in the afternoon, I waited in my little den, until at last
 my heart began to sink, and I came to believe that I should never
 have any practice at all.

 "Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of leaving the office, my
 clerk entered to say there was a gentleman waiting who wished to see
 me upon business. He brought up a card, too, with the name of
 'Colonel Lysander Stark' engraved upon it. Close at his heels came
 the colonel himself, a man rather over the middle size, but of an
 exceeding thinness. I do not think that I have ever seen so thin a
 man. His whole face sharpened away into nose and chin, and the skin
 of his cheeks was drawn quite tense over his outstanding bones. Yet
 this emaciation seemed to be his natural habit, and due to no
 disease, for his eye was bright, his step brisk, and his bearing
 assured. He was plainly but neatly dressed, and his age, I should
 judge, would be nearer forty than thirty.

 "'Mr. Hatherley?' said he, with something of a German accent. 'You
 have been recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a man who is not
 only proficient in his profession but is also discreet and capable of
 preserving a secret.'

 "I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man would at such an
 address. 'May I ask who it was who gave me so good a character?' 

 "'Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell you that just at
 this moment. I have it from the same source that you are both an
 orphan and a bachelor and are residing alone in London.'

 "'That is quite correct,' I answered; 'but you will excuse me if I
 say that I cannot see how all this bears upon my professional
 qualifications. I understand that it was on a professional matter
 that you wished to speak to me?'

 "'Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I say is really to the
 point. I have a professional commission for you, but absolute secrecy
 is quite essential--absolute secrecy, you understand, and of course
 we may expect that more from a man who is alone than from one who
 lives in the bosom of his family.'

 "'If I promise to keep a secret,' said I, 'you may absolutely depend
 upon my doing so.'

 "He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it seemed to me that I had
 never seen so suspicious and questioning an eye.

 "'Do you promise, then?' said he at last.

 "'Yes, I promise.'

 "'Absolute and complete silence before, during, and after? No
 reference to the matter at all, either in word or writing?'

 "'I have already given you my word.'

 "'Very good.' He suddenly sprang up, and darting like lightning
 across the room he flung open the door. The passage outside was
 empty.

 "'That's all right,' said he, coming back. 'I know that clerks are
 sometimes curious as to their master's affairs. Now we can talk in
 safety.' He drew up his chair very close to mine and began to stare
 at me again with the same questioning and thoughtful look.

 "A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to fear had begun to
 rise within me at the strange antics of this fleshless man. Even my
 dread of losing a client could not restrain me from showing my
 impatience.

 "'I beg that you will state your business, sir,' said I; 'my time is
 of value.' Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, but the words
 came to my lips.

 "'How would fifty guineas for a night's work suit you?' he asked.

 "'Most admirably.'

 "'I say a night's work, but an hour's would be nearer the mark. I
 simply want your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine which has
 got out of gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall soon set it
 right ourselves. What do you think of such a commission as that?'

 "'The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.'

 "'Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night by the last
 train.'

 "'Where to?'

 "'To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place near the borders of
 Oxfordshire, and within seven miles of Reading. There is a train from
 Paddington which would bring you there at about 11.15.'

 "'Very good.'

 "'I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.'

 "'There is a drive, then?'

 "'Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It is a good
 seven miles from Eyford Station.'

 "'Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I suppose there would
 be no chance of a train back. I should be compelled to stop the
 night.'

 "'Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.'

 "'That is very awkward. Could I not come at some more convenient
 hour?'

 "'We have judged it best that you should come late. It is to
 recompense you for any inconvenience that we are paying to you, a
 young and unknown man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the very
 heads of your profession. Still, of course, if you would like to draw
 out of the business, there is plenty of time to do so.'

 "I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very useful they would be
 to me. 'Not at all,' said I, 'I shall be very happy to accommodate
 myself to your wishes. I should like, however, to understand a little
 more clearly what it is that you wish me to do.'

 "'Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of secrecy which we
 have exacted from you should have aroused your curiosity. I have no
 wish to commit you to anything without your having it all laid before
 you. I suppose that we are absolutely safe from eavesdroppers?'

 "'Entirely.'

 "'Then the matter stands thus. You are probably aware that
 fuller's-earth is a valuable product, and that it is only found in
 one or two places in England?'

 "'I have heard so.'

 "'Some little time ago I bought a small place--a very small
 place--within ten miles of Reading. I was fortunate enough to
 discover that there was a deposit of fuller's-earth in one of my
 fields. On examining it, however, I found that this deposit was a
 comparatively small one, and that it formed a link between two very
 much larger ones upon the right and left--both of them, however, in
 the grounds of my neighbours. These good people were absolutely
 ignorant that their land contained that which was quite as valuable
 as a gold-mine. Naturally, it was to my interest to buy their land
 before they discovered its true value, but unfortunately I had no
 capital by which I could do this. I took a few of my friends into the
 secret, however, and they suggested that we should quietly and
 secretly work our own little deposit and that in this way we should
 earn the money which would enable us to buy the neighbouring fields.
 This we have now been doing for some time, and in order to help us in
 our operations we erected a hydraulic press. This press, as I have
 already explained, has got out of order, and we wish your advice upon
 the subject. We guard our secret very jealously, however, and if it
 once became known that we had hydraulic engineers coming to our
 little house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if the facts
 came out, it would be good-bye to any chance of getting these fields
 and carrying out our plans. That is why I have made you promise me
 that you will not tell a human being that you are going to Eyford
 to-night. I hope that I make it all plain?'

 "'I quite follow you,' said I. 'The only point which I could not
 quite understand was what use you could make of a hydraulic press in
 excavating fuller's-earth, which, as I understand, is dug out like
 gravel from a pit.'

 "'Ah!' said he carelessly, 'we have our own process. We compress the
 earth into bricks, so as to remove them without revealing what they
 are. But that is a mere detail. I have taken you fully into my
 confidence now, Mr. Hatherley, and I have shown you how I trust you.'
 He rose as he spoke. 'I shall expect you, then, at Eyford at 11.15.'

 "'I shall certainly be there.'

 "'And not a word to a soul.' He looked at me with a last long,
 questioning gaze, and then, pressing my hand in a cold, dank grasp,
 he hurried from the room.

 "Well, when I came to think it all over in cool blood I was very much
 astonished, as you may both think, at this sudden commission which
 had been intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, I was glad, for
 the fee was at least tenfold what I should have asked had I set a
 price upon my own services, and it was possible that this order might
 lead to other ones. On the other hand, the face and manner of my
 patron had made an unpleasant impression upon me, and I could not
 think that his explanation of the fuller's-earth was sufficient to
 explain the necessity for my coming at midnight, and his extreme
 anxiety lest I should tell anyone of my errand. However, I threw all
 fears to the winds, ate a hearty supper, drove to Paddington, and
 started off, having obeyed to the letter the injunction as to holding
 my tongue.

 "At Reading I had to change not only my carriage but my station.
 However, I was in time for the last train to Eyford, and I reached
 the little dim-lit station after eleven o'clock. I was the only
 passenger who got out there, and there was no one upon the platform
 save a single sleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed out through
 the wicket gate, however, I found my acquaintance of the morning
 waiting in the shadow upon the other side. Without a word he grasped
 my arm and hurried me into a carriage, the door of which was standing
 open. He drew up the windows on either side, tapped on the wood-work,
 and away we went as fast as the horse could go."

 "One horse?" interjected Holmes.

 "Yes, only one."

 "Did you observe the colour?"

 "Yes, I saw it by the side-lights when I was stepping into the
 carriage. It was a chestnut."

 "Tired-looking or fresh?"

 "Oh, fresh and glossy."

 "Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you. Pray continue your
 most interesting statement."

 "Away we went then, and we drove for at least an hour. Colonel
 Lysander Stark had said that it was only seven miles, but I should
 think, from the rate that we seemed to go, and from the time that we
 took, that it must have been nearer twelve. He sat at my side in
 silence all the time, and I was aware, more than once when I glanced
 in his direction, that he was looking at me with great intensity. The
 country roads seem to be not very good in that part of the world, for
 we lurched and jolted terribly. I tried to look out of the windows to
 see something of where we were, but they were made of frosted glass,
 and I could make out nothing save the occasional bright blur of a
 passing light. Now and then I hazarded some remark to break the
 monotony of the journey, but the colonel answered only in
 monosyllables, and the conversation soon flagged. At last, however,
 the bumping of the road was exchanged for the crisp smoothness of a
 gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a stand. Colonel Lysander
 Stark sprang out, and, as I followed after him, pulled me swiftly
 into a porch which gaped in front of us. We stepped, as it were,
 right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I failed to
 catch the most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The instant
 that I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us,
 and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage drove
 away.

 "It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled about
 looking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door
 opened at the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar of
 light shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman
 appeared with a lamp in her hand, which she held above her head,
 pushing her face forward and peering at us. I could see that she was
 pretty, and from the gloss with which the light shone upon her dark
 dress I knew that it was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a
 foreign tongue in a tone as though asking a question, and when my
 companion answered in a gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that
 the lamp nearly fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her,
 whispered something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the
 room from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the
 lamp in his hand.

 "'Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few
 minutes,' said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet,
 little, plainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on
 which several German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down
 the lamp on the top of a harmonium beside the door. 'I shall not keep
 you waiting an instant,' said he, and vanished into the darkness.

 "I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance
 of German I could see that two of them were treatises on science, the
 others being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window,
 hoping that I might catch some glimpse of the country-side, but an
 oak shutter, heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a
 wonderfully silent house. There was an old clock ticking loudly
 somewhere in the passage, but otherwise everything was deadly still.
 A vague feeling of uneasiness began to steal over me. Who were these
 German people, and what were they doing living in this strange,
 out-of-the-way place? And where was the place? I was ten miles or so
 from Eyford, that was all I knew, but whether north, south, east, or
 west I had no idea. For that matter, Reading, and possibly other
 large towns, were within that radius, so the place might not be so
 secluded, after all. Yet it was quite certain, from the absolute
 stillness, that we were in the country. I paced up and down the room,
 humming a tune under my breath to keep up my spirits and feeling that
 I was thoroughly earning my fifty-guinea fee.

 "Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the utter
 stillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman was
 standing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind her, the
 yellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager and beautiful face.
 I could see at a glance that she was sick with fear, and the sight
 sent a chill to my own heart. She held up one shaking finger to warn
 me to be silent, and she shot a few whispered words of broken English
 at me, her eyes glancing back, like those of a frightened horse, into
 the gloom behind her.

 "'I would go,' said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to speak
 calmly; 'I would go. I should not stay here. There is no good for you
 to do.'

 "'But, madam,' said I, 'I have not yet done what I came for. I cannot
 possibly leave until I have seen the machine.'

 "'It is not worth your while to wait,' she went on. 'You can pass
 through the door; no one hinders.' And then, seeing that I smiled and
 shook my head, she suddenly threw aside her constraint and made a
 step forward, with her hands wrung together. 'For the love of
 Heaven!' she whispered, 'get away from here before it is too late!'

 "But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and the more ready to engage
 in an affair when there is some obstacle in the way. I thought of my
 fifty-guinea fee, of my wearisome journey, and of the unpleasant
 night which seemed to be before me. Was it all to go for nothing? Why
 should I slink away without having carried out my commission, and
 without the payment which was my due? This woman might, for all I
 knew, be a monomaniac. With a stout bearing, therefore, though her
 manner had shaken me more than I cared to confess, I still shook my
 head and declared my intention of remaining where I was. She was
 about to renew her entreaties when a door slammed overhead, and the
 sound of several footsteps was heard upon the stairs. She listened
 for an instant, threw up her hands with a despairing gesture, and
 vanished as suddenly and as noiselessly as she had come.

 "The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark and a short thick man with
 a chinchilla beard growing out of the creases of his double chin, who
 was introduced to me as Mr. Ferguson.

 "'This is my secretary and manager,' said the colonel. 'By the way, I
 was under the impression that I left this door shut just now. I fear
 that you have felt the draught.'

 "'On the contrary,' said I, 'I opened the door myself because I felt
 the room to be a little close.'

 "He shot one of his suspicious looks at me. 'Perhaps we had better
 proceed to business, then,' said he. 'Mr. Ferguson and I will take
 you up to see the machine.'

 "'I had better put my hat on, I suppose.'

 "'Oh, no, it is in the house.'

 "'What, you dig fuller's-earth in the house?'

 "'No, no. This is only where we compress it. But never mind that. All
 we wish you to do is to examine the machine and to let us know what
 is wrong with it.'

 "We went upstairs together, the colonel first with the lamp, the fat
 manager and I behind him. It was a labyrinth of an old house, with
 corridors, passages, narrow winding staircases, and little low doors,
 the thresholds of which were hollowed out by the generations who had
 crossed them. There were no carpets and no signs of any furniture
 above the ground floor, while the plaster was peeling off the walls,
 and the damp was breaking through in green, unhealthy blotches. I
 tried to put on as unconcerned an air as possible, but I had not
 forgotten the warnings of the lady, even though I disregarded them,
 and I kept a keen eye upon my two companions. Ferguson appeared to be
 a morose and silent man, but I could see from the little that he said
 that he was at least a fellow-countryman.

 "Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before a low door, which he
 unlocked. Within was a small, square room, in which the three of us
 could hardly get at one time. Ferguson remained outside, and the
 colonel ushered me in.

 "'We are now,' said he, 'actually within the hydraulic press, and it
 would be a particularly unpleasant thing for us if anyone were to
 turn it on. The ceiling of this small chamber is really the end of
 the descending piston, and it comes down with the force of many tons
 upon this metal floor. There are small lateral columns of water
 outside which receive the force, and which transmit and multiply it
 in the manner which is familiar to you. The machine goes readily
 enough, but there is some stiffness in the working of it, and it has
 lost a little of its force. Perhaps you will have the goodness to
 look it over and to show us how we can set it right.'

 "I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine very
 thoroughly. It was indeed a gigantic one, and capable of exercising
 enormous pressure. When I passed outside, however, and pressed down
 the levers which controlled it, I knew at once by the whishing sound
 that there was a slight leakage, which allowed a regurgitation of
 water through one of the side cylinders. An examination showed that
 one of the india-rubber bands which was round the head of a
 driving-rod had shrunk so as not quite to fill the socket along which
 it worked. This was clearly the cause of the loss of power, and I
 pointed it out to my companions, who followed my remarks very
 carefully and asked several practical questions as to how they should
 proceed to set it right. When I had made it clear to them, I returned
 to the main chamber of the machine and took a good look at it to
 satisfy my own curiosity. It was obvious at a glance that the story
 of the fuller's-earth was the merest fabrication, for it would be
 absurd to suppose that so powerful an engine could be designed for so
 inadequate a purpose. The walls were of wood, but the floor consisted
 of a large iron trough, and when I came to examine it I could see a
 crust of metallic deposit all over it. I had stooped and was scraping
 at this to see exactly what it was when I heard a muttered
 exclamation in German and saw the cadaverous face of the colonel
 looking down at me.

 "'What are you doing there?' he asked.

 "I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate a story as that
 which he had told me. 'I was admiring your fuller's-earth,' said I;
 'I think that I should be better able to advise you as to your
 machine if I knew what the exact purpose was for which it was used.'

 "The instant that I uttered the words I regretted the rashness of my
 speech. His face set hard, and a baleful light sprang up in his grey
 eyes.

 "'Very well,' said he, 'you shall know all about the machine.' He
 took a step backward, slammed the little door, and turned the key in
 the lock. I rushed towards it and pulled at the handle, but it was
 quite secure, and did not give in the least to my kicks and shoves.
 'Hullo!' I yelled. 'Hullo! Colonel! Let me out!'

 "And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound which sent my heart
 into my mouth. It was the clank of the levers and the swish of the
 leaking cylinder. He had set the engine at work. The lamp still stood
 upon the floor where I had placed it when examining the trough. By
 its light I saw that the black ceiling was coming down upon me,
 slowly, jerkily, but, as none knew better than myself, with a force
 which must within a minute grind me to a shapeless pulp. I threw
 myself, screaming, against the door, and dragged with my nails at the
 lock. I implored the colonel to let me out, but the remorseless
 clanking of the levers drowned my cries. The ceiling was only a foot
 or two above my head, and with my hand upraised I could feel its
 hard, rough surface. Then it flashed through my mind that the pain of
 my death would depend very much upon the position in which I met it.
 If I lay on my face the weight would come upon my spine, and I
 shuddered to think of that dreadful snap. Easier the other way,
 perhaps; and yet, had I the nerve to lie and look up at that deadly
 black shadow wavering down upon me? Already I was unable to stand
 erect, when my eye caught something which brought a gush of hope back
 to my heart.

 "I have said that though the floor and ceiling were of iron, the
 walls were of wood. As I gave a last hurried glance around, I saw a
 thin line of yellow light between two of the boards, which broadened
 and broadened as a small panel was pushed backward. For an instant I
 could hardly believe that here was indeed a door which led away from
 death. The next instant I threw myself through, and lay half-fainting
 upon the other side. The panel had closed again behind me, but the
 crash of the lamp, and a few moments afterwards the clang of the two
 slabs of metal, told me how narrow had been my escape.

 "I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at my wrist, and I
 found myself lying upon the stone floor of a narrow corridor, while a
 woman bent over me and tugged at me with her left hand, while she
 held a candle in her right. It was the same good friend whose warning
 I had so foolishly rejected.

 "'Come! come!' she cried breathlessly. 'They will be here in a
 moment. They will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste the
 so-precious time, but come!'

 "This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. I staggered to my
 feet and ran with her along the corridor and down a winding stair.
 The latter led to another broad passage, and just as we reached it we
 heard the sound of running feet and the shouting of two voices, one
 answering the other from the floor on which  we were and from the one
 beneath. My guide stopped and looked about her like one  who is at
 her wit's end. Then she threw open a door which led into a bedroom,
 through the window of which the moon was shining brightly.

 "'It is your only chance,' said she. 'It is high, but it may be that
 you can jump it.'

 "As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further end of the
 passage, and I saw the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark rushing
 forward with a lantern in one hand and a weapon like a butcher's
 cleaver in the other. I rushed across the bedroom, flung open the
 window, and looked out. How quiet and sweet and wholesome the garden
 looked in the moonlight, and it could not be more than thirty feet
 down. I clambered out upon the sill, but I hesitated to jump until I
 should have heard what passed between my saviour and the ruffian who
 pursued me. If she were ill-used, then at any risks I was determined
 to go back to her assistance. The thought had hardly flashed through
 my mind before he was at the door, pushing his way past her; but she
 threw her arms round him and tried to hold him back.

 "'Fritz! Fritz!' she cried in English, 'remember your promise after
 the last time. You said it should not be again. He will be silent!
 Oh, he will be silent!'

 "'You are mad, Elise!' he shouted, struggling to break away from her.
 'You will be the ruin of us. He has seen too much. Let me pass, I
 say!' He dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the window, cut at
 me with his heavy weapon. I had let myself go, and was hanging by the
 hands to the sill, when his blow fell. I was conscious of a dull
 pain, my grip loosened, and I fell into the garden below.

 "I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so I picked myself up and
 rushed off among the bushes as hard as I could run, for I understood
 that I was far from being out of danger yet. Suddenly, however, as I
 ran, a deadly dizziness and sickness came over me. I glanced down at
 my hand, which was throbbing painfully, and then, for the first time,
 saw that my thumb had been cut off and that the blood was pouring
 from my wound. I endeavoured to tie my handkerchief round it, but
 there came a sudden buzzing in my ears, and next moment I fell in a
 dead faint among the rose-bushes.

 "How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell. It must have been a
 very long time, for the moon had sunk, and a bright morning was
 breaking when I came to myself. My clothes were all sodden with dew,
 and my coat-sleeve was drenched with blood from my wounded thumb. The
 smarting of it recalled in an instant all the particulars of my
 night's adventure, and I sprang to my feet with the feeling that I
 might hardly yet be safe from my pursuers. But to my astonishment,
 when I came to look round me, neither house nor garden were to be
 seen. I had been lying in an angle of the hedge close by the
 highroad, and just a little lower down was a long building, which
 proved, upon my approaching it, to be the very station at which I had
 arrived upon the previous night. Were it not for the ugly wound upon
 my hand, all that had passed during those dreadful hours might have
 been an evil dream.

 "Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about the morning
 train. There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The same
 porter was on duty, I found, as had been there when I arrived. I
 inquired of him whether he had ever heard of Colonel Lysander Stark.
 The name was strange to him. Had he observed a carriage the night
 before waiting for me? No, he had not. Was there a police-station
 anywhere near? There was one about three miles off.

 "It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined to
 wait until I got back to town before telling my story to the police.
 It was a little past six when I arrived, so I went first to have my
 wound dressed, and then the doctor was kind enough to bring me along
 here. I put the case into your hands and shall do exactly what you
 advise."

 We both sat in silence for some little time after listening to this
 extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the
 shelf one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he placed his
 cuttings.

 "Here is an advertisement which will interest you," said he. "It
 appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this:

 "'Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a
 hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o'clock at night, and
 has not been heard of since. Was dressed in--'

 etc., etc. Ha! That represents the last time that the colonel needed
 to have his machine overhauled, I fancy."

 "Good heavens!" cried my patient. "Then that explains what the girl
 said."

 "Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and
 desperate man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should
 stand in the way of his little game, like those out-and-out pirates
 who will leave no survivor from a captured ship. Well, every moment
 now is precious, so if you feel equal to it we shall go down to
 Scotland Yard at once as a preliminary to starting for Eyford."

 Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in the train together,
 bound from Reading to the little Berkshire village. There were
 Sherlock Holmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet, of
 Scotland Yard, a plain-clothes man, and myself. Bradstreet had spread
 an ordnance map of the county out upon the seat and was busy with his
 compasses drawing a circle with Eyford for its centre.

 "There you are," said he. "That circle is drawn at a radius of ten
 miles from the village. The place we want must be somewhere near that
 line. You said ten miles, I think, sir."

 "It was an hour's good drive."

 "And you think that they brought you back all that way when you were
 unconscious?"

 "They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too, of having
 been lifted and conveyed somewhere."

 "What I cannot understand," said I, "is why they should have spared
 you when they found you lying fainting in the garden. Perhaps the
 villain was softened by the woman's entreaties."

 "I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more inexorable face in my
 life."

 "Oh, we shall soon clear up all that," said Bradstreet. "Well, I have
 drawn my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon it the
 folk that we are in search of are to be found."

 "I think I could lay my finger on it," said Holmes quietly.

 "Really, now!" cried the inspector, "you have formed your opinion!
 Come, now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is south, for
 the country is more deserted there."

 "And I say east," said my patient.

 "I am for west," remarked the plain-clothes man. "There are several
 quiet little villages up there."

 "And I am for north," said I, "because there are no hills there, and
 our friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up any."

 "Come," cried the inspector, laughing; "it's a very pretty diversity
 of opinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do you give your
 casting vote to?"

 "You are all wrong."

 "But we can't all be."

 "Oh, yes, you can. This is my point." He placed his finger in the
 centre of the circle. "This is where we shall find them."

 "But the twelve-mile drive?" gasped Hatherley.

 "Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say yourself that the
 horse was fresh and glossy when you got in. How could it be that if
 it had gone twelve miles over heavy roads?"

 "Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough," observed Bradstreet
 thoughtfully. "Of course there can be no doubt as to the nature of
 this gang."

 "None at all," said Holmes. "They are coiners on a large scale, and
 have used the machine to form the amalgam which has taken the place
 of silver."

 "We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work," said
 the inspector. "They have been turning out half-crowns by the
 thousand. We even traced them as far as Reading, but could get no
 farther, for they had covered their traces in a way that showed that
 they were very old hands. But now, thanks to this lucky chance, I
 think that we have got them right enough."

 But the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not destined
 to fall into the hands of justice. As we rolled into Eyford Station
 we saw a gigantic column of smoke which streamed up from behind a
 small clump of trees in the neighbourhood and hung like an immense
 ostrich feather over the landscape.

 "A house on fire?" asked Bradstreet as the train steamed off again on
 its way.

 "Yes, sir!" said the station-master.

 "When did it break out?"

 "I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse, and
 the whole place is in a blaze."

 "Whose house is it?"

 "Dr. Becher's."

 "Tell me," broke in the engineer, "is Dr. Becher a German, very thin,
 with a long, sharp nose?"

 The station-master laughed heartily. "No, sir, Dr. Becher is an
 Englishman, and there isn't a man in the parish who has a
 better-lined waistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him, a
 patient, as I understand, who is a foreigner, and he looks as if a
 little good Berkshire beef would do him no harm."

 The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all
 hastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low hill,
 and there was a great widespread whitewashed building in front of us,
 spouting fire at every chink and window, while in the garden in front
 three fire-engines were vainly striving to keep the flames under.

 "That's it!" cried Hatherley, in intense excitement. "There is the
 gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That second
 window is the one that I jumped from."

 "Well, at least," said Holmes, "you have had your revenge upon them.
 There can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which, when it was
 crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls, though no doubt
 they were too excited in the chase after you to observe it at the
 time. Now keep your eyes open in this crowd for your friends of last
 night, though I very much fear that they are a good hundred miles off
 by now."

 And Holmes' fears came to be realised, for from that day to this no
 word has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister
 German, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant had
 met a cart containing several people and some very bulky boxes
 driving rapidly in the direction of Reading, but there all traces of
 the fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes' ingenuity failed ever to
 discover the least clue as to their whereabouts.

 The firemen had been much perturbed at the strange arrangements which
 they had found within, and still more so by discovering a newly
 severed human thumb upon a window-sill of the second floor. About
 sunset, however, their efforts were at last successful, and they
 subdued the flames, but not before the roof had fallen in, and the
 whole place been reduced to such absolute ruin that, save some
 twisted cylinders and iron piping, not a trace remained of the
 machinery which had cost our unfortunate acquaintance so dearly.
 Large masses of nickel and of tin were discovered stored in an
 out-house, but no coins were to be found, which may have explained
 the presence of those bulky boxes which have been already referred
 to.

 How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to the
 spot where he recovered his senses might have remained forever a
 mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a very plain
 tale. He had evidently been carried down by two persons, one of whom
 had remarkably small feet and the other unusually large ones. On the
 whole, it was most probable that the silent Englishman, being less
 bold or less murderous than his companion, had assisted the woman to
 bear the unconscious man out of the way of danger.

 "Well," said our engineer ruefully as we took our seats to return
 once more to London, "it has been a pretty business for me! I have
 lost my thumb and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what have I
 gained?"

 "Experience," said Holmes, laughing. "Indirectly it may be of value,
 you know; you have only to put it into words to gain the reputation
 of being excellent company for the remainder of your existence."






                   THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR

 The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have long
 ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles in which
 the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it,
 and their more piquant details have drawn the gossips away from this
 four-year-old drama. As I have reason to believe, however, that the
 full facts have never been revealed to the general public, and as my
 friend Sherlock Holmes had a considerable share in clearing the
 matter up, I feel that no memoir of him would be complete without
 some little sketch of this remarkable episode.

 It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I was
 still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home
 from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for
 him. I had remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a
 sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the Jezail bullet
 which I had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan
 campaign throbbed with dull persistence. With my body in one
 easy-chair and my legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a
 cloud of newspapers until at last, saturated with the news of the
 day, I tossed them all aside and lay listless, watching the huge
 crest and monogram upon the envelope upon the table and wondering
 lazily who my friend's noble correspondent could be.

 "Here is a very fashionable epistle," I remarked as he entered. "Your
 morning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a
 tide-waiter."

 "Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety," he
 answered, smiling, "and the humbler are usually the more interesting.
 This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call
 upon a man either to be bored or to lie."

 He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.

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

 "Not social, then?"

 "No, distinctly professional."

 "And from a noble client?"

 "One of the highest in England."

 "My dear fellow, I congratulate you."

 "I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my
 client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his
 case. It is just possible, however, that that also may not be wanting
 in this new investigation. You have been reading the papers
 diligently of late, have you not?"

 "It looks like it," said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in the
 corner. "I have had nothing else to do."

 "It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I read
 nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The latter is
 always instructive. But if you have followed recent events so closely
 you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding?"

 "Oh, yes, with the deepest interest."

 "That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord St.
 Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn over these
 papers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter. This is what
 he says:

 "'My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
 "'Lord Backwater tells me that I may place implicit reliance upon
 your judgment and discretion. I have determined, therefore, to call
 upon you and to consult you in reference to the very painful event
 which has occurred in connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of
 Scotland Yard, is acting already in the matter, but he assures me
 that he sees no objection to your co-operation, and that he even
 thinks that it might be of some assistance. I will call at four
 o'clock in the afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement
 at that time, I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is of
 paramount importance.
 "'Yours faithfully,
 "'St. Simon.'

 "It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen, and
 the noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the
 outer side of his right little finger," remarked Holmes as he folded
 up the epistle.

 "He says four o'clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour."

 "Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon the
 subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in their
 order of time, while I take a glance as to who our client is." He
 picked a red-covered volume from a line of books of reference beside
 the mantelpiece. "Here he is," said he, sitting down and flattening
 it out upon his knee. "'Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon,
 second son of the Duke of Balmoral.' Hum! 'Arms: Azure, three
 caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846.' He's forty-one
 years of age, which is mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for
 the colonies in a late administration. The Duke, his father, was at
 one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet
 blood by direct descent, and Tudor on the distaff side. Ha! Well,
 there is nothing very instructive in all this. I think that I must
 turn to you Watson, for something more solid."

 "I have very little difficulty in finding what I want," said I, "for
 the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I
 feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an
 inquiry on hand and that you disliked the intrusion of other
 matters."

 "Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture
 van. That is quite cleared up now--though, indeed, it was obvious
 from the first. Pray give me the results of your newspaper
 selections."

 "Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal
 column of the Morning Post, and dates, as you see, some weeks back:

 "'A marriage has been arranged [it says] and will, if rumour is
 correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon,
 second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only
 daughter of Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.'

 That is all."

 "Terse and to the point," remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin
 legs towards the fire.

 "There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers
 of the same week. Ah, here it is:

 "'There will soon be a call for protection in the marriage market,
 for the present free-trade principle appears to tell heavily against
 our home product. One by one the management of the noble houses of
 Great Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from
 across the Atlantic. An important addition has been made during the
 last week to the list of the prizes which have been borne away by
 these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown himself for
 over twenty years proof against the little god's arrows, has now
 definitely announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty Doran,
 the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss Doran,
 whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much attention at
 the Westbury House festivities, is an only child, and it is currently
 reported that her dowry will run to considerably over the six
 figures, with expectancies for the future. As it is an open secret
 that the Duke of Balmoral has been compelled to sell his pictures
 within the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon has no property of
 his own save the small estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious that the
 Californian heiress is not the only gainer by an alliance which will
 enable her to make the easy and common transition from a Republican
 lady to a British peeress.'"

 "Anything else?" asked Holmes, yawning.

 "Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the Morning Post to
 say that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it would
 be at St. George's, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen intimate
 friends would be invited, and that the party would return to the
 furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been taken by Mr.
 Aloysius Doran. Two days later--that is, on Wednesday last--there is
 a curt announcement that the wedding had taken place, and that the
 honeymoon would be passed at Lord Backwater's place, near
 Petersfield. Those are all the notices which appeared before the
 disappearance of the bride."

 "Before the what?" asked Holmes with a start.

 "The vanishing of the lady."

 "When did she vanish, then?"

 "At the wedding breakfast."

 "Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite
 dramatic, in fact."

 "Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common."

 "They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during the
 honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt as
 this. Pray let me have the details."

 "I warn you that they are very incomplete."

 "Perhaps we may make them less so."

 "Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a
 morning paper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is headed,
 'Singular Occurrence at a Fashionable Wedding':

 "'The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown into the
 greatest consternation by the strange and painful episodes which have
 taken place in connection with his wedding. The ceremony, as shortly
 announced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the previous
 morning; but it is only now that it has been possible to confirm the
 strange rumours which have been so persistently floating about. In
 spite of the attempts of the friends to hush the matter up, so much
 public attention has now been drawn to it that no good purpose can be
 served by affecting to disregard what is a common subject for
 conversation.
 "'The ceremony, which was performed at St. George's, Hanover Square,
 was a very quiet one, no one being present save the father of the
 bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater,
 Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon (the younger brother and sister
 of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The whole party
 proceeded afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster
 Gate, where breakfast had been prepared. It appears that some little
 trouble was caused by a woman, whose name has not been ascertained,
 who endeavoured to force her way into the house after the bridal
 party, alleging that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was
 only after a painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the
 butler and the footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered the
 house before this unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast
 with the rest, when she complained of a sudden indisposition and
 retired to her room. Her prolonged absence having caused some
 comment, her father followed her, but learned from her maid that she
 had only come up to her chamber for an instant, caught up an ulster
 and bonnet, and hurried down to the passage. One of the footmen
 declared that he had seen a lady leave the house thus apparelled, but
 had refused to credit that it was his mistress, believing her to be
 with the company. On ascertaining that his daughter had disappeared,
 Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with the bridegroom, instantly put
 themselves in communication with the police, and very energetic
 inquiries are being made, which will probably result in a speedy
 clearing up of this very singular business. Up to a late hour last
 night, however, nothing had transpired as to the whereabouts of the
 missing lady. There are rumours of foul play in the matter, and it is
 said that the police have caused the arrest of the woman who had
 caused the original disturbance, in the belief that, from jealousy or
 some other motive, she may have been concerned in the strange
 disappearance of the bride.'"

 "And is that all?"

 "Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a
 suggestive one."

 "And it is--"

 "That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has
 actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a danseuse
 at the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom for some years.
 There are no further particulars, and the whole case is in your hands
 now--so far as it has been set forth in the public press."

 "And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would not
 have missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell, Watson,
 and as the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt
 that this will prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going,
 Watson, for I very much prefer having a witness, if only as a check
 to my own memory."

 "Lord Robert St. Simon," announced our page-boy, throwing open the
 door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed
 and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and
 with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had
 ever been to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet
 his general appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he had a
 slight forward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His
 hair, too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled
 round the edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was
 careful to the verge of foppishness, with high collar, black
 frock-coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and
 light-coloured gaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his
 head from left to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord
 which held his golden eyeglasses.

 "Good-day, Lord St. Simon," said Holmes, rising and bowing. "Pray
 take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.
 Draw up a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over."

 "A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr.
 Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have
 already managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I
 presume that they were hardly from the same class of society."

 "No, I am descending."

 "I beg pardon."

 "My last client of the sort was a king."

 "Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?"

 "The King of Scandinavia."

 "What! Had he lost his wife?"

 "You can understand," said Holmes suavely, "that I extend to the
 affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to you
 in yours."

 "Of course! Very right! very right! I'm sure I beg pardon. As to my
 own case, I am ready to give you any information which may assist you
 in forming an opinion."

 "Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public prints,
 nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct--this article,
 for example, as to the disappearance of the bride."

 Lord St. Simon glanced over it. "Yes, it is correct, as far as it
 goes."

 "But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone could offer
 an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most directly by
 questioning you."

 "Pray do so."

 "When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?"

 "In San Francisco, a year ago."

 "You were travelling in the States?"

 "Yes."

 "Did you become engaged then?"

 "No."

 "But you were on a friendly footing?"

 "I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was amused."

 "Her father is very rich?"

 "He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope."

 "And how did he make his money?"

 "In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold,
 invested it, and came up by leaps and bounds."

 "Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady's--your wife's
 character?"

 The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down into
 the fire. "You see, Mr. Holmes," said he, "my wife was twenty before
 her father became a rich man. During that time she ran free in a
 mining camp and wandered through woods or mountains, so that her
 education has come from Nature rather than from the schoolmaster. She
 is what we call in England a tomboy, with a strong nature, wild and
 free, unfettered by any sort of traditions. She is
 impetuous--volcanic, I was about to say. She is swift in making up
 her mind and fearless in carrying out her resolutions. On the other
 hand, I would not have given her the name which I have the honour to
 bear"--he gave a little stately cough--"had not I thought her to be
 at bottom a noble woman. I believe that she is capable of heroic
 self-sacrifice and that anything dishonourable would be repugnant to
 her."

 "Have you her photograph?"

 "I brought this with me." He opened a locket and showed us the full
 face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but an ivory
 miniature, and the artist had brought out the full effect of the
 lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite mouth.
 Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he closed the locket and
 handed it back to Lord St. Simon.

 "The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your
 acquaintance?"

 "Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I met
 her several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her."

 "She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?"

 "A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family."

 "And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a fait
 accompli?"

 "I really have made no inquiries on the subject."

 "Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the
 wedding?"

 "Yes."

 "Was she in good spirits?"

 "Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our future
 lives."

 "Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the
 wedding?"

 "She was as bright as possible--at least until after the ceremony."

 "And did you observe any change in her then?"

 "Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had ever
 seen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident however,
 was too trivial to relate and can have no possible bearing upon the
 case."

 "Pray let us have it, for all that."

 "Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards the
 vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and it fell over
 into the pew. There was a moment's delay, but the gentleman in the
 pew handed it up to her again, and it did not appear to be the worse
 for the fall. Yet when I spoke to her of the matter, she answered me
 abruptly; and in the carriage, on our way home, she seemed absurdly
 agitated over this trifling cause."

 "Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of the
 general public were present, then?"

 "Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is open."

 "This gentleman was not one of your wife's friends?"

 "No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a
 common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But really I
 think that we are wandering rather far from the point."

 "Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less cheerful
 frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do on re-entering
 her father's house?"

 "I saw her in conversation with her maid."

 "And who is her maid?"

 "Alice is her name. She is an American and came from California with
 her."

 "A confidential servant?"

 "A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed her
 to take great liberties. Still, of course, in America they look upon
 these things in a different way."

 "How long did she speak to this Alice?"

 "Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of."

 "You did not overhear what they said?"

 "Lady St. Simon said something about 'jumping a claim.' She was
 accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she meant."

 "American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your wife
 do when she finished speaking to her maid?"

 "She walked into the breakfast-room."

 "On your arm?"

 "No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that.
 Then, after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose
 hurriedly, muttered some words of apology, and left the room. She
 never came back."

 "But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to her
 room, covered her bride's dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet,
 and went out."

 "Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in
 company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who had
 already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran's house that morning."

 "Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady, and
 your relations to her."

 Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. "We
 have been on a friendly footing for some years--I may say on a very
 friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have not treated
 her ungenerously, and she had no just cause of complaint against me,
 but you know what women are, Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear little
 thing, but exceedingly hot-headed and devotedly attached to me. She
 wrote me dreadful letters when she heard that I was about to be
 married, and, to tell the truth, the reason why I had the marriage
 celebrated so quietly was that I feared lest there might be a scandal
 in the church. She came to Mr. Doran's door just after we returned,
 and she endeavoured to push her way in, uttering very abusive
 expressions towards my wife, and even threatening her, but I had
 foreseen the possibility of something of the sort, and I had two
 police fellows there in private clothes, who soon pushed her out
 again. She was quiet when she saw that there was no good in making a
 row."

 "Did your wife hear all this?"

 "No, thank goodness, she did not."

 "And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?"

 "Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as so
 serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out and laid some
 terrible trap for her."

 "Well, it is a possible supposition."

 "You think so, too?"

 "I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon this
 as likely?"

 "I do not think Flora would hurt a fly."

 "Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is
 your own theory as to what took place?"

 "Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I have
 given you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may say that it
 has occurred to me as possible that the excitement of this affair,
 the consciousness that she had made so immense a social stride, had
 the effect of causing some little nervous disturbance in my wife."

 "In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?"

 "Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back--I will
 not say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to without
 success--I can hardly explain it in any other fashion."

 "Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis," said Holmes,
 smiling. "And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have nearly all my
 data. May I ask whether you were seated at the breakfast-table so
 that you could see out of the window?"

 "We could see the other side of the road and the Park."

 "Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you longer. I
 shall communicate with you."

 "Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem," said our
 client, rising.

 "I have solved it."

 "Eh? What was that?"

 "I say that I have solved it."

 "Where, then, is my wife?"

 "That is a detail which I shall speedily supply."

 Lord St. Simon shook his head. "I am afraid that it will take wiser
 heads than yours or mine," he remarked, and bowing in a stately,
 old-fashioned manner he departed.

 "It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting it on
 a level with his own," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "I think that
 I shall have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all this
 cross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the case before
 our client came into the room."

 "My dear Holmes!"

 "I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I remarked
 before, which were quite as prompt. My whole examination served to
 turn my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial evidence is
 occasionally very convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk,
 to quote Thoreau's example."

 "But I have heard all that you have heard."

 "Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which serves
 me so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some years
 back, and something on very much the same lines at Munich the year
 after the Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these cases--but, hullo,
 here is Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an extra
 tumbler upon the sideboard, and there are cigars in the box."

 The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat, which
 gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a black
 canvas bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself and
 lit the cigar which had been offered to him.

 "What's up, then?" asked Holmes with a twinkle in his eye. "You look
 dissatisfied."

 "And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage
 case. I can make neither head nor tail of the business."

 "Really! You surprise me."

 "Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue seems to slip
 through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day."

 "And very wet it seems to have made you," said Holmes laying his hand
 upon the arm of the pea-jacket.

 "Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine."

 "In heaven's name, what for?"

 "In search of the body of Lady St. Simon."

 Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

 "Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?" he asked.

 "Why? What do you mean?"

 "Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in the
 one as in the other."

 Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. "I suppose you know
 all about it," he snarled.

 "Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up."

 "Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in the
 matter?"

 "I think it very unlikely."

 "Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in
 it?" He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a
 wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes and a
 bride's wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water.
 "There," said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the
 pile. "There is a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes."

 "Oh, indeed!" said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air.  "You
 dragged them from the Serpentine?"

 "No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper. They
 have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the
 clothes were there the body would not be far off."

 "By the same brilliant reasoning, every man's body is to be found in
 the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to
 arrive at through this?"

 "At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance."

 "I am afraid that you will find it difficult."

 "Are you, indeed, now?" cried Lestrade with some bitterness. "I am
 afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions
 and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes.
 This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar."

 "And how?"

 "In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the
 card-case is a note. And here is the very note." He slapped it down
 upon the table in front of him. "Listen to this:

 "'You will see me when all is ready. Come at once.
 "'F.H.M.'

 Now my theory all along has been that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away
 by Flora Millar, and that she, with confederates, no doubt, was
 responsible for her disappearance. Here, signed with her initials, is
 the very note which was no doubt quietly slipped into her hand at the
 door and which lured her within their reach."

 "Very good, Lestrade," said Holmes, laughing. "You really are very
 fine indeed. Let me see it." He took up the paper in a listless way,
 but his attention instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry
 of satisfaction. "This is indeed important," said he.

 "Ha! you find it so?"

 "Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly."

 Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. "Why," he
 shrieked, "you're looking at the wrong side!"

 "On the contrary, this is the right side."

 "The right side? You're mad! Here is the note written in pencil over
 here."

 "And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill,
 which interests me deeply."

 "There's nothing in it. I looked at it before," said Lestrade.

 "'Oct. 4th, rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2s.
 6d., glass sherry, 8d.' I see nothing in that."

 "Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the note,
 it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I congratulate
 you again."

 "I've wasted time enough," said Lestrade, rising. "I believe in hard
 work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. Good-day,
 Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter
 first." He gathered up the garments, thrust them into the bag, and
 made for the door.

 "Just one hint to you, Lestrade," drawled Holmes before his rival
 vanished; "I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St.
 Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any such
 person."

 Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me, tapped
 his forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and hurried away.

 He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose to put on his
 overcoat. "There is something in what the fellow says about outdoor
 work," he remarked, "so I think, Watson, that I must leave you to
 your papers for a little."

 It was after five o'clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I had no
 time to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a confectioner's
 man with a very large flat box. This he unpacked with the help of a
 youth whom he had brought with him, and presently, to my very great
 astonishment, a quite epicurean little cold supper began to be laid
 out upon our humble lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple of
 brace of cold woodcock, a pheasant, a pÃ¢tÃ© de foie gras pie with a
 group of ancient and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these
 luxuries, my two visitors vanished away, like the genii of the
 Arabian Nights, with no explanation save that the things had been
 paid for and were ordered to this address.

 Just before nine o'clock Sherlock Holmes stepped briskly into the
 room. His features were gravely set, but there was a light in his eye
 which made me think that he had not been disappointed in his
 conclusions.

 "They have laid the supper, then," he said, rubbing his hands.

 "You seem to expect company. They have laid for five."

 "Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in," said he. "I am
 surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I fancy
 that I hear his step now upon the stairs."

 It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who came bustling in,
 dangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and with a very
 perturbed expression upon his aristocratic features.

 "My messenger reached you, then?" asked Holmes.

 "Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me beyond measure.
 Have you good authority for what you say?" 

 "The best possible."

 Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand over his
 forehead.

 "What will the Duke say," he murmured, "when he hears that one of the
 family has been subjected to such humiliation?"

 "It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there is any
 humiliation."

 "Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint."

 "I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly see how the lady
 could have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of doing it was
 undoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, she had no one to
 advise her at such a crisis."

 "It was a slight, sir, a public slight," said Lord St. Simon, tapping
 his fingers upon the table.

 "You must make allowance for this poor girl, placed in so
 unprecedented a position."

 "I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed, and I have been
 shamefully used."

 "I think that I heard a ring," said Holmes. "Yes, there are steps on
 the landing. If I cannot persuade you to take a lenient view of the
 matter, Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate here who may be
 more successful." He opened the door and ushered in a lady and
 gentleman. "Lord St. Simon," said he "allow me to introduce you to
 Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hay Moulton. The lady, I think, you have already
 met."

 At the sight of these newcomers our client had sprung from his seat
 and stood very erect, with his eyes cast down and his hand thrust
 into the breast of his frock-coat, a picture of offended dignity. The
 lady had taken a quick step forward and had held out her hand to him,
 but he still refused to raise his eyes. It was as well for his
 resolution, perhaps, for her pleading face was one which it was hard
 to resist.

 "You're angry, Robert," said she. "Well, I guess you have every cause
 to be."

 "Pray make no apology to me," said Lord St. Simon bitterly.

 "Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad and that I should
 have spoken to you before I went; but I was kind of rattled, and from
 the time when I saw Frank here again I just didn't know what I was
 doing or saying. I only wonder I didn't fall down and do a faint
 right there before the altar."

 "Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me to leave the
 room while you explain this matter?"

 "If I may give an opinion," remarked the strange gentleman, "we've
 had just a little too much secrecy over this business already. For my
 part, I should like all Europe and America to hear the rights of it."
 He was a small, wiry, sunburnt man, clean-shaven, with a sharp face
 and alert manner.

 "Then I'll tell our story right away," said the lady. "Frank here and
 I met in '84, in McQuire's camp, near the Rockies, where pa was
 working a claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I; but then
 one day father struck a rich pocket and made a pile, while poor Frank
 here had a claim that petered out and came to nothing. The richer pa
 grew the poorer was Frank; so at last pa wouldn't hear of our
 engagement lasting any longer, and he took me away to 'Frisco. Frank
 wouldn't throw up his hand, though; so he followed me there, and he
 saw me without pa knowing anything about it. It would only have made
 him mad to know, so we just fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said
 that he would go and make his pile, too, and never come back to claim
 me until he had as much as pa. So then I promised to wait for him to
 the end of time and pledged myself not to marry anyone else while he
 lived. 'Why shouldn't we be married right away, then,' said he, 'and
 then I will feel sure of you; and I won't claim to be your husband
 until I come back?' Well, we talked it over, and he had fixed it all
 up so nicely, with a clergyman all ready in waiting, that we just did
 it right there; and then Frank went off to seek his fortune, and I
 went back to pa.

 "The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then he
 went prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New Mexico.
 After that came a long newspaper story about how a miners' camp had
 been attacked by Apache Indians, and there was my Frank's name among
 the killed. I fainted dead away, and I was very sick for months
 after. Pa thought I had a decline and took me to half the doctors in
 'Frisco. Not a word of news came for a year and more, so that I never
 doubted that Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to
 'Frisco, and we came to London, and a marriage was arranged, and pa
 was very pleased, but I felt all the time that no man on this earth
 would ever take the place in my heart that had been given to my poor
 Frank.

 "Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I'd have done my
 duty by him. We can't command our love, but we can our actions. I
 went to the altar with him with the intention to make him just as
 good a wife as it was in me to be. But you may imagine what I felt
 when, just as I came to the altar rails, I glanced back and saw Frank
 standing and looking at me out of the first pew. I thought it was his
 ghost at first; but when I looked again there he was still, with a
 kind of question in his eyes, as if to ask me whether I were glad or
 sorry to see him. I wonder I didn't drop. I know that everything was
 turning round, and the words of the clergyman were just like the buzz
 of a bee in my ear. I didn't know what to do. Should I stop the
 service and make a scene in the church? I glanced at him again, and
 he seemed to know what I was thinking, for he raised his finger to
 his lips to tell me to be still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece
 of paper, and I knew that he was writing me a note. As I passed his
 pew on the way out I dropped my bouquet over to him, and he slipped
 the note into my hand when he returned me the flowers. It was only a
 line asking me to join him when he made the sign to me to do so. Of
 course I never doubted for a moment that my first duty was now to
 him, and I determined to do just whatever he might direct.

 "When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California, and
 had always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but to get
 a few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to have
 spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before his mother
 and all those great people. I just made up my mind to run away and
 explain afterwards. I hadn't been at the table ten minutes before I
 saw Frank out of the window at the other side of the road. He
 beckoned to me and then began walking into the Park. I slipped out,
 put on my things, and followed him. Some woman came talking something
 or other about Lord St. Simon to me--seemed to me from the little I
 heard as if he had a little secret of his own before marriage
 also--but I managed to get away from her and soon overtook Frank. We
 got into a cab together, and away we drove to some lodgings he had
 taken in Gordon Square, and that was my true wedding after all those
 years of waiting. Frank had been a prisoner among the Apaches, had
 escaped, came on to 'Frisco, found that I had given him up for dead
 and had gone to England, followed me there, and had come upon me at
 last on the very morning of my second wedding."

 "I saw it in a paper," explained the American. "It gave the name and
 the church but not where the lady lived."

 "Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was all for
 openness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I should
 like to vanish away and never see any of them again--just sending a
 line to pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It was awful to me
 to think of all those lords and ladies sitting round that
 breakfast-table and waiting for me to come back. So Frank took my
 wedding-clothes and things and made a bundle of them, so that I
 should not be traced, and dropped them away somewhere where no one
 could find them. It is likely that we should have gone on to Paris
 to-morrow, only that this good gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to
 us this evening, though how he found us is more than I can think, and
 he showed us very clearly and kindly that I was wrong and that Frank
 was right, and that we should be putting ourselves in the wrong if we
 were so secret. Then he offered to give us a chance of talking to
 Lord St. Simon alone, and so we came right away round to his rooms at
 once. Now, Robert, you have heard it all, and I am very sorry if I
 have given you pain, and I hope that you do not think very meanly of
 me."

 Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid attitude, but had
 listened with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to this long
 narrative.

 "Excuse me," he said, "but it is not my custom to discuss my most
 intimate personal affairs in this public manner."

 "Then you won't forgive me? You won't shake hands before I go?"

 "Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure." He put out his
 hand and coldly grasped that which she extended to him.

 "I had hoped," suggested Holmes, "that you would have joined us in a
 friendly supper."

 "I think that there you ask a little too much," responded his
 Lordship. "I may be forced to acquiesce in these recent developments,
 but I can hardly be expected to make merry over them. I think that
 with your permission I will now wish you all a very good-night." He
 included us all in a sweeping bow and stalked out of the room.

 "Then I trust that you at least will honour me with your company,"
 said Sherlock Holmes. "It is always a joy to meet an American, Mr.
 Moulton, for I am one of those who believe that the folly of a
 monarch and the blundering of a minister in far-gone years will not
 prevent our children from being some day citizens of the same
 world-wide country under a flag which shall be a quartering of the
 Union Jack with the Stars and Stripes."

 "The case has been an interesting one," remarked Holmes when our
 visitors had left us, "because it serves to show very clearly how
 simple the explanation may be of an affair which at first sight seems
 to be almost inexplicable. Nothing could be more natural than the
 sequence of events as narrated by this lady, and nothing stranger
 than the result when viewed, for instance, by Mr. Lestrade of
 Scotland Yard."

 "You were not yourself at fault at all, then?"

 "From the first, two facts were very obvious to me, the one that the
 lady had been quite willing to undergo the wedding ceremony, the
 other that she had repented of it within a few minutes of returning
 home. Obviously something had occurred during the morning, then, to
 cause her to change her mind. What could that something be? She could
 not have spoken to anyone when she was out, for she had been in the
 company of the bridegroom. Had she seen someone, then? If she had, it
 must be someone from America because she had spent so short a time in
 this country that she could hardly have allowed anyone to acquire so
 deep an influence over her that the mere sight of him would induce
 her to change her plans so completely. You see we have already
 arrived, by a process of exclusion, at the idea that she might have
 seen an American. Then who could this American be, and why should he
 possess so much influence over her? It might be a lover; it might be
 a husband. Her young womanhood had, I knew, been spent in rough
 scenes and under strange conditions. So far I had got before I ever
 heard Lord St. Simon's narrative. When he told us of a man in a pew,
 of the change in the bride's manner, of so transparent a device for
 obtaining a note as the dropping of a bouquet, of her resort to her
 confidential maid, and of her very significant allusion to
 claim-jumping--which in miners' parlance means taking possession of
 that which another person has a prior claim to--the whole situation
 became absolutely clear. She had gone off with a man, and the man was
 either a lover or was a previous husband--the chances being in favour
 of the latter."

 "And how in the world did you find them?"

 "It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade held information
 in his hands the value of which he did not himself know. The initials
 were, of course, of the highest importance, but more valuable still
 was it to know that within a week he had settled his bill at one of
 the most select London hotels."

 "How did you deduce the select?"

 "By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and eightpence for a
 glass of sherry pointed to one of the most expensive hotels. There
 are not many in London which charge at that rate. In the second one
 which I visited in Northumberland Avenue, I learned by an inspection
 of the book that Francis H. Moulton, an American gentleman, had left
 only the day before, and on looking over the entries against him, I
 came upon the very items which I had seen in the duplicate bill. His
 letters were to be forwarded to 226 Gordon Square; so thither I
 travelled, and being fortunate enough to find the loving couple at
 home, I ventured to give them some paternal advice and to point out
 to them that it would be better in every way that they should make
 their position a little clearer both to the general public and to
 Lord St. Simon in particular. I invited them to meet him here, and,
 as you see, I made him keep the appointment."

 "But with no very good result," I remarked. "His conduct was
 certainly not very gracious."

 "Ah, Watson," said Holmes, smiling, "perhaps you would not be very
 gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you
 found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think
 that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank our stars
 that we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position. Draw
 your chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we have
 still to solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal evenings."






                   THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET

 "Holmes," said I as I stood one morning in our bow-window looking
 down the street, "here is a madman coming along. It seems rather sad
 that his relatives should allow him to come out alone."

 My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with his hands in
 the pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It was a
 bright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day before still
 lay deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the wintry sun. Down
 the centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed into a brown crumbly
 band by the traffic, but at either side and on the heaped-up edges of
 the foot-paths it still lay as white as when it fell. The grey
 pavement had been cleaned and scraped, but was still dangerously
 slippery, so that there were fewer passengers than usual. Indeed,
 from the direction of the Metropolitan Station no one was coming save
 the single gentleman whose eccentric conduct had drawn my attention.

 He was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and imposing, with a
 massive, strongly marked face and a commanding figure. He was dressed
 in a sombre yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining hat, neat
 brown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet his actions were
 in absurd contrast to the dignity of his dress and features, for he
 was running hard, with occasional little springs, such as a weary man
 gives who is little accustomed to set any tax upon his legs. As he
 ran he jerked his hands up and down, waggled his head, and writhed
 his face into the most extraordinary contortions.

 "What on earth can be the matter with him?" I asked. "He is looking
 up at the numbers of the houses."

 "I believe that he is coming here," said Holmes, rubbing his hands.

 "Here?"

 "Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me professionally. I
 think that I recognise the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?" As he
 spoke, the man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and pulled at
 our bell until the whole house resounded with the clanging.

 A few moments later he was in our room, still puffing, still
 gesticulating, but with so fixed a look of grief and despair in his
 eyes that our smiles were turned in an instant to horror and pity.
 For a while he could not get his words out, but swayed his body and
 plucked at his hair like one who has been driven to the extreme
 limits of his reason. Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he beat
 his head against the wall with such force that we both rushed upon
 him and tore him away to the centre of the room. Sherlock Holmes
 pushed him down into the easy-chair and, sitting beside him, patted
 his hand and chatted with him in the easy, soothing tones which he
 knew so well how to employ.

 "You have come to me to tell your story, have you not?" said he. "You
 are fatigued with your haste. Pray wait until you have recovered
 yourself, and then I shall be most happy to look into any little
 problem which you may submit to me."

 The man sat for a minute or more with a heaving chest, fighting
 against his emotion. Then he passed his handkerchief over his brow,
 set his lips tight, and turned his face towards us.

 "No doubt you think me mad?" said he.

 "I see that you have had some great trouble," responded Holmes.

 "God knows I have!--a trouble which is enough to unseat my reason, so
 sudden and so terrible is it. Public disgrace I might have faced,
 although I am a man whose character has never yet borne a stain.
 Private affliction also is the lot of every man; but the two coming
 together, and in so frightful a form, have been enough to shake my
 very soul. Besides, it is not I alone. The very noblest in the land
 may suffer unless some way be found out of this horrible affair."

 "Pray compose yourself, sir," said Holmes, "and let me have a clear
 account of who you are and what it is that has befallen you."

 "My name," answered our visitor, "is probably familiar to your ears.
 I am Alexander Holder, of the banking firm of Holder & Stevenson, of
 Threadneedle Street."

 The name was indeed well known to us as belonging to the senior
 partner in the second largest private banking concern in the City of
 London. What could have happened, then, to bring one of the foremost
 citizens of London to this most pitiable pass? We waited, all
 curiosity, until with another effort he braced himself to tell his
 story.

 "I feel that time is of value," said he; "that is why I hastened here
 when the police inspector suggested that I should secure your
 co-operation. I came to Baker Street by the Underground and hurried
 from there on foot, for the cabs go slowly through this snow. That is
 why I was so out of breath, for I am a man who takes very little
 exercise. I feel better now, and I will put the facts before you as
 shortly and yet as clearly as I can.

 "It is, of course, well known to you that in a successful banking
 business as much depends upon our being able to find remunerative
 investments for our funds as upon our increasing our connection and
 the number of our depositors. One of our most lucrative means of
 laying out money is in the shape of loans, where the security is
 unimpeachable. We have done a good deal in this direction during the
 last few years, and there are many noble families to whom we have
 advanced large sums upon the security of their pictures, libraries,
 or plate.

 "Yesterday morning I was seated in my office at the bank when a card
 was brought in to me by one of the clerks. I started when I saw the
 name, for it was that of none other than--well, perhaps even to you I
 had better say no more than that it was a name which is a household
 word all over the earth--one of the highest, noblest, most exalted
 names in England. I was overwhelmed by the honour and attempted, when
 he entered, to say so, but he plunged at once into business with the
 air of a man who wishes to hurry quickly through a disagreeable task.

 "'Mr. Holder,' said he, 'I have been informed that you are in the
 habit of advancing money.'

 "'The firm does so when the security is good.' I answered.

 "'It is absolutely essential to me,' said he, 'that I should have
 Â£50,000 at once. I could, of course, borrow so trifling a sum ten
 times over from my friends, but I much prefer to make it a matter of
 business and to carry out that business myself. In my position you
 can readily understand that it is unwise to place one's self under
 obligations.'

 "'For how long, may I ask, do you want this sum?' I asked.

 "'Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, and I shall then most
 certainly repay what you advance, with whatever interest you think it
 right to charge. But it is very essential to me that the money should
 be paid at once.'

 "'I should be happy to advance it without further parley from my own
 private purse,' said I, 'were it not that the strain would be rather
 more than it could bear. If, on the other hand, I am to do it in the
 name of the firm, then in justice to my partner I must insist that,
 even in your case, every businesslike precaution should be taken.'

 "'I should much prefer to have it so,' said he, raising up a square,
 black morocco case which he had laid beside his chair.  'You have
 doubtless heard of the Beryl Coronet?'

 "'One of the most precious public possessions of the empire,' said I.

 "'Precisely.' He opened the case, and there, imbedded in soft,
 flesh-coloured velvet, lay the magnificent piece of jewellery which
 he had named. 'There are thirty-nine enormous beryls,' said he, 'and
 the price of the gold chasing is incalculable. The lowest estimate
 would put the worth of the coronet at double the sum which I have
 asked. I am prepared to leave it with you as my security.'

 "I took the precious case into my hands and looked in some perplexity
 from it to my illustrious client.

 "'You doubt its value?' he asked.

 "'Not at all. I only doubt--'

 "'The propriety of my leaving it. You may set your mind at rest about
 that. I should not dream of doing so were it not absolutely certain
 that I should be able in four days to reclaim it. It is a pure matter
 of form. Is the security sufficient?'

 "'Ample.'

 "'You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giving you a strong proof of
 the confidence which I have in you, founded upon all that I have
 heard of you. I rely upon you not only to be discreet and to refrain
 from all gossip upon the matter but, above all, to preserve this
 coronet with every possible precaution because I need not say that a
 great public scandal would be caused if any harm were to befall it.
 Any injury to it would be almost as serious as its complete loss, for
 there are no beryls in the world to match these, and it would be
 impossible to replace them. I leave it with you, however, with every
 confidence, and I shall call for it in person on Monday morning.'

 "Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I said no more but,
 calling for my cashier, I ordered him to pay over fifty Â£1000 notes.
 When I was alone once more, however, with the precious case lying
 upon the table in front of me, I could not but think with some
 misgivings of the immense responsibility which it entailed upon me.
 There could be no doubt that, as it was a national possession, a
 horrible scandal would ensue if any misfortune should occur to it. I
 already regretted having ever consented to take charge of it.
 However, it was too late to alter the matter now, so I locked it up
 in my private safe and turned once more to my work.

 "When evening came I felt that it would be an imprudence to leave so
 precious a thing in the office behind me. Bankers' safes had been
 forced before now, and why should not mine be? If so, how terrible
 would be the position in which I should find myself! I determined,
 therefore, that for the next few days I would always carry the case
 backward and forward with me, so that it might never be really out of
 my reach. With this intention, I called a cab and drove out to my
 house at Streatham, carrying the jewel with me. I did not breathe
 freely until I had taken it upstairs and locked it in the bureau of
 my dressing-room.

 "And now a word as to my household, Mr. Holmes, for I wish you to
 thoroughly understand the situation. My groom and my page sleep out
 of the house, and may be set aside altogether. I have three
 maid-servants who have been with me a number of years and whose
 absolute reliability is quite above suspicion. Another, Lucy Parr,
 the second waiting-maid, has only been in my service a few months.
 She came with an excellent character, however, and has always given
 me satisfaction. She is a very pretty girl and has attracted admirers
 who have occasionally hung about the place. That is the only drawback
 which we have found to her, but we believe her to be a thoroughly
 good girl in every way.

 "So much for the servants. My family itself is so small that it will
 not take me long to describe it. I am a widower and have an only son,
 Arthur. He has been a disappointment to me, Mr. Holmes--a grievous
 disappointment. I have no doubt that I am myself to blame. People
 tell me that I have spoiled him. Very likely I have. When my dear
 wife died I felt that he was all I had to love. I could not bear to
 see the smile fade even for a moment from his face. I have never
 denied him a wish. Perhaps it would have been better for both of us
 had I been sterner, but I meant it for the best.

 "It was naturally my intention that he should succeed me in my
 business, but he was not of a business turn. He was wild, wayward,
 and, to speak the truth, I could not trust him in the handling of
 large sums of money. When he was young he became a member of an
 aristocratic club, and there, having charming manners, he was soon
 the intimate of a number of men with long purses and expensive
 habits. He learned to play heavily at cards and to squander money on
 the turf, until he had again and again to come to me and implore me
 to give him an advance upon his allowance, that he might settle his
 debts of honour. He tried more than once to break away from the
 dangerous company which he was keeping, but each time the influence
 of his friend, Sir George Burnwell, was enough to draw him back
 again.

 "And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man as Sir George
 Burnwell should gain an influence over him, for he has frequently
 brought him to my house, and I have found myself that I could hardly
 resist the fascination of his manner. He is older than Arthur, a man
 of the world to his finger-tips, one who had been everywhere, seen
 everything, a brilliant talker, and a man of great personal beauty.
 Yet when I think of him in cold blood, far away from the glamour of
 his presence, I am convinced from his cynical speech and the look
 which I have caught in his eyes that he is one who should be deeply
 distrusted. So I think, and so, too, thinks my little Mary, who has a
 woman's quick insight into character.

 "And now there is only she to be described. She is my niece; but when
 my brother died five years ago and left her alone in the world I
 adopted her, and have looked upon her ever since as my daughter. She
 is a sunbeam in my house--sweet, loving, beautiful, a wonderful
 manager and housekeeper, yet as tender and quiet and gentle as a
 woman could be. She is my right hand. I do not know what I could do
 without her. In only one matter has she ever gone against my wishes.
 Twice my boy has asked her to marry him, for he loves her devotedly,
 but each time she has refused him. I think that if anyone could have
 drawn him into the right path it would have been she, and that his
 marriage might have changed his whole life; but now, alas! it is too
 late--forever too late!

 "Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who live under my roof, and I
 shall continue with my miserable story.

 "When we were taking coffee in the drawing-room that night after
 dinner, I told Arthur and Mary my experience, and of the precious
 treasure which we had under our roof, suppressing only the name of my
 client. Lucy Parr, who had brought in the coffee, had, I am sure,
 left the room; but I cannot swear that the door was closed. Mary and
 Arthur were much interested and wished to see the famous coronet, but
 I thought it better not to disturb it.

 "'Where have you put it?' asked Arthur.

 "'In my own bureau.'

 "'Well, I hope to goodness the house won't be burgled during the
 night.' said he.

 "'It is locked up,' I answered.

 "'Oh, any old key will fit that bureau. When I was a youngster I have
 opened it myself with the key of the box-room cupboard.'

 "He often had a wild way of talking, so that I thought little of what
 he said. He followed me to my room, however, that night with a very
 grave face.

 "'Look here, dad,' said he with his eyes cast down, 'can you let me
 have Â£200?'

 "'No, I cannot!' I answered sharply. 'I have been far too generous
 with you in money matters.'

 "'You have been very kind,' said he, 'but I must have this money, or
 else I can never show my face inside the club again.'

 "'And a very good thing, too!' I cried.

 "'Yes, but you would not have me leave it a dishonoured man,' said
 he. 'I could not bear the disgrace. I must raise the money in some
 way, and if you will not let me have it, then I must try other
 means.'

 "I was very angry, for this was the third demand during the month.
 'You shall not have a farthing from me,' I cried, on which he bowed
 and left the room without another word.

 "When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, made sure that my treasure
 was safe, and locked it again. Then I started to go round the house
 to see that all was secure--a duty which I usually leave to Mary but
 which I thought it well to perform myself that night. As I came down
 the stairs I saw Mary herself at the side window of the hall, which
 she closed and fastened as I approached.

 "'Tell me, dad,' said she, looking, I thought, a little disturbed,
 'did you give Lucy, the maid, leave to go out to-night?'

 "'Certainly not.'

 "'She came in just now by the back door. I have no doubt that she has
 only been to the side gate to see someone, but I think that it is
 hardly safe and should be stopped.'

 "'You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if you prefer it.
 Are you sure that everything is fastened?'

 "'Quite sure, dad.'

 "'Then, good-night.' I kissed her and went up to my bedroom again,
 where I was soon asleep.

 "I am endeavouring to tell you everything, Mr. Holmes, which may have
 any bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will question me upon
 any point which I do not make clear."

 "On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid."

 "I come to a part of my story now in which I should wish to be
 particularly so. I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in my
 mind tended, no doubt, to make me even less so than usual. About two
 in the morning, then, I was awakened by some sound in the house. It
 had ceased ere I was wide awake, but it had left an impression behind
 it as though a window had gently closed somewhere. I lay listening
 with all my ears. Suddenly, to my horror, there was a distinct sound
 of footsteps moving softly in the next room. I slipped out of bed,
 all palpitating with fear, and peeped round the corner of my
 dressing-room door.

 "'Arthur!' I screamed, 'you villain! you thief! How dare you touch
 that coronet?'

 "The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy, dressed
 only in his shirt and trousers, was standing beside the light,
 holding the coronet in his hands. He appeared to be wrenching at it,
 or bending it with all his strength. At my cry he dropped it from his
 grasp and turned as pale as death. I snatched it up and examined it.
 One of the gold corners, with three of the beryls in it, was missing.

 "'You blackguard!' I shouted, beside myself with rage. 'You have
 destroyed it! You have dishonoured me forever! Where are the jewels
 which you have stolen?'

 "'Stolen!' he cried.

 "'Yes, thief!' I roared, shaking him by the shoulder.

 "'There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,' said he.

 "'There are three missing. And you know where they are. Must I call
 you a liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying to tear off
 another piece?'

 "'You have called me names enough,' said he, 'I will not stand it any
 longer. I shall not say another word about this business, since you
 have chosen to insult me. I will leave your house in the morning and
 make my own way in the world.'

 "'You shall leave it in the hands of the police!' I cried half-mad
 with grief and rage. 'I shall have this matter probed to the bottom.'

 "'You shall learn nothing from me,' said he with a passion such as I
 should not have thought was in his nature. 'If you choose to call the
 police, let the police find what they can.'

 "By this time the whole house was astir, for I had raised my voice in
 my anger. Mary was the first to rush into my room, and, at the sight
 of the coronet and of Arthur's face, she read the whole story and,
 with a scream, fell down senseless on the ground. I sent the
 house-maid for the police and put the investigation into their hands
 at once. When the inspector and a constable entered the house,
 Arthur, who had stood sullenly with his arms folded, asked me whether
 it was my intention to charge him with theft. I answered that it had
 ceased to be a private matter, but had become a public one, since the
 ruined coronet was national property. I was determined that the law
 should have its way in everything.

 "'At least,' said he, 'you will not have me arrested at once. It
 would be to your advantage as well as mine if I might leave the house
 for five minutes.'

 "'That you may get away, or perhaps that you may conceal what you
 have stolen,' said I. And then, realising the dreadful position in
 which I was placed, I implored him to remember that not only my
 honour but that of one who was far greater than I was at stake; and
 that he threatened to raise a scandal which would convulse the
 nation. He might avert it all if he would but tell me what he had
 done with the three missing stones.

 "'You may as well face the matter,' said I; 'you have been caught in
 the act, and no confession could make your guilt more heinous. If you
 but make such reparation as is in your power, by telling us where the
 beryls are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten.'

 "'Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,' he answered,
 turning away from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too hardened for
 any words of mine to influence him. There was but one way for it. I
 called in the inspector and gave him into custody. A search was made
 at once not only of his person but of his room and of every portion
 of the house where he could possibly have concealed the gems; but no
 trace of them could be found, nor would the wretched boy open his
 mouth for all our persuasions and our threats. This morning he was
 removed to a cell, and I, after going through all the police
 formalities, have hurried round to you to implore you to use your
 skill in unravelling the matter. The police have openly confessed
 that they can at present make nothing of it. You may go to any
 expense which you think necessary. I have already offered a reward of
 Â£1000. My God, what shall I do! I have lost my honour, my gems, and
 my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do!"

 He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to and
 fro, droning to himself like a child whose grief has got beyond
 words.

 Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows
 knitted and his eyes fixed upon the fire.

 "Do you receive much company?" he asked.

 "None save my partner with his family and an occasional friend of
 Arthur's. Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No one
 else, I think."

 "Do you go out much in society?"

 "Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for it."

 "That is unusual in a young girl."

 "She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very young. She is
 four-and-twenty."

 "This matter, from what you say, seems to have been a shock to her
 also."

 "Terrible! She is even more affected than I."

 "You have neither of you any doubt as to your son's guilt?"

 "How can we have when I saw him with my own eyes with the coronet in
 his hands."

 "I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was the remainder of the
 coronet at all injured?"

 "Yes, it was twisted."

 "Do you not think, then, that he might have been trying to straighten
 it?"

 "God bless you! You are doing what you can for him and for me. But it
 is too heavy a task. What was he doing there at all? If his purpose
 were innocent, why did he not say so?"

 "Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he not invent a lie? His
 silence appears to me to cut both ways. There are several singular
 points about the case. What did the police think of the noise which
 awoke you from your sleep?"

 "They considered that it might be caused by Arthur's closing his
 bedroom door."

 "A likely story! As if a man bent on felony would slam his door so as
 to wake a household. What did they say, then, of the disappearance of
 these gems?"

 "They are still sounding the planking and probing the furniture in
 the hope of finding them."

 "Have they thought of looking outside the house?"

 "Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. The whole garden has
 already been minutely examined."

 "Now, my dear sir," said Holmes. "is it not obvious to you now that
 this matter really strikes very much deeper than either you or the
 police were at first inclined to think? It appeared to you to be a
 simple case; to me it seems exceedingly complex. Consider what is
 involved by your theory. You suppose that your son came down from his
 bed, went, at great risk, to your dressing-room, opened your bureau,
 took out your coronet, broke off by main force a small portion of it,
 went off to some other place, concealed three gems out of the
 thirty-nine, with such skill that nobody can find them, and then
 returned with the other thirty-six into the room in which he exposed
 himself to the greatest danger of being discovered. I ask you now, is
 such a theory tenable?"

 "But what other is there?" cried the banker with a gesture of
 despair. "If his motives were innocent, why does he not explain
 them?"

 "It is our task to find that out," replied Holmes; "so now, if you
 please, Mr. Holder, we will set off for Streatham together, and
 devote an hour to glancing a little more closely into details."

 My friend insisted upon my accompanying them in their expedition,
 which I was eager enough to do, for my curiosity and sympathy were
 deeply stirred by the story to which we had listened. I confess that
 the guilt of the banker's son appeared to me to be as obvious as it
 did to his unhappy father, but still I had such faith in Holmes'
 judgment that I felt that there must be some grounds for hope as long
 as he was dissatisfied with the accepted explanation. He hardly spoke
 a word the whole way out to the southern suburb, but sat with his
 chin upon his breast and his hat drawn over his eyes, sunk in the
 deepest thought. Our client appeared to have taken fresh heart at the
 little glimpse of hope which had been presented to him, and he even
 broke into a desultory chat with me over his business affairs. A
 short railway journey and a shorter walk brought us to Fairbank, the
 modest residence of the great financier.

 Fairbank was a good-sized square house of white stone, standing back
 a little from the road. A double carriage-sweep, with a snow-clad
 lawn, stretched down in front to two large iron gates which closed
 the entrance. On the right side was a small wooden thicket, which led
 into a narrow path between two neat hedges stretching from the road
 to the kitchen door, and forming the tradesmen's entrance. On the
 left ran a lane which led to the stables, and was not itself within
 the grounds at all, being a public, though little used, thoroughfare.
 Holmes left us standing at the door and walked slowly all round the
 house, across the front, down the tradesmen's path, and so round by
 the garden behind into the stable lane. So long was he that Mr.
 Holder and I went into the dining-room and waited by the fire until
 he should return. We were sitting there in silence when the door
 opened and a young lady came in. She was rather above the middle
 height, slim, with dark hair and eyes, which seemed the darker
 against the absolute pallor of her skin. I do not think that I have
 ever seen such deadly paleness in a woman's face. Her lips, too, were
 bloodless, but her eyes were flushed with crying. As she swept
 silently into the room she impressed me with a greater sense of grief
 than the banker had done in the morning, and it was the more striking
 in her as she was evidently a woman of strong character, with immense
 capacity for self-restraint. Disregarding my presence, she went
 straight to her uncle and passed her hand over his head with a sweet
 womanly caress.

 "You have given orders that Arthur should be liberated, have you not,
 dad?" she asked.

 "No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to the bottom."

 "But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know what woman's
 instincts are. I know that he has done no harm and that you will be
 sorry for having acted so harshly."

 "Why is he silent, then, if he is innocent?"

 "Who knows? Perhaps because he was so angry that you should suspect
 him."

 "How could I help suspecting him, when I actually saw him with the
 coronet in his hand?"

 "Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at it. Oh, do, do take my
 word for it that he is innocent. Let the matter drop and say no more.
 It is so dreadful to think of our dear Arthur in a prison!"

 "I shall never let it drop until the gems are found--never, Mary!
 Your affection for Arthur blinds you as to the awful consequences to
 me. Far from hushing the thing up, I have brought a gentleman down
 from London to inquire more deeply into it."

 "This gentleman?" she asked, facing round to me.

 "No, his friend. He wished us to leave him alone. He is round in the
 stable lane now."

 "The stable lane?" She raised her dark eyebrows. "What can he hope to
 find there? Ah! this, I suppose, is he. I trust, sir, that you will
 succeed in proving, what I feel sure is the truth, that my cousin
 Arthur is innocent of this crime."

 "I fully share your opinion, and I trust, with you, that we may prove
 it," returned Holmes, going back to the mat to knock the snow from
 his shoes. "I believe I have the honour of addressing Miss Mary
 Holder. Might I ask you a question or two?"

 "Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible affair up."

 "You heard nothing yourself last night?"

 "Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak loudly. I heard that,
 and I came down."

 "You shut up the windows and doors the night before. Did you fasten
 all the windows?"

 "Yes."

 "Were they all fastened this morning?"

 "Yes."

 "You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think that you remarked to
 your uncle last night that she had been out to see him?"

 "Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the drawing-room, and who
 may have heard uncle's remarks about the coronet."

 "I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell her sweetheart,
 and that the two may have planned the robbery."

 "But what is the good of all these vague theories," cried the banker
 impatiently, "when I have told you that I saw Arthur with the coronet
 in his hands?"

 "Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that. About this
 girl, Miss Holder. You saw her return by the kitchen door, I
 presume?"

 "Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened for the night I met
 her slipping in. I saw the man, too, in the gloom."

 "Do you know him?"

 "Oh, yes! he is the green-grocer who brings our vegetables round. 
 His name is Francis Prosper."

 "He stood," said Holmes, "to the left of the door--that is to say,
 farther up the path than is necessary to reach the door?"

 "Yes, he did."

 "And he is a man with a wooden leg?"

 Something like fear sprang up in the young lady's expressive black
 eyes. "Why, you are like a magician," said she. "How do you know
 that?" She smiled, but there was no answering smile in Holmes' thin,
 eager face.

 "I should be very glad now to go upstairs," said he. "I shall
 probably wish to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps I
 had better take a look at the lower windows before I go up."

 He walked swiftly round from one to the other, pausing only at the
 large one which looked from the hall onto the stable lane. This he
 opened and made a very careful examination of the sill with his
 powerful magnifying lens. "Now we shall go upstairs," said he at
 last.

 The banker's dressing-room was a plainly furnished little chamber,
 with a grey carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror. Holmes went to
 the bureau first and looked hard at the lock.

 "Which key was used to open it?" he asked.

 "That which my son himself indicated--that of the cupboard of the
 lumber-room."

 "Have you it here?"

 "That is it on the dressing-table."

 Sherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bureau.

 "It is a noiseless lock," said he. "It is no wonder that it did not
 wake you. This case, I presume, contains the coronet. We must have a
 look at it." He opened the case, and taking out the diadem he laid it
 upon the table. It was a magnificent specimen of the jeweller's art,
 and the thirty-six stones were the finest that I have ever seen. At
 one side of the coronet was a cracked edge, where a corner holding
 three gems had been torn away.

 "Now, Mr. Holder," said Holmes, "here is the corner which corresponds
 to that which has been so unfortunately lost. Might I beg that you
 will break it off."

 The banker recoiled in horror. "I should not dream of trying," said
 he.

 "Then I will." Holmes suddenly bent his strength upon it, but without
 result. "I feel it give a little," said he; "but, though I am
 exceptionally strong in the fingers, it would take me all my time to
 break it. An ordinary man could not do it. Now, what do you think
 would happen if I did break it, Mr. Holder? There would be a noise
 like a pistol shot. Do you tell me that all this happened within a
 few yards of your bed and that you heard nothing of it?"

 "I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me."

 "But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. What do you think, Miss
 Holder?"

 "I confess that I still share my uncle's perplexity."

 "Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you saw him?"

 "He had nothing on save only his trousers and shirt."

 "Thank you. We have certainly been favoured with extraordinary luck
 during this inquiry, and it will be entirely our own fault if we do
 not succeed in clearing the matter up. With your permission, Mr.
 Holder, I shall now continue my investigations outside."

 He went alone, at his own request, for he explained that any
 unnecessary footmarks might make his task more difficult. For an hour
 or more he was at work, returning at last with his feet heavy with
 snow and his features as inscrutable as ever.

 "I think that I have seen now all that there is to see, Mr. Holder,"
 said he; "I can serve you best by returning to my rooms."

 "But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?"

 "I cannot tell."

 The banker wrung his hands. "I shall never see them again!" he cried.
 "And my son? You give me hopes?"

 "My opinion is in no way altered."

 "Then, for God's sake, what was this dark business which was acted in
 my house last night?"

 "If you can call upon me at my Baker Street rooms to-morrow morning
 between nine and ten I shall be happy to do what I can to make it
 clearer. I understand that you give me carte blanche to act for you,
 provided only that I get back the gems, and that you place no limit
 on the sum I may draw."

 "I would give my fortune to have them back."

 "Very good. I shall look into the matter between this and then. 
 Good-bye; it is just possible that I may have to come over here again
 before evening."

 It was obvious to me that my companion's mind was now made up about
 the case, although what his conclusions were was more than I could
 even dimly imagine. Several times during our homeward journey I
 endeavoured to sound him upon the point, but he always glided away to
 some other topic, until at last I gave it over in despair. It was not
 yet three when we found ourselves in our rooms once more. He hurried
 to his chamber and was down again in a few minutes dressed as a
 common loafer. With his collar turned up, his shiny, seedy coat, his
 red cravat, and his worn boots, he was a perfect sample of the class.

 "I think that this should do," said he, glancing into the glass above
 the fireplace. "I only wish that you could come with me, Watson, but
 I fear that it won't do. I may be on the trail in this matter, or I
 may be following a will-o'-the-wisp, but I shall soon know which it
 is. I hope that I may be back in a few hours." He cut a slice of beef
 from the joint upon the sideboard, sandwiched it between two rounds
 of bread, and thrusting this rude meal into his pocket he started off
 upon his expedition.

 I had just finished my tea when he returned, evidently in excellent
 spirits, swinging an old elastic-sided boot in his hand. He chucked
 it down into a corner and helped himself to a cup of tea.

 "I only looked in as I passed," said he. "I am going right on."

 "Where to?"

 "Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be some time before I
 get back. Don't wait up for me in case I should be late."

 "How are you getting on?"

 "Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been out to Streatham
 since I saw you last, but I did not call at the house. It is a very
 sweet little problem, and I would not have missed it for a good deal.
 However, I must not sit gossiping here, but must get these
 disreputable clothes off and return to my highly respectable self."

 I could see by his manner that he had stronger reasons for
 satisfaction than his words alone would imply. His eyes twinkled, and
 there was even a touch of colour upon his sallow cheeks. He hastened
 upstairs, and a few minutes later I heard the slam of the hall door,
 which told me that he was off once more upon his congenial hunt.

 I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so I
 retired to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for
 days and nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so that his
 lateness caused me no surprise. I do not know at what hour he came
 in, but when I came down to breakfast in the morning there he was
 with a cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the other, as fresh
 and trim as possible.

 "You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson," said he, "but you
 remember that our client has rather an early appointment this
 morning."

 "Why, it is after nine now," I answered. "I should not be surprised
 if that were he. I thought I heard a ring."

 It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the change
 which had come over him, for his face which was naturally of a broad
 and massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in, while his hair
 seemed to me at least a shade whiter. He entered with a weariness and
 lethargy which was even more painful than his violence of the morning
 before, and he dropped heavily into the armchair which I pushed
 forward for him.

 "I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried," said he.
 "Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without a care
 in the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured age. One
 sorrow comes close upon the heels of another. My niece, Mary, has
 deserted me."

 "Deserted you?"

 "Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her room was empty,
 and a note for me lay upon the hall table. I had said to her last
 night, in sorrow and not in anger, that if she had married my boy all
 might have been well with him. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to
 say so. It is to that remark that she refers in this note:

 "'My dearest Uncle:
 "'I feel that I have brought trouble upon you, and that if I had
 acted differently this terrible misfortune might never have occurred.
 I cannot, with this thought in my mind, ever again be happy under
 your roof, and I feel that I must leave you forever. Do not worry
 about my future, for that is provided for; and, above all, do not
 search for me, for it will be fruitless labour and an ill-service to
 me. In life or in death, I am ever
 "'Your loving
 "'Mary.'

 "What could she mean by that note, Mr. Holmes? Do you think it points
 to suicide?"

 "No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the best possible
 solution. I trust, Mr. Holder, that you are nearing the end of your
 troubles."

 "Ha! You say so! You have heard something, Mr. Holmes; you have
 learned something! Where are the gems?"

 "You would not think Â£1000 pounds apiece an excessive sum for them?"

 "I would pay ten."

 "That would be unnecessary. Three thousand will cover the matter. And
 there is a little reward, I fancy. Have you your check-book?  Here is
 a pen. Better make it out for Â£4000."

 With a dazed face the banker made out the required check. Holmes
 walked over to his desk, took out a little triangular piece of gold
 with three gems in it, and threw it down upon the table.

 With a shriek of joy our client clutched it up.

 "You have it!" he gasped. "I am saved! I am saved!"

 The reaction of joy was as passionate as his grief had been, and he
 hugged his recovered gems to his bosom.

 "There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder," said Sherlock Holmes
 rather sternly.

 "Owe!" He caught up a pen. "Name the sum, and I will pay it."

 "No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble apology to that
 noble lad, your son, who has carried himself in this matter as I
 should be proud to see my own son do, should I ever chance to have
 one."

 "Then it was not Arthur who took them?"

 "I told you yesterday, and I repeat to-day, that it was not."

 "You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at once to let him know
 that the truth is known."

 "He knows it already. When I had cleared it all up I had an interview
 with him, and finding that he would not tell me the story, I told it
 to him, on which he had to confess that I was right and to add the
 very few details which were not yet quite clear to me. Your news of
 this morning, however, may open his lips."

 "For heaven's sake, tell me, then, what is this extraordinary
 mystery!"

 "I will do so, and I will show you the steps by which I reached it.
 And let me say to you, first, that which it is hardest for me to say
 and for you to hear: there has been an understanding between Sir
 George Burnwell and your niece Mary. They have now fled together."

 "My Mary? Impossible!"

 "It is unfortunately more than possible; it is certain. Neither you
 nor your son knew the true character of this man when you admitted
 him into your family circle. He is one of the most dangerous men in
 England--a ruined gambler, an absolutely desperate villain, a man
 without heart or conscience. Your niece knew nothing of such men.
 When he breathed his vows to her, as he had done to a hundred before
 her, she flattered herself that she alone had touched his heart. The
 devil knows best what he said, but at least she became his tool and
 was in the habit of seeing him nearly every evening."

 "I cannot, and I will not, believe it!" cried the banker with an
 ashen face.

 "I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house last night. Your
 niece, when you had, as she thought, gone to your room, slipped down
 and talked to her lover through the window which leads into the
 stable lane. His footmarks had pressed right through the snow, so
 long had he stood there. She told him of the coronet. His wicked lust
 for gold kindled at the news, and he bent her to his will. I have no
 doubt that she loved you, but there are women in whom the love of a
 lover extinguishes all other loves, and I think that she must have
 been one. She had hardly listened to his instructions when she saw
 you coming downstairs, on which she closed the window rapidly and
 told you about one of the servants' escapade with her wooden-legged
 lover, which was all perfectly true.

 "Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview with you but he
 slept badly on account of his uneasiness about his club debts. In the
 middle of the night he heard a soft tread pass his door, so he rose
 and, looking out, was surprised to see his cousin walking very
 stealthily along the passage until she disappeared into your
 dressing-room. Petrified with astonishment, the lad slipped on some
 clothes and waited there in the dark to see what would come of this
 strange affair. Presently she emerged from the room again, and in the
 light of the passage-lamp your son saw that she carried the precious
 coronet in her hands. She passed down the stairs, and he, thrilling
 with horror, ran along and slipped behind the curtain near your door,
 whence he could see what passed in the hall beneath. He saw her
 stealthily open the window, hand out the coronet to someone in the
 gloom, and then closing it once more hurry back to her room, passing
 quite close to where he stood hid behind the curtain.

 "As long as she was on the scene he could not take any action without
 a horrible exposure of the woman whom he loved. But the instant that
 she was gone he realised how crushing a misfortune this would be for
 you, and how all-important it was to set it right. He rushed down,
 just as he was, in his bare feet, opened the window, sprang out into
 the snow, and ran down the lane, where he could see a dark figure in
 the moonlight. Sir George Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur
 caught him, and there was a struggle between them, your lad tugging
 at one side of the coronet, and his opponent at the other. In the
 scuffle, your son struck Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then
 something suddenly snapped, and your son, finding that he had the
 coronet in his hands, rushed back, closed the window, ascended to
 your room, and had just observed that the coronet had been twisted in
 the struggle and was endeavouring to straighten it when you appeared
 upon the scene."

 "Is it possible?" gasped the banker.

 "You then roused his anger by calling him names at a moment when he
 felt that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He could not explain
 the true state of affairs without betraying one who certainly
 deserved little enough consideration at his hands. He took the more
 chivalrous view, however, and preserved her secret."

 "And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw the coronet,"
 cried Mr. Holder. "Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have been! And his
 asking to be allowed to go out for five minutes! The dear fellow
 wanted to see if the missing piece were at the scene of the struggle.
 How cruelly I have misjudged him!"

 "When I arrived at the house," continued Holmes, "I at once went very
 carefully round it to observe if there were any traces in the snow
 which might help me. I knew that none had fallen since the evening
 before, and also that there had been a strong frost to preserve
 impressions. I passed along the tradesmen's path, but found it all
 trampled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it, however, at the
 far side of the kitchen door, a woman had stood and talked with a
 man, whose round impressions on one side showed that he had a wooden
 leg. I could even tell that they had been disturbed, for the woman
 had run back swiftly to the door, as was shown by the deep toe and
 light heel marks, while Wooden-leg had waited a little, and then had
 gone away. I thought at the time that this might be the maid and her
 sweetheart, of whom you had already spoken to me, and inquiry showed
 it was so. I passed round the garden without seeing anything more
 than random tracks, which I took to be the police; but when I got
 into the stable lane a very long and complex story was written in the
 snow in front of me.

 "There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and a second
 double line which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked
 feet. I was at once convinced from what you had told me that the
 latter was your son. The first had walked both ways, but the other
 had run swiftly, and as his tread was marked in places over the
 depression of the boot, it was obvious that he had passed after the
 other. I followed them up and found they led to the hall window,
 where Boots had worn all the snow away while waiting. Then I walked
 to the other end, which was a hundred yards or more down the lane. I
 saw where Boots had faced round, where the snow was cut up as though
 there had been a struggle, and, finally, where a few drops of blood
 had fallen, to show me that I was not mistaken. Boots had then run
 down the lane, and another little smudge of blood showed that it was
 he who had been hurt. When he came to the highroad at the other end,
 I found that the pavement had been cleared, so there was an end to
 that clue.

 "On entering the house, however, I examined, as you remember, the
 sill and framework of the hall window with my lens, and I could at
 once see that someone had passed out. I could distinguish the outline
 of an instep where the wet foot had been placed in coming in. I was
 then beginning to be able to form an opinion as to what had occurred.
 A man had waited outside the window; someone had brought the gems;
 the deed had been overseen by your son; he had pursued the thief; had
 struggled with him; they had each tugged at the coronet, their united
 strength causing injuries which neither alone could have effected. He
 had returned with the prize, but had left a fragment in the grasp of
 his opponent. So far I was clear. The question now was, who was the
 man and who was it brought him the coronet?

 "It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the
 impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
 Now, I knew that it was not you who had brought it down, so there
 only remained your niece and the maids. But if it were the maids, why
 should your son allow himself to be accused in their place? There
 could be no possible reason. As he loved his cousin, however, there
 was an excellent explanation why he should retain her secret--the
 more so as the secret was a disgraceful one. When I remembered that
 you had seen her at that window, and how she had fainted on seeing
 the coronet again, my conjecture became a certainty.

 "And who could it be who was her confederate? A lover evidently, for
 who else could outweigh the love and gratitude which she must feel to
 you? I knew that you went out little, and that your circle of friends
 was a very limited one. But among them was Sir George Burnwell. I had
 heard of him before as being a man of evil reputation among women. It
 must have been he who wore those boots and retained the missing gems.
 Even though he knew that Arthur had discovered him, he might still
 flatter himself that he was safe, for the lad could not say a word
 without compromising his own family.

 "Well, your own good sense will suggest what measures I took next. I
 went in the shape of a loafer to Sir George's house, managed to pick
 up an acquaintance with his valet, learned that his master had cut
 his head the night before, and, finally, at the expense of six
 shillings, made all sure by buying a pair of his cast-off shoes. With
 these I journeyed down to Streatham and saw that they exactly fitted
 the tracks."

 "I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yesterday evening," said
 Mr. Holder.

 "Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man, so I came home and
 changed my clothes. It was a delicate part which I had to play then,
 for I saw that a prosecution must be avoided to avert scandal, and I
 knew that so astute a villain would see that our hands were tied in
 the matter. I went and saw him. At first, of course, he denied
 everything. But when I gave him every particular that had occurred,
 he tried to bluster and took down a life-preserver from the wall. I
 knew my man, however, and I clapped a pistol to his head before he
 could strike. Then he became a little more reasonable. I told him
 that we would give him a price for the stones he held--Â£1000 apiece.
 That brought out the first signs of grief that he had shown. 'Why,
 dash it all!' said he, 'I've let them go at six hundred for the
 three!' I soon managed to get the address of the receiver who had
 them, on promising him that there would be no prosecution. Off I set
 to him, and after much chaffering I got our stones at 1000 pounds
 apiece. Then I looked in upon your son, told him that all was right,
 and eventually got to my bed about two o'clock, after what I may call
 a really hard day's work."

 "A day which has saved England from a great public scandal," said the
 banker, rising. "Sir, I cannot find words to thank you, but you shall
 not find me ungrateful for what you have done. Your skill has indeed
 exceeded all that I have heard of it. And now I must fly to my dear
 boy to apologise to him for the wrong which I have done him. As to
 what you tell me of poor Mary, it goes to my very heart. Not even
 your skill can inform me where she is now."

 "I think that we may safely say," returned Holmes, "that she is
 wherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain, too, that
 whatever her sins are, they will soon receive a more than sufficient
 punishment."






                   THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES

 "To the man who loves art for its own sake," remarked Sherlock
 Holmes, tossing aside the advertisement sheet of the Daily Telegraph,
 "it is frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations
 that the keenest pleasure is to be derived. It is pleasant to me to
 observe, Watson, that you have so far grasped this truth that in
 these little records of our cases which you have been good enough to
 draw up, and, I am bound to say, occasionally to embellish, you have
 given prominence not so much to the many causes cÃ©lÃ¨bres and
 sensational trials in which I have figured but rather to those
 incidents which may have been trivial in themselves, but which have
 given room for those faculties of deduction and of logical synthesis
 which I have made my special province."

 "And yet," said I, smiling, "I cannot quite hold myself absolved from
 the charge of sensationalism which has been urged against my
 records."

 "You have erred, perhaps," he observed, taking up a glowing cinder
 with the tongs and lighting with it the long cherry-wood pipe which
 was wont to replace his clay when he was in a disputatious rather
 than a meditative mood--"you have erred perhaps in attempting to put
 colour and life into each of your statements instead of confining
 yourself to the task of placing upon record that severe reasoning
 from cause to effect which is really the only notable feature about
 the thing."

 "It seems to me that I have done you full justice in the matter," I
 remarked with some coldness, for I was repelled by the egotism which
 I had more than once observed to be a strong factor in my friend's
 singular character.

 "No, it is not selfishness or conceit," said he, answering, as was
 his wont, my thoughts rather than my words. "If I claim full justice
 for my art, it is because it is an impersonal thing--a thing beyond
 myself. Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the
 logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell. You have
 degraded what should have been a course of lectures into a series of
 tales."

 It was a cold morning of the early spring, and we sat after breakfast
 on either side of a cheery fire in the old room at Baker Street. A
 thick fog rolled down between the lines of dun-coloured houses, and
 the opposing windows loomed like dark, shapeless blurs through the
 heavy yellow wreaths. Our gas was lit and shone on the white cloth
 and glimmer of china and metal, for the table had not been cleared
 yet. Sherlock Holmes had been silent all the morning, dipping
 continuously into the advertisement columns of a succession of papers
 until at last, having apparently given up his search, he had emerged
 in no very sweet temper to lecture me upon my literary shortcomings.

 "At the same time," he remarked after a pause, during which he had
 sat puffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the fire, "you can
 hardly be open to a charge of sensationalism, for out of these cases
 which you have been so kind as to interest yourself in, a fair
 proportion do not treat of crime, in its legal sense, at all. The
 small matter in which I endeavoured to help the King of Bohemia, the
 singular experience of Miss Mary Sutherland, the problem connected
 with the man with the twisted lip, and the incident of the noble
 bachelor, were all matters which are outside the pale of the law. But
 in avoiding the sensational, I fear that you may have bordered on the
 trivial."

 "The end may have been so," I answered, "but the methods I hold to
 have been novel and of interest."

 "Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant
 public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a compositor
 by his left thumb, care about the finer shades of analysis and
 deduction! But, indeed, if you are trivial, I cannot blame you, for
 the days of the great cases are past. Man, or at least criminal man,
 has lost all enterprise and originality. As to my own little
 practice, it seems to be degenerating into an agency for recovering
 lost lead pencils and giving advice to young ladies from
 boarding-schools. I think that I have touched bottom at last,
 however. This note I had this morning marks my zero-point, I fancy.
 Read it!" He tossed a crumpled letter across to me.

 It was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and ran
 thus:

 Dear Mr. Holmes:
 I am very anxious to consult you as to whether I should or should not
 accept a situation which has been offered to me as governess. I shall
 call at half-past ten to-morrow if I do not inconvenience you.
 Yours faithfully,
 Violet Hunter.

 "Do you know the young lady?" I asked.

 "Not I."

 "It is half-past ten now."

 "Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring."

 "It may turn out to be of more interest than you think. You remember
 that the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared to be a mere
 whim at first, developed into a serious investigation. It may be so
 in this case, also."

 "Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very soon be solved, for
 here, unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question."

 As he spoke the door opened and a young lady entered the room. She
 was plainly but neatly dressed, with a bright, quick face, freckled
 like a plover's egg, and with the brisk manner of a woman who has had
 her own way to make in the world.

 "You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure," said she, as my
 companion rose to greet her, "but I have had a very strange
 experience, and as I have no parents or relations of any sort from
 whom I could ask advice, I thought that perhaps you would be kind
 enough to tell me what I should do."

 "Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do anything that
 I can to serve you."

 I could see that Holmes was favourably impressed by the manner and
 speech of his new client. He looked her over in his searching
 fashion, and then composed himself, with his lids drooping and his
 finger-tips together, to listen to her story.

 "I have been a governess for five years," said she, "in the family of
 Colonel Spence Munro, but two months ago the colonel received an
 appointment at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his children over to
 America with him, so that I found myself without a situation. I
 advertised, and I answered advertisements, but without success. At
 last the little money which I had saved began to run short, and I was
 at my wit's end as to what I should do.

 "There is a well-known agency for governesses in the West End called
 Westaway's, and there I used to call about once a week in order to
 see whether anything had turned up which might suit me. Westaway was
 the name of the founder of the business, but it is really managed by
 Miss Stoper. She sits in her own little office, and the ladies who
 are seeking employment wait in an anteroom, and are then shown in one
 by one, when she consults her ledgers and sees whether she has
 anything which would suit them.

 "Well, when I called last week I was shown into the little office as
 usual, but I found that Miss Stoper was not alone. A prodigiously
 stout man with a very smiling face and a great heavy chin which
 rolled down in fold upon fold over his throat sat at her elbow with a
 pair of glasses on his nose, looking very earnestly at the ladies who
 entered. As I came in he gave quite a jump in his chair and turned
 quickly to Miss Stoper.

 "'That will do,' said he; 'I could not ask for anything better.
 Capital! capital!' He seemed quite enthusiastic and rubbed his hands
 together in the most genial fashion. He was such a
 comfortable-looking man that it was quite a pleasure to look at him.

 "'You are looking for a situation, miss?' he asked.

 "'Yes, sir.'

 "'As governess?'

 "'Yes, sir.'

 "'And what salary do you ask?'

 "'I had Â£4 a month in my last place with Colonel Spence Munro.'

 "'Oh, tut, tut! sweating--rank sweating!' he cried, throwing his fat
 hands out into the air like a man who is in a boiling passion. 'How
 could anyone offer so pitiful a sum to a lady with such attractions
 and accomplishments?'

 "'My accomplishments, sir, may be less than you imagine,' said I. 'A
 little French, a little German, music, and drawing--'

 "'Tut, tut!' he cried. 'This is all quite beside the question. The
 point is, have you or have you not the bearing and deportment of a
 lady? There it is in a nutshell. If you have not, you are not fitted
 for the rearing of a child who may some day play a considerable part
 in the history of the country. But if you have why, then, how could
 any gentleman ask you to condescend to accept anything under the
 three figures? Your salary with me, madam, would commence at Â£100 a
 year.'

 "You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, destitute as I was, such an
 offer seemed almost too good to be true. The gentleman, however,
 seeing perhaps the look of incredulity upon my face, opened a
 pocket-book and took out a note.

 "'It is also my custom,' said he, smiling in the most pleasant
 fashion until his eyes were just two little shining slits amid the
 white creases of his face, 'to advance to my young ladies half their
 salary beforehand, so that they may meet any little expenses of their
 journey and their wardrobe.'

 "It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating and so
 thoughtful a man. As I was already in debt to my tradesmen, the
 advance was a great convenience, and yet there was something
 unnatural about the whole transaction which made me wish to know a
 little more before I quite committed myself.

 "'May I ask where you live, sir?' said I.

 "'Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper Beeches, five miles on
 the far side of Winchester. It is the most lovely country, my dear
 young lady, and the dearest old country-house.'

 "'And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know what they would be.'

 "'One child--one dear little romper just six years old. Oh, if you
 could see him killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack! smack!
 smack! Three gone before you could wink!' He leaned back in his chair
 and laughed his eyes into his head again.

 "I was a little startled at the nature of the child's amusement, but
 the father's laughter made me think that perhaps he was joking.

 "'My sole duties, then,' I asked, 'are to take charge of a single
 child?'

 "'No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear young lady,' he cried.
 'Your duty would be, as I am sure your good sense would suggest, to
 obey any little commands my wife might give, provided always that
 they were such commands as a lady might with propriety obey. You see
 no difficulty, heh?'

 "'I should be happy to make myself useful.'

 "'Quite so. In dress now, for example. We are faddy people, you
 know--faddy but kind-hearted. If you were asked to wear any dress
 which we might give you, you would not object to our little whim.
 Heh?'

 "'No,' said I, considerably astonished at his words.

 "'Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be offensive to you?'

 "'Oh, no.'

 "'Or to cut your hair quite short before you come to us?'

 "I could hardly believe my ears. As you may observe, Mr. Holmes, my
 hair is somewhat luxuriant, and of a rather peculiar tint of
 chestnut. It has been considered artistic. I could not dream of
 sacrificing it in this offhand fashion.

 "'I am afraid that that is quite impossible,' said I. He had been
 watching me eagerly out of his small eyes, and I could see a shadow
 pass over his face as I spoke.

 "'I am afraid that it is quite essential,' said he. 'It is a little
 fancy of my wife's, and ladies' fancies, you know, madam, ladies'
 fancies must be consulted. And so you won't cut your hair?'

 "'No, sir, I really could not,' I answered firmly.

 "'Ah, very well; then that quite settles the matter. It is a pity,
 because in other respects you would really have done very nicely. In
 that case, Miss Stoper, I had best inspect a few more of your young
 ladies.'

 "The manageress had sat all this while busy with her papers without a
 word to either of us, but she glanced at me now with so much
 annoyance upon her face that I could not help suspecting that she had
 lost a handsome commission through my refusal.

 "'Do you desire your name to be kept upon the books?' she asked.

 "'If you please, Miss Stoper.'

 "'Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you refuse the most
 excellent offers in this fashion,' said she sharply. 'You can hardly
 expect us to exert ourselves to find another such opening for you.
 Good-day to you, Miss Hunter.' She struck a gong upon the table, and
 I was shown out by the page.

 "Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and found little
 enough in the cupboard, and two or three bills upon the table. I
 began to ask myself whether I had not done a very foolish thing.
 After all, if these people had strange fads and expected obedience on
 the most extraordinary matters, they were at least ready to pay for
 their eccentricity. Very few governesses in England are getting Â£100
 a year. Besides, what use was my hair to me? Many people are improved
 by wearing it short and perhaps I should be among the number. Next
 day I was inclined to think that I had made a mistake, and by the day
 after I was sure of it. I had almost overcome my pride so far as to
 go back to the agency and inquire whether the place was still open
 when I received this letter from the gentleman himself. I have it
 here and I will read it to you:

 "'The Copper Beeches, near Winchester.
 "'Dear Miss Hunter:
 "'Miss Stoper has very kindly given me your address, and I write from
 here to ask you whether you have reconsidered your decision. My wife
 is very anxious that you should come, for she has been much attracted
 by my description of you. We are willing to give Â£30 a quarter, or
 Â£120 a year, so as to recompense you for any little inconvenience
 which our fads may cause you. They are not very exacting, after all.
 My wife is fond of a particular shade of electric blue and would like
 you to wear such a dress indoors in the morning. You need not,
 however, go to the expense of purchasing one, as we have one
 belonging to my dear daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia), which
 would, I should think, fit you very well. Then, as to sitting here or
 there, or amusing yourself in any manner indicated, that need cause
 you no inconvenience. As regards your hair, it is no doubt a pity,
 especially as I could not help remarking its beauty during our short
 interview, but I am afraid that I must remain firm upon this point,
 and I only hope that the increased salary may recompense you for the
 loss. Your duties, as far as the child is concerned, are very light.
 Now do try to come, and I shall meet you with the dog-cart at
 Winchester. Let me know your train.
 "'Yours faithfully,
 "'Jephro Rucastle.'

 "That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes, and my
 mind is made up that I will accept it. I thought, however, that
 before taking the final step I should like to submit the whole matter
 to your consideration."

 "Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the
 question," said Holmes, smiling.

 "But you would not advise me to refuse?"

 "I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a
 sister of mine apply for."

 "What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?"

 "Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed
 some opinion?"

 "Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr.
 Rucastle seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not
 possible that his wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the
 matter quiet for fear she should be taken to an asylum, and that he
 humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent an outbreak?"

 "That is a possible solution--in fact, as matters stand, it is the
 most probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a nice
 household for a young lady."

 "But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!"

 "Well, yes, of course the pay is good--too good. That is what makes
 me uneasy. Why should they give you Â£120 a year, when they could have
 their pick for Â£40? There must be some strong reason behind."

 "I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand
 afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I
 felt that you were at the back of me."

 "Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that your
 little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my
 way for some months. There is something distinctly novel about some
 of the features. If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger--"

 "Danger! What danger do you foresee?"

 Holmes shook his head gravely. "It would cease to be a danger if we
 could define it," said he. "But at any time, day or night, a telegram
 would bring me down to your help."

 "That is enough." She rose briskly from her chair with the anxiety
 all swept from her face. "I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in
 my mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor
 hair to-night, and start for Winchester to-morrow." With a few
 grateful words to Holmes she bade us both good-night and bustled off
 upon her way.

 "At least," said I as we heard her quick, firm steps descending the
 stairs, "she seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take
 care of herself."

 "And she would need to be," said Holmes gravely. "I am much mistaken
 if we do not hear from her before many days are past."

 It was not very long before my friend's prediction was fulfilled. A
 fortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts
 turning in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of
 human experience this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual
 salary, the curious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to
 something abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether the
 man were a philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my powers
 to determine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for
 half an hour on end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he
 swept the matter away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it.
 "Data! data! data!" he cried impatiently. "I can't make bricks
 without clay." And yet he would always wind up by muttering that no
 sister of his should ever have accepted such a situation.

 The telegram which we eventually received came late one night just as
 I was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down to one of
 those all-night chemical researches which he frequently indulged in,
 when I would leave him stooping over a retort and a test-tube at
 night and find him in the same position when I came down to breakfast
 in the morning. He opened the yellow envelope, and then, glancing at
 the message, threw it across to me.

 "Just look up the trains in Bradshaw," said he, and turned back to
 his chemical studies.

 The summons was a brief and urgent one.

 Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday to-morrow
 [it said]. Do come! I am at my wit's end.
 Hunter.

 "Will you come with me?" asked Holmes, glancing up.

 "I should wish to."

 "Just look it up, then."

 "There is a train at half-past nine," said I, glancing over my
 Bradshaw. "It is due at Winchester at 11.30."

 "That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better postpone my
 analysis of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in the
 morning."

 By eleven o'clock the next day we were well upon our way to the old
 English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers all the
 way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he threw them
 down and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a
 light blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting
 across from west to east. The sun was shining very brightly, and yet
 there was an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a
 man's energy. All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills
 around Aldershot, the little red and grey roofs of the farm-steadings
 peeped out from amid the light green of the new foliage.

 "Are they not fresh and beautiful?" I cried with all the enthusiasm
 of a man fresh from the fogs of Baker Street.

 But Holmes shook his head gravely.

 "Do you know, Watson," said he, "that it is one of the curses of a
 mind with a turn like mine that I must look at everything with
 reference to my own special subject. You look at these scattered
 houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and
 the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of their isolation
 and of the impunity with which crime may be committed there."

 "Good heavens!" I cried. "Who would associate crime with these dear
 old homesteads?"

 "They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson,
 founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in
 London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the
 smiling and beautiful countryside."

 "You horrify me!"

 "But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion can
 do in the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no lane so
 vile that the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard's
 blow, does not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbours,
 and then the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word
 of complaint can set it going, and there is but a step between the
 crime and the dock. But look at these lonely houses, each in its own
 fields, filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know
 little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden
 wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and
 none the wiser. Had this lady who appeals to us for help gone to live
 in Winchester, I should never have had a fear for her. It is the five
 miles of country which makes the danger. Still, it is clear that she
 is not personally threatened."

 "No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us she can get away."

 "Quite so. She has her freedom."

 "What can be the matter, then? Can you suggest no explanation?"

 "I have devised seven separate explanations, each of which would
 cover the facts as far as we know them. But which of these is correct
 can only be determined by the fresh information which we shall no
 doubt find waiting for us. Well, there is the tower of the cathedral,
 and we shall soon learn all that Miss Hunter has to tell."

 The Black Swan is an inn of repute in the High Street, at no distance
 from the station, and there we found the young lady waiting for us.
 She had engaged a sitting-room, and our lunch awaited us upon the
 table.

 "I am so delighted that you have come," she said earnestly. "It is so
 very kind of you both; but indeed I do not know what I should do.
 Your advice will be altogether invaluable to me."

 "Pray tell us what has happened to you."

 "I will do so, and I must be quick, for I have promised Mr. Rucastle
 to be back before three. I got his leave to come into town this
 morning, though he little knew for what purpose."

 "Let us have everything in its due order." Holmes thrust his long
 thin legs out towards the fire and composed himself to listen.

 "In the first place, I may say that I have met, on the whole, with no
 actual ill-treatment from Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle. It is only fair to
 them to say that. But I cannot understand them, and I am not easy in
 my mind about them."

 "What can you not understand?"

 "Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall have it all just as
 it occurred. When I came down, Mr. Rucastle met me here and drove me
 in his dog-cart to the Copper Beeches. It is, as he said, beautifully
 situated, but it is not beautiful in itself, for it is a large square
 block of a house, whitewashed, but all stained and streaked with damp
 and bad weather. There are grounds round it, woods on three sides,
 and on the fourth a field which slopes down to the Southampton
 highroad, which curves past about a hundred yards from the front
 door. This ground in front belongs to the house, but the woods all
 round are part of Lord Southerton's preserves. A clump of copper
 beeches immediately in front of the hall door has given its name to
 the place.

 "I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable as ever, and
 was introduced by him that evening to his wife and the child. There
 was no truth, Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to us to be
 probable in your rooms at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. I
 found her to be a silent, pale-faced woman, much younger than her
 husband, not more than thirty, I should think, while he can hardly be
 less than forty-five. From their conversation I have gathered that
 they have been married about seven years, that he was a widower, and
 that his only child by the first wife was the daughter who has gone
 to Philadelphia. Mr. Rucastle told me in private that the reason why
 she had left them was that she had an unreasoning aversion to her
 stepmother. As the daughter could not have been less than twenty, I
 can quite imagine that her position must have been uncomfortable with
 her father's young wife.

 "Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in mind as well as in
 feature. She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse. She was
 a nonentity. It was easy to see that she was passionately devoted
 both to her husband and to her little son. Her light grey eyes
 wandered continually from one to the other, noting every little want
 and forestalling it if possible. He was kind to her also in his
 bluff, boisterous fashion, and on the whole they seemed to be a happy
 couple. And yet she had some secret sorrow, this woman. She would
 often be lost in deep thought, with the saddest look upon her face.
 More than once I have surprised her in tears. I have thought
 sometimes that it was the disposition of her child which weighed upon
 her mind, for I have never met so utterly spoiled and so ill-natured
 a little creature. He is small for his age, with a head which is
 quite disproportionately large. His whole life appears to be spent in
 an alternation between savage fits of passion and gloomy intervals of
 sulking. Giving pain to any creature weaker than himself seems to be
 his one idea of amusement, and he shows quite remarkable talent in
 planning the capture of mice, little birds, and insects. But I would
 rather not talk about the creature, Mr. Holmes, and, indeed, he has
 little to do with my story."

 "I am glad of all details," remarked my friend, "whether they seem to
 you to be relevant or not."

 "I shall try not to miss anything of importance. The one unpleasant
 thing about the house, which struck me at once, was the appearance
 and conduct of the servants. There are only two, a man and his wife.
 Toller, for that is his name, is a rough, uncouth man, with grizzled
 hair and whiskers, and a perpetual smell of drink. Twice since I have
 been with them he has been quite drunk, and yet Mr. Rucastle seemed
 to take no notice of it. His wife is a very tall and strong woman
 with a sour face, as silent as Mrs. Rucastle and much less amiable.
 They are a most unpleasant couple, but fortunately I spend most of my
 time in the nursery and my own room, which are next to each other in
 one corner of the building.

 "For two days after my arrival at the Copper Beeches my life was very
 quiet; on the third, Mrs. Rucastle came down just after breakfast and
 whispered something to her husband.

 "'Oh, yes,' said he, turning to me, 'we are very much obliged to you,
 Miss Hunter, for falling in with our whims so far as to cut your
 hair. I assure you that it has not detracted in the tiniest iota from
 your appearance. We shall now see how the electric-blue dress will
 become you. You will find it laid out upon the bed in your room, and
 if you would be so good as to put it on we should both be extremely
 obliged.'

 "The dress which I found waiting for me was of a peculiar shade of
 blue. It was of excellent material, a sort of beige, but it bore
 unmistakable signs of having been worn before. It could not have been
 a better fit if I had been measured for it. Both Mr. and Mrs.
 Rucastle expressed a delight at the look of it, which seemed quite
 exaggerated in its vehemence. They were waiting for me in the
 drawing-room, which is a very large room, stretching along the entire
 front of the house, with three long windows reaching down to the
 floor. A chair had been placed close to the central window, with its
 back turned towards it. In this I was asked to sit, and then Mr.
 Rucastle, walking up and down on the other side of the room, began to
 tell me a series of the funniest stories that I have ever listened
 to. You cannot imagine how comical he was, and I laughed until I was
 quite weary. Mrs. Rucastle, however, who has evidently no sense of
 humour, never so much as smiled, but sat with her hands in her lap,
 and a sad, anxious look upon her face. After an hour or so, Mr.
 Rucastle suddenly remarked that it was time to commence the duties of
 the day, and that I might change my dress and go to little Edward in
 the nursery.

 "Two days later this same performance was gone through under exactly
 similar circumstances. Again I changed my dress, again I sat in the
 window, and again I laughed very heartily at the funny stories of
 which my employer had an immense rÃ©pertoire, and which he told
 inimitably. Then he handed me a yellow-backed novel, and moving my
 chair a little sideways, that my own shadow might not fall upon the
 page, he begged me to read aloud to him. I read for about ten
 minutes, beginning in the heart of a chapter, and then suddenly, in
 the middle of a sentence, he ordered me to cease and to change my
 dress.

 "You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious I became as to what
 the meaning of this extraordinary performance could possibly be. They
 were always very careful, I observed, to turn my face away from the
 window, so that I became consumed with the desire to see what was
 going on behind my back. At first it seemed to be impossible, but I
 soon devised a means. My hand-mirror had been broken, so a happy
 thought seized me, and I concealed a piece of the glass in my
 handkerchief. On the next occasion, in the midst of my laughter, I
 put my handkerchief up to my eyes, and was able with a little
 management to see all that there was behind me. I confess that I was
 disappointed. There was nothing. At least that was my first
 impression. At the second glance, however, I perceived that there was
 a man standing in the Southampton Road, a small bearded man in a grey
 suit, who seemed to be looking in my direction. The road is an
 important highway, and there are usually people there. This man,
 however, was leaning against the railings which bordered our field
 and was looking earnestly up. I lowered my handkerchief and glanced
 at Mrs. Rucastle to find her eyes fixed upon me with a most searching
 gaze. She said nothing, but I am convinced that she had divined that
 I had a mirror in my hand and had seen what was behind me. She rose
 at once.

 "'Jephro,' said she, 'there is an impertinent fellow upon the road
 there who stares up at Miss Hunter.'

 "'No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?' he asked.

 "'No, I know no one in these parts.'

 "'Dear me! How very impertinent! Kindly turn round and motion to him
 to go away.'

 "'Surely it would be better to take no notice.'

 "'No, no, we should have him loitering here always. Kindly turn round
 and wave him away like that.'

 "I did as I was told, and at the same instant Mrs. Rucastle drew down
 the blind. That was a week ago, and from that time I have not sat
 again in the window, nor have I worn the blue dress, nor seen the man
 in the road."

 "Pray continue," said Holmes. "Your narrative promises to be a most
 interesting one."

 "You will find it rather disconnected, I fear, and there may prove to
 be little relation between the different incidents of which I speak.
 On the very first day that I was at the Copper Beeches, Mr. Rucastle
 took me to a small outhouse which stands near the kitchen door. As we
 approached it I heard the sharp rattling of a chain, and the sound as
 of a large animal moving about.

 "'Look in here!' said Mr. Rucastle, showing me a slit between two
 planks. 'Is he not a beauty?'

 "I looked through and was conscious of two glowing eyes, and of a
 vague figure huddled up in the darkness.

 "'Don't be frightened,' said my employer, laughing at the start which
 I had given. 'It's only Carlo, my mastiff. I call him mine, but
 really old Toller, my groom, is the only man who can do anything with
 him. We feed him once a day, and not too much then, so that he is
 always as keen as mustard. Toller lets him loose every night, and God
 help the trespasser whom he lays his fangs upon. For goodness' sake
 don't you ever on any pretext set your foot over the threshold at
 night, for it's as much as your life is worth.'

 "The warning was no idle one, for two nights later I happened to look
 out of my bedroom window about two o'clock in the morning. It was a
 beautiful moonlight night, and the lawn in front of the house was
 silvered over and almost as bright as day. I was standing, rapt in
 the peaceful beauty of the scene, when I was aware that something was
 moving under the shadow of the copper beeches. As it emerged into the
 moonshine I saw what it was. It was a giant dog, as large as a calf,
 tawny tinted, with hanging jowl, black muzzle, and huge projecting
 bones. It walked slowly across the lawn and vanished into the shadow
 upon the other side. That dreadful sentinel sent a chill to my heart
 which I do not think that any burglar could have done.

 "And now I have a very strange experience to tell you. I had, as you
 know, cut off my hair in London, and I had placed it in a great coil
 at the bottom of my trunk. One evening, after the child was in bed, I
 began to amuse myself by examining the furniture of my room and by
 rearranging my own little things. There was an old chest of drawers
 in the room, the two upper ones empty and open, the lower one locked.
 I had filled the first two with my linen, and as I had still much to
 pack away I was naturally annoyed at not having the use of the third
 drawer. It struck me that it might have been fastened by a mere
 oversight, so I took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. The
 very first key fitted to perfection, and I drew the drawer open.
 There was only one thing in it, but I am sure that you would never
 guess what it was. It was my coil of hair.

 "I took it up and examined it. It was of the same peculiar tint, and
 the same thickness. But then the impossibility of the thing obtruded
 itself upon me. How could my hair have been locked in the drawer?
 With trembling hands I undid my trunk, turned out the contents, and
 drew from the bottom my own hair. I laid the two tresses together,
 and I assure you that they were identical. Was it not extraordinary?
 Puzzle as I would, I could make nothing at all of what it meant. I
 returned the strange hair to the drawer, and I said nothing of the
 matter to the Rucastles as I felt that I had put myself in the wrong
 by opening a drawer which they had locked.

 "I am naturally observant, as you may have remarked, Mr. Holmes, and
 I soon had a pretty good plan of the whole house in my head. There
 was one wing, however, which appeared not to be inhabited at all. A
 door which faced that which led into the quarters of the Tollers
 opened into this suite, but it was invariably locked. One day,
 however, as I ascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle coming out
 through this door, his keys in his hand, and a look on his face which
 made him a very different person to the round, jovial man to whom I
 was accustomed. His cheeks were red, his brow was all crinkled with
 anger, and the veins stood out at his temples with passion. He locked
 the door and hurried past me without a word or a look.

 "This aroused my curiosity, so when I went out for a walk in the
 grounds with my charge, I strolled round to the side from which I
 could see the windows of this part of the house. There were four of
 them in a row, three of which were simply dirty, while the fourth was
 shuttered up. They were evidently all deserted. As I strolled up and
 down, glancing at them occasionally, Mr. Rucastle came out to me,
 looking as merry and jovial as ever.

 "'Ah!' said he, 'you must not think me rude if I passed you without a
 word, my dear young lady. I was preoccupied with business matters.'

 "I assured him that I was not offended. 'By the way,' said I, 'you
 seem to have quite a suite of spare rooms up there, and one of them
 has the shutters up.'

 "He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, a little startled at my
 remark.

 "'Photography is one of my hobbies,' said he. 'I have made my dark
 room up there. But, dear me! what an observant young lady we have
 come upon. Who would have believed it? Who would have ever believed
 it?' He spoke in a jesting tone, but there was no jest in his eyes as
 he looked at me. I read suspicion there and annoyance, but no jest.

 "Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I understood that there was
 something about that suite of rooms which I was not to know, I was
 all on fire to go over them. It was not mere curiosity, though I have
 my share of that. It was more a feeling of duty--a feeling that some
 good might come from my penetrating to this place. They talk of
 woman's instinct; perhaps it was woman's instinct which gave me that
 feeling. At any rate, it was there, and I was keenly on the lookout
 for any chance to pass the forbidden door.

 "It was only yesterday that the chance came. I may tell you that,
 besides Mr. Rucastle, both Toller and his wife find something to do
 in these deserted rooms, and I once saw him carrying a large black
 linen bag with him through the door. Recently he has been drinking
 hard, and yesterday evening he was very drunk; and when I came
 upstairs there was the key in the door. I have no doubt at all that
 he had left it there. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were both downstairs, and
 the child was with them, so that I had an admirable opportunity. I
 turned the key gently in the lock, opened the door, and slipped
 through.

 "There was a little passage in front of me, unpapered and uncarpeted,
 which turned at a right angle at the farther end. Round this corner
 were three doors in a line, the first and third of which were open.
 They each led into an empty room, dusty and cheerless, with two
 windows in the one and one in the other, so thick with dirt that the
 evening light glimmered dimly through them. The centre door was
 closed, and across the outside of it had been fastened one of the
 broad bars of an iron bed, padlocked at one end to a ring in the
 wall, and fastened at the other with stout cord. The door itself was
 locked as well, and the key was not there. This barricaded door
 corresponded clearly with the shuttered window outside, and yet I
 could see by the glimmer from beneath it that the room was not in
 darkness. Evidently there was a skylight which let in light from
 above. As I stood in the passage gazing at the sinister door and
 wondering what secret it might veil, I suddenly heard the sound of
 steps within the room and saw a shadow pass backward and forward
 against the little slit of dim light which shone out from under the
 door. A mad, unreasoning terror rose up in me at the sight, Mr.
 Holmes. My overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I turned and
 ran--ran as though some dreadful hand were behind me clutching at the
 skirt of my dress. I rushed down the passage, through the door, and
 straight into the arms of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting outside.

 "'So,' said he, smiling, 'it was you, then. I thought that it must be
 when I saw the door open.'

 "'Oh, I am so frightened!' I panted.

 "'My dear young lady! my dear young lady!'--you cannot think how
 caressing and soothing his manner was--'and what has frightened you,
 my dear young lady?'

 "But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He overdid it. I was
 keenly on my guard against him.

 "'I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,' I answered. 'But
 it is so lonely and eerie in this dim light that I was frightened and
 ran out again. Oh, it is so dreadfully still in there!'

 "'Only that?' said he, looking at me keenly.

 "'Why, what did you think?' I asked.

 "'Why do you think that I lock this door?'

 "'I am sure that I do not know.'

 "'It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you see?'
 He was still smiling in the most amiable manner.

 "'I am sure if I had known--'

 "'Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your foot over that
 threshold again'--here in an instant the smile hardened into a grin
 of rage, and he glared down at me with the face of a demon--'I'll
 throw you to the mastiff.'

 "I was so terrified that I do not know what I did. I suppose that I
 must have rushed past him into my room. I remember nothing until I
 found myself lying on my bed trembling all over. Then I thought of
 you, Mr. Holmes. I could not live there longer without some advice. I
 was frightened of the house, of the man, of the woman, of the
 servants, even of the child. They were all horrible to me. If I could
 only bring you down all would be well. Of course I might have fled
 from the house, but my curiosity was almost as strong as my fears. My
 mind was soon made up. I would send you a wire. I put on my hat and
 cloak, went down to the office, which is about half a mile from the
 house, and then returned, feeling very much easier. A horrible doubt
 came into my mind as I approached the door lest the dog might be
 loose, but I remembered that Toller had drunk himself into a state of
 insensibility that evening, and I knew that he was the only one in
 the household who had any influence with the savage creature, or who
 would venture to set him free. I slipped in in safety and lay awake
 half the night in my joy at the thought of seeing you. I had no
 difficulty in getting leave to come into Winchester this morning, but
 I must be back before three o'clock, for Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle are
 going on a visit, and will be away all the evening, so that I must
 look after the child. Now I have told you all my adventures, Mr.
 Holmes, and I should be very glad if you could tell me what it all
 means, and, above all, what I should do."

 Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this extraordinary story. My
 friend rose now and paced up and down the room, his hands in his
 pockets, and an expression of the most profound gravity upon his
 face.

 "Is Toller still drunk?" he asked.

 "Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do nothing
 with him."

 "That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night?"

 "Yes."

 "Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?"

 "Yes, the wine-cellar."

 "You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a very
 brave and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could
 perform one more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not think
 you a quite exceptional woman."

 "I will try. What is it?"

 "We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven o'clock, my friend and I.
 The Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller will, we hope, be
 incapable. There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might give the alarm.
 If you could send her into the cellar on some errand, and then turn
 the key upon her, you would facilitate matters immensely."

 "I will do it."

 "Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into the affair. Of course
 there is only one feasible explanation. You have been brought there
 to personate someone, and the real person is imprisoned in this
 chamber. That is obvious. As to who this prisoner is, I have no doubt
 that it is the daughter, Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember right,
 who was said to have gone to America. You were chosen, doubtless, as
 resembling her in height, figure, and the colour of your hair. Hers
 had been cut off, very possibly in some illness through which she has
 passed, and so, of course, yours had to be sacrificed also. By a
 curious chance you came upon her tresses. The man in the road was
 undoubtedly some friend of hers--possibly her fiancÃ©--and no doubt,
 as you wore the girl's dress and were so like her, he was convinced
 from your laughter, whenever he saw you, and afterwards from your
 gesture, that Miss Rucastle was perfectly happy, and that she no
 longer desired his attentions. The dog is let loose at night to
 prevent him from endeavouring to communicate with her. So much is
 fairly clear. The most serious point in the case is the disposition
 of the child."

 "What on earth has that to do with it?" I ejaculated.

 "My dear Watson, you as a medical man are continually gaining light
 as to the tendencies of a child by the study of the parents. Don't
 you see that the converse is equally valid. I have frequently gained
 my first real insight into the character of parents by studying their
 children. This child's disposition is abnormally cruel, merely for
 cruelty's sake, and whether he derives this from his smiling father,
 as I should suspect, or from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor
 girl who is in their power."

 "I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes," cried our client. "A
 thousand things come back to me which make me certain that you have
 hit it. Oh, let us lose not an instant in bringing help to this poor
 creature."

 "We must be circumspect, for we are dealing with a very cunning man.
 We can do nothing until seven o'clock. At that hour we shall be with
 you, and it will not be long before we solve the mystery."

 We were as good as our word, for it was just seven when we reached
 the Copper Beeches, having put up our trap at a wayside public-house.
 The group of trees, with their dark leaves shining like burnished
 metal in the light of the setting sun, were sufficient to mark the
 house even had Miss Hunter not been standing smiling on the
 door-step.

 "Have you managed it?" asked Holmes.

 A loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs. "That is Mrs.
 Toller in the cellar," said she. "Her husband lies snoring on the
 kitchen rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr.
 Rucastle's."

 "You have done well indeed!" cried Holmes with enthusiasm. "Now lead
 the way, and we shall soon see the end of this black business."

 We passed up the stair, unlocked the door, followed on down a
 passage, and found ourselves in front of the barricade which Miss
 Hunter had described. Holmes cut the cord and removed the transverse
 bar. Then he tried the various keys in the lock, but without success.
 No sound came from within, and at the silence Holmes' face clouded
 over.

 "I trust that we are not too late," said he. "I think, Miss Hunter,
 that we had better go in without you. Now, Watson, put your shoulder
 to it, and we shall see whether we cannot make our way in."

 It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united
 strength. Together we rushed into the room. It was empty. There was
 no furniture save a little pallet bed, a small table, and a basketful
 of linen. The skylight above was open, and the prisoner gone.

 "There has been some villainy here," said Holmes; "this beauty has
 guessed Miss Hunter's intentions and has carried his victim off."

 "But how?"

 "Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed it." He swung
 himself up onto the roof. "Ah, yes," he cried, "here's the end of a
 long light ladder against the eaves. That is how he did it."

 "But it is impossible," said Miss Hunter; "the ladder was not there
 when the Rucastles went away."

 "He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a clever and
 dangerous man. I should not be very much surprised if this were he
 whose step I hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it would
 be as well for you to have your pistol ready."

 The words were hardly out of his mouth before a man appeared at the
 door of the room, a very fat and burly man, with a heavy stick in his
 hand. Miss Hunter screamed and shrunk against the wall at the sight
 of him, but Sherlock Holmes sprang forward and confronted him.

 "You villain!" said he, "where's your daughter?"

 The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at the open skylight.

 "It is for me to ask you that," he shrieked, "you thieves! Spies and
 thieves! I have caught you, have I? You are in my power. I'll serve
 you!" He turned and clattered down the stairs as hard as he could go.

 "He's gone for the dog!" cried Miss Hunter.

 "I have my revolver," said I.

 "Better close the front door," cried Holmes, and we all rushed down
 the stairs together. We had hardly reached the hall when we heard the
 baying of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a horrible
 worrying sound which it was dreadful to listen to. An elderly man
 with a red face and shaking limbs came staggering out at a side door.

 "My God!" he cried. "Someone has loosed the dog. It's not been fed
 for two days. Quick, quick, or it'll be too late!"

 Holmes and I rushed out and round the angle of the house, with Toller
 hurrying behind us. There was the huge famished brute, its black
 muzzle buried in Rucastle's throat, while he writhed and screamed
 upon the ground. Running up, I blew its brains out, and it fell over
 with its keen white teeth still meeting in the great creases of his
 neck. With much labour we separated them and carried him, living but
 horribly mangled, into the house. We laid him upon the drawing-room
 sofa, and having dispatched the sobered Toller to bear the news to
 his wife, I did what I could to relieve his pain. We were all
 assembled round him when the door opened, and a tall, gaunt woman
 entered the room.

 "Mrs. Toller!" cried Miss Hunter.

 "Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back before he went
 up to you. Ah, miss, it is a pity you didn't let me know what you
 were planning, for I would have told you that your pains were
 wasted."

 "Ha!" said Holmes, looking keenly at her. "It is clear that Mrs.
 Toller knows more about this matter than anyone else."

 "Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell what I know."

 "Then, pray, sit down, and let us hear it for there are several
 points on which I must confess that I am still in the dark."

 "I will soon make it clear to you," said she; "and I'd have done so
 before now if I could ha' got out from the cellar. If there's
 police-court business over this, you'll remember that I was the one
 that stood your friend, and that I was Miss Alice's friend too.

 "She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn't, from the time that
 her father married again. She was slighted like and had no say in
 anything, but it never really became bad for her until after she met
 Mr. Fowler at a friend's house. As well as I could learn, Miss Alice
 had rights of her own by will, but she was so quiet and patient, she
 was, that she never said a word about them but just left everything
 in Mr. Rucastle's hands. He knew he was safe with her; but when there
 was a chance of a husband coming forward, who would ask for all that
 the law would give him, then her father thought it time to put a stop
 on it. He wanted her to sign a paper, so that whether she married or
 not, he could use her money. When she wouldn't do it, he kept on
 worrying her until she got brain-fever, and for six weeks was at
 death's door. Then she got better at last, all worn to a shadow, and
 with her beautiful hair cut off; but that didn't make no change in
 her young man, and he stuck to her as true as man could be."

 "Ah," said Holmes, "I think that what you have been good enough to
 tell us makes the matter fairly clear, and that I can deduce all that
 remains. Mr. Rucastle then, I presume, took to this system of
 imprisonment?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "And brought Miss Hunter down from London in order to get rid of the
 disagreeable persistence of Mr. Fowler."

 "That was it, sir."

 "But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a good seaman should be,
 blockaded the house, and having met you succeeded by certain
 arguments, metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your
 interests were the same as his."

 "Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed gentleman," said Mrs.
 Toller serenely.

 "And in this way he managed that your good man should have no want of
 drink, and that a ladder should be ready at the moment when your
 master had gone out."

 "You have it, sir, just as it happened."

 "I am sure we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller," said Holmes, "for you
 have certainly cleared up everything which puzzled us. And here comes
 the country surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle, so I think, Watson, that we
 had best escort Miss Hunter back to Winchester, as it seems to me
 that our locus standi now is rather a questionable one."

 And thus was solved the mystery of the sinister house with the copper
 beeches in front of the door. Mr. Rucastle survived, but was always a
 broken man, kept alive solely through the care of his devoted wife.
 They still live with their old servants, who probably know so much of
 Rucastle's past life that he finds it difficult to part from them.
 Mr. Fowler and Miss Rucastle were married, by special license, in
 Southampton the day after their flight, and he is now the holder of a
 government appointment in the island of Mauritius. As to Miss Violet
 Hunter, my friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no
 further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of
 one of his problems, and she is now the head of a private school at
 Walsall, where I believe that she has met with considerable success.






                     THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES





                              SILVER BLAZE

 "I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go," said Holmes, as we
 sat down together to our breakfast one morning.

 "Go! Where to?"

 "To Dartmoor; to King's Pyland."

 I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not
 already been mixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the one
 topic of conversation through the length and breadth of England. For
 a whole day my companion had rambled about the room with his chin
 upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and recharging his
 pipe with the strongest black tobacco, and absolutely deaf to any of
 my questions or remarks. Fresh editions of every paper had been sent
 up by our news agent, only to be glanced over and tossed down into a
 corner. Yet, silent as he was, I knew perfectly well what it was over
 which he was brooding.  There was but one problem before the public
 which could challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the
 singular disappearance of the favorite for the Wessex Cup, and the
 tragic murder of its trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly announced
 his intention of setting out for the scene of the drama it was only
 what I had both expected and hoped for.

 "I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in the
 way," said I.

 "My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by coming.
 And I think that your time will not be misspent, for there are points
 about the case which promise to make it an absolutely unique one. We
 have, I think, just time to catch our train at Paddington, and I will
 go further into the matter upon our journey. You would oblige me by
 bringing with you your very excellent field-glass."

 And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the
 corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for Exeter,
 while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed in his
 ear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of fresh
 papers which he had procured at Paddington. We had left Reading far
 behind us before he thrust the last one of them under the seat, and
 offered me his cigar-case.

 "We are going well," said he, looking out the window and glancing at
 his watch. "Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half miles an
 hour."

 "I have not observed the quarter-mile posts," said I.

 "Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty yards
 apart, and the calculation is a simple one. I presume that you have
 looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker and the
 disappearance of Silver Blaze?"

 "I have seen what the Telegraph and the Chronicle have to say."

 "It is one of those cases where the art of the reasoner should be
 used rather for the sifting of details than for the acquiring of
 fresh evidence. The tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and of
 such personal importance to so many people, that we are suffering
 from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis. The
 difficulty is to detach the framework of fact--of absolute undeniable
 fact--from the embellishments of theorists and reporters. Then,
 having established ourselves upon this sound basis, it is our duty to
 see what inferences may be drawn and what are the special points upon
 which the whole mystery turns. On Tuesday evening I received
 telegrams from both Colonel Ross, the owner of the horse, and from
 Inspector Gregory, who is looking after the case, inviting my
 cooperation.

 "Tuesday evening!" I exclaimed. "And this is Thursday morning. Why
 didn't you go down yesterday?"

 "Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson--which is, I am afraid, a
 more common occurrence than any one would think who only knew me
 through your memoirs. The fact is that I could not believe it
 possible that the most remarkable horse in England could long remain
 concealed, especially in so sparsely inhabited a place as the north
 of Dartmoor. From hour to hour yesterday I expected to hear that he
 had been found, and that his abductor was the murderer of John
 Straker. When, however, another morning had come, and I found that
 beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson nothing had been done, I
 felt that it was time for me to take action. Yet in some ways I feel
 that yesterday has not been wasted."

 "You have formed a theory, then?"

 "At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case. I
 shall enumerate them to you, for nothing clears up a case so much as
 stating it to another person, and I can hardly expect your
 co-operation if I do not show you the position from which we start."

 I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while Holmes,
 leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking off the
 points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch of the events
 which had led to our journey.

 "Silver Blaze," said he, "is from the Somomy stock, and holds as
 brilliant a record as his famous ancestor. He is now in his fifth
 year, and has brought in turn each of the prizes of the turf to
 Colonel Ross, his fortunate owner. Up to the time of the catastrophe
 he was the first favorite for the Wessex Cup, the betting being three
 to one on him. He has always, however, been a prime favorite with the
 racing public, and has never yet disappointed them, so that even at
 those odds enormous sums of money have been laid upon him. It is
 obvious, therefore, that there were many people who had the strongest
 interest in preventing Silver Blaze from being there at the fall of
 the flag next Tuesday.

 "The fact was, of course, appreciated at King's Pyland, where the
 Colonel's training-stable is situated. Every precaution was taken to
 guard the favorite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired jockey
 who rode in Colonel Ross's colors before he became too heavy for the
 weighing-chair. He has served the Colonel for five years as jockey
 and for seven as trainer, and has always shown himself to be a
 zealous and honest servant. Under him were three lads; for the
 establishment was a small one, containing only four horses in all.
 One of these lads sat up each night in the stable, while the others
 slept in the loft. All three bore excellent characters. John Straker,
 who is a married man, lived in a small villa about two hundred yards
 from the stables. He has no children, keeps one maid-servant, and is
 comfortably off. The country round is very lonely, but about half a
 mile to the north there is a small cluster of villas which have been
 built by a Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and others
 who may wish to enjoy the pure Dartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies
 two miles to the west, while across the moor, also about two miles
 distant, is the larger training establishment of Mapleton, which
 belongs to Lord Backwater, and is managed by Silas Brown. In every
 other direction the moor is a complete wilderness, inhabited only by
 a few roaming gypsies. Such was the general situation last Monday
 night when the catastrophe occurred.

 "On that evening the horses had been exercised and watered as usual,
 and the stables were locked up at nine o'clock. Two of the lads
 walked up to the trainer's house, where they had supper in the
 kitchen, while the third, Ned Hunter, remained on guard. At a few
 minutes after nine the maid, Edith Baxter, carried down to the
 stables his supper, which consisted of a dish of curried mutton. She
 took no liquid, as there was a water-tap in the stables, and it was
 the rule that the lad on duty should drink nothing else. The maid
 carried a lantern with her, as it was very dark and the path ran
 across the open moor.

 "Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables, when a man
 appeared out of the darkness and called to her to stop. As he stepped
 into the circle of yellow light thrown by the lantern she saw that he
 was a person of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a gray suit of
 tweeds, with a cloth cap. He wore gaiters, and carried a heavy stick
 with a knob to it. She was most impressed, however, by the extreme
 pallor of his face and by the nervousness of his manner. His age, she
 thought, would be rather over thirty than under it.

 "'Can you tell me where I am?' he asked. 'I had almost made up my
 mind to sleep on the moor, when I saw the light of your lantern.'

 "'You are close to the King's Pyland training-stables,' said she.

 "'Oh, indeed! What a stroke of luck!' he cried. 'I understand that a
 stable-boy sleeps there alone every night. Perhaps that is his supper
 which you are carrying to him. Now I am sure that you would not be
 too proud to earn the price of a new dress, would you?' He took a
 piece of white paper folded up out of his waistcoat pocket. 'See that
 the boy has this to-night, and you shall have the prettiest frock
 that money can buy.'

 "She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner, and ran past
 him to the window through which she was accustomed to hand the meals.
 It was already opened, and Hunter was seated at the small table
 inside. She had begun to tell him of what had happened, when the
 stranger came up again.

 "'Good-evening,' said he, looking through the window. 'I wanted to
 have a word with you.' The girl has sworn that as he spoke she
 noticed the corner of the little paper packet protruding from his
 closed hand.

 "'What business have you here?' asked the lad.

 "'It's business that may put something into your pocket,' said the
 other. 'You've two horses in for the Wessex Cup--Silver Blaze and
 Bayard. Let me have the straight tip and you won't be a loser. Is it
 a fact that at the weights Bayard could give the other a hundred
 yards in five furlongs, and that the stable have put their money on
 him?'

 "'So, you're one of those damned touts!' cried the lad. 'I'll show
 you how we serve them in King's Pyland.' He sprang up and rushed
 across the stable to unloose the dog. The girl fled away to the
 house, but as she ran she looked back and saw that the stranger was
 leaning through the window. A minute later, however, when Hunter
 rushed out with the hound he was gone, and though he ran all round
 the buildings he failed to find any trace of him."

 "One moment," I asked. "Did the stable-boy, when he ran out with the
 dog, leave the door unlocked behind him?"

 "Excellent, Watson, excellent!" murmured my companion. "The
 importance of the point struck me so forcibly that I sent a special
 wire to Dartmoor yesterday to clear the matter up. The boy locked the
 door before he left it. The window, I may add, was not large enough
 for a man to get through.

 "Hunter waited until his fellow-grooms had returned, when he sent a
 message to the trainer and told him what had occurred. Straker was
 excited at hearing the account, although he does not seem to have
 quite realized its true significance. It left him, however, vaguely
 uneasy, and Mrs. Straker, waking at one in the morning, found that he
 was dressing. In reply to her inquiries, he said that he could not
 sleep on account of his anxiety about the horses, and that he
 intended to walk down to the stables to see that all was well. She
 begged him to remain at home, as she could hear the rain pattering
 against the window, but in spite of her entreaties he pulled on his
 large mackintosh and left the house.

 "Mrs. Straker awoke at seven in the morning, to find that her husband
 had not yet returned. She dressed herself hastily, called the maid,
 and set off for the stables. The door was open; inside, huddled
 together upon a chair, Hunter was sunk in a state of absolute stupor,
 the favorite's stall was empty, and there were no signs of his
 trainer.

 "The two lads who slept in the chaff-cutting loft above the
 harness-room were quickly aroused. They had heard nothing during the
 night, for they are both sound sleepers. Hunter was obviously under
 the influence of some powerful drug, and as no sense could be got out
 of him, he was left to sleep it off while the two lads and the two
 women ran out in search of the absentees. They still had hopes that
 the trainer had for some reason taken out the horse for early
 exercise, but on ascending the knoll near the house, from which all
 the neighboring moors were visible, they not only could see no signs
 of the missing favorite, but they perceived something which warned
 them that they were in the presence of a tragedy.

 "About a quarter of a mile from the stables John Straker's overcoat
 was flapping from a furze-bush. Immediately beyond there was a
 bowl-shaped depression in the moor, and at the bottom of this was
 found the dead body of the unfortunate trainer. His head had been
 shattered by a savage blow from some heavy weapon, and he was wounded
 on the thigh, where there was a long, clean cut, inflicted evidently
 by some very sharp instrument. It was clear, however, that Straker
 had defended himself vigorously against his assailants, for in his
 right hand he held a small knife, which was clotted with blood up to
 the handle, while in his left he clasped a red and black silk cravat,
 which was recognized by the maid as having been worn on the preceding
 evening by the stranger who had visited the stables. Hunter, on
 recovering from his stupor, was also quite positive as to the
 ownership of the cravat. He was equally certain that the same
 stranger had, while standing at the window, drugged his curried
 mutton, and so deprived the stables of their watchman. As to the
 missing horse, there were abundant proofs in the mud which lay at the
 bottom of the fatal hollow that he had been there at the time of the
 struggle. But from that morning he has disappeared, and although a
 large reward has been offered, and all the gypsies of Dartmoor are on
 the alert, no news has come of him. Finally, an analysis has shown
 that the remains of his supper left by the stable-lad contain an
 appreciable quantity of powdered opium, while the people at the house
 partook of the same dish on the same night without any ill effect.

 "Those are the main facts of the case, stripped of all surmise, and
 stated as baldly as possible. I shall now recapitulate what the
 police have done in the matter.

 "Inspector Gregory, to whom the case has been committed, is an
 extremely competent officer. Were he but gifted with imagination he
 might rise to great heights in his profession. On his arrival he
 promptly found and arrested the man upon whom suspicion naturally
 rested. There was little difficulty in finding him, for he inhabited
 one of those villas which I have mentioned. His name, it appears, was
 Fitzroy Simpson. He was a man of excellent birth and education, who
 had squandered a fortune upon the turf, and who lived now by doing a
 little quiet and genteel book-making in the sporting clubs of London.
 An examination of his betting-book shows that bets to the amount of
 five thousand pounds had been registered by him against the favorite.
 On being arrested he volunteered the statement that he had come down
 to Dartmoor in the hope of getting some information about the King's
 Pyland horses, and also about Desborough, the second favorite, which
 was in charge of Silas Brown at the Mapleton stables. He did not
 attempt to deny that he had acted as described upon the evening
 before, but declared that he had no sinister designs, and had simply
 wished to obtain first-hand information. When confronted with his
 cravat, he turned very pale, and was utterly unable to account for
 its presence in the hand of the murdered man. His wet clothing showed
 that he had been out in the storm of the night before, and his stick,
 which was a Penang-lawyer weighted with lead, was just such a weapon
 as might, by repeated blows, have inflicted the terrible injuries to
 which the trainer had succumbed. On the other hand, there was no
 wound upon his person, while the state of Straker's knife would show
 that one at least of his assailants must bear his mark upon him.
 There you have it all in a nutshell, Watson, and if you can give me
 any light I shall be infinitely obliged to you."

 I had listened with the greatest interest to the statement which
 Holmes, with characteristic clearness, had laid before me. Though
 most of the facts were familiar to me, I had not sufficiently
 appreciated their relative importance, nor their connection to each
 other.

 "Is in not possible," I suggested, "that the incised wound upon
 Straker may have been caused by his own knife in the convulsive
 struggles which follow any brain injury?"

 "It is more than possible; it is probable," said Holmes. "In that
 case one of the main points in favor of the accused disappears."

 "And yet," said I, "even now I fail to understand what the theory of
 the police can be."

 "I am afraid that whatever theory we state has very grave objections
 to it," returned my companion. "The police imagine, I take it, that
 this Fitzroy Simpson, having drugged the lad, and having in some way
 obtained a duplicate key, opened the stable door and took out the
 horse, with the intention, apparently, of kidnapping him altogether.
 His bridle is missing, so that Simpson must have put this on. Then,
 having left the door open behind him, he was leading the horse away
 over the moor, when he was either met or overtaken by the trainer. A
 row naturally ensued. Simpson beat out the trainer's brains with his
 heavy stick without receiving any injury from the small knife which
 Straker used in self-defence, and then the thief either led the horse
 on to some secret hiding-place, or else it may have bolted during the
 struggle, and be now wandering out on the moors. That is the case as
 it appears to the police, and improbable as it is, all other
 explanations are more improbable still. However, I shall very quickly
 test the matter when I am once upon the spot, and until then I cannot
 really see how we can get much further than our present position."

 It was evening before we reached the little town of Tavistock, which
 lies, like the boss of a shield, in the middle of the huge circle of
 Dartmoor. Two gentlemen were awaiting us in the station--the one a
 tall, fair man with lion-like hair and beard and curiously
 penetrating light blue eyes; the other a small, alert person, very
 neat and dapper, in a frock-coat and gaiters, with trim little
 side-whiskers and an eye-glass. The latter was Colonel Ross, the
 well-known sportsman; the other, Inspector Gregory, a man who was
 rapidly making his name in the English detective service.

 "I am delighted that you have come down, Mr. Holmes," said the
 Colonel. "The Inspector here has done all that could possibly be
 suggested, but I wish to leave no stone unturned in trying to avenge
 poor Straker and in recovering my horse."

 "Have there been any fresh developments?" asked Holmes.

 "I am sorry to say that we have made very little progress," said the
 Inspector. "We have an open carriage outside, and as you would no
 doubt like to see the place before the light fails, we might talk it
 over as we drive."

 A minute later we were all seated in a comfortable landau, and were
 rattling through the quaint old Devonshire city. Inspector Gregory
 was full of his case, and poured out a stream of remarks, while
 Holmes threw in an occasional question or interjection. Colonel Ross
 leaned back with his arms folded and his hat tilted over his eyes,
 while I listened with interest to the dialogue of the two detectives.
 Gregory was formulating his theory, which was almost exactly what
 Holmes had foretold in the train.

 "The net is drawn pretty close round Fitzroy Simpson," he remarked,
 "and I believe myself that he is our man. At the same time I
 recognize that the evidence is purely circumstantial, and that some
 new development may upset it."

 "How about Straker's knife?"

 "We have quite come to the conclusion that he wounded himself in his
 fall."

 "My friend Dr. Watson made that suggestion to me as we came down. If
 so, it would tell against this man Simpson."

 "Undoubtedly. He has neither a knife nor any sign of a wound. The
 evidence against him is certainly very strong. He had a great
 interest in the disappearance of the favorite. He lies under
 suspicion of having poisoned the stable-boy, he was undoubtedly out
 in the storm, he was armed with a heavy stick, and his cravat was
 found in the dead man's hand. I really think we have enough to go
 before a jury."

 Holmes shook his head. "A clever counsel would tear it all to rags,"
 said he. "Why should he take the horse out of the stable? If he
 wished to injure it why could he not do it there? Has a duplicate key
 been found in his possession? What chemist sold him the powdered
 opium? Above all, where could he, a stranger to the district, hide a
 horse, and such a horse as this? What is his own explanation as to
 the paper which he wished the maid to give to the stable-boy?"

 "He says that it was a ten-pound note. One was found in his purse.
 But your other difficulties are not so formidable as they seem. He is
 not a stranger to the district. He has twice lodged at Tavistock in
 the summer. The opium was probably brought from London. The key,
 having served its purpose, would be hurled away. The horse may be at
 the bottom of one of the pits or old mines upon the moor."

 "What does he say about the cravat?"

 "He acknowledges that it is his, and declares that he had lost it.
 But a new element has been introduced into the case which may account
 for his leading the horse from the stable."

 Holmes pricked up his ears.

 "We have found traces which show that a party of gypsies encamped on
 Monday night within a mile of the spot where the murder took place.
 On Tuesday they were gone. Now, presuming that there was some
 understanding between Simpson and these gypsies, might he not have
 been leading the horse to them when he was overtaken, and may they
 not have him now?"

 "It is certainly possible."

 "The moor is being scoured for these gypsies. I have also examined
 every stable and out-house in Tavistock, and for a radius of ten
 miles."

 "There is another training-stable quite close, I understand?"

 "Yes, and that is a factor which we must certainly not neglect. As
 Desborough, their horse, was second in the betting, they had an
 interest in the disappearance of the favorite. Silas Brown, the
 trainer, is known to have had large bets upon the event, and he was
 no friend to poor Straker. We have, however, examined the stables,
 and there is nothing to connect him with the affair."

 "And nothing to connect this man Simpson with the interests of the
 Mapleton stables?"

 "Nothing at all."

 Holmes leaned back in the carriage, and the conversation ceased. A
 few minutes later our driver pulled up at a neat little red-brick
 villa with overhanging eaves which stood by the road. Some distance
 off, across a paddock, lay a long gray-tiled out-building. In every
 other direction the low curves of the moor, bronze-colored from the
 fading ferns, stretched away to the sky-line, broken only by the
 steeples of Tavistock, and by a cluster of houses away to the
 westward which marked the Mapleton stables. We all sprang out with
 the exception of Holmes, who continued to lean back with his eyes
 fixed upon the sky in front of him, entirely absorbed in his own
 thoughts. It was only when I touched his arm that he roused himself
 with a violent start and stepped out of the carriage.

 "Excuse me," said he, turning to Colonel Ross, who had looked at him
 in some surprise. "I was day-dreaming." There was a gleam in his eyes
 and a suppressed excitement in his manner which convinced me, used as
 I was to his ways, that his hand was upon a clue, though I could not
 imagine where he had found it.

 "Perhaps you would prefer at once to go on to the scene of the crime,
 Mr. Holmes?" said Gregory.

 "I think that I should prefer to stay here a little and go into one
 or two questions of detail. Straker was brought back here, I
 presume?"

 "Yes; he lies upstairs. The inquest is to-morrow."

 "He has been in your service some years, Colonel Ross?"

 "I have always found him an excellent servant."

 "I presume that you made an inventory of what he had in this pockets
 at the time of his death, Inspector?"

 "I have the things themselves in the sitting-room, if you would care
 to see them."

 "I should be very glad." We all filed into the front room and sat
 round the central table while the Inspector unlocked a square tin box
 and laid a small heap of things before us. There was a box of vestas,
 two inches of tallow candle, an A D P brier-root pipe, a pouch of
 seal-skin with half an ounce of long-cut Cavendish, a silver watch
 with a gold chain, five sovereigns in gold, an aluminum pencil-case,
 a few papers, and an ivory-handled knife with a very delicate,
 inflexible blade marked Weiss & Co., London.

 "This is a very singular knife," said Holmes, lifting it up and
 examining it minutely. "I presume, as I see blood-stains upon it,
 that it is the one which was found in the dead man's grasp. Watson,
 this knife is surely in your line?"

 "It is what we call a cataract knife," said I.

 "I thought so. A very delicate blade devised for very delicate work.
 A strange thing for a man to carry with him upon a rough expedition,
 especially as it would not shut in his pocket."

 "The tip was guarded by a disk of cork which we found beside his
 body," said the Inspector. "His wife tells us that the knife had lain
 upon the dressing-table, and that he had picked it up as he left the
 room. It was a poor weapon, but perhaps the best that he could lay
 his hands on at the moment."

 "Very possible. How about these papers?"

 "Three of them are receipted hay-dealers' accounts. One of them is a
 letter of instructions from Colonel Ross. This other is a milliner's
 account for thirty-seven pounds fifteen made out by Madame Lesurier,
 of Bond Street, to William Derbyshire. Mrs. Straker tells us that
 Derbyshire was a friend of her husband's and that occasionally his
 letters were addressed here."

 "Madam Derbyshire had somewhat expensive tastes," remarked Holmes,
 glancing down the account. "Twenty-two guineas is rather heavy for a
 single costume. However there appears to be nothing more to learn,
 and we may now go down to the scene of the crime."

 As we emerged from the sitting-room a woman, who had been waiting in
 the passage, took a step forward and laid her hand upon the
 Inspector's sleeve. Her face was haggard and thin and eager, stamped
 with the print of a recent horror.

 "Have you got them? Have you found them?" she panted.

 "No, Mrs. Straker. But Mr. Holmes here has come from London to help
 us, and we shall do all that is possible."

 "Surely I met you in Plymouth at a garden-party some little time ago,
 Mrs. Straker?" said Holmes.

 "No, sir; you are mistaken."

 "Dear me! Why, I could have sworn to it. You wore a costume of
 dove-colored silk with ostrich-feather trimming."

 "I never had such a dress, sir," answered the lady.

 "Ah, that quite settles it," said Holmes. And with an apology he
 followed the Inspector outside. A short walk across the moor took us
 to the hollow in which the body had been found. At the brink of it
 was the furze-bush upon which the coat had been hung.

 "There was no wind that night, I understand," said Holmes.

 "None; but very heavy rain."

 "In that case the overcoat was not blown against the furze-bush, but
 placed there."

 "Yes, it was laid across the bush."

 "You fill me with interest, I perceive that the ground has been
 trampled up a good deal. No doubt many feet have been here since
 Monday night."

 "A piece of matting has been laid here at the side, and we have all
 stood upon that."

 "Excellent."

 "In this bag I have one of the boots which Straker wore, one of
 Fitzroy Simpson's shoes, and a cast horseshoe of Silver Blaze."

 "My dear Inspector, you surpass yourself!" Holmes took the bag, and,
 descending into the hollow, he pushed the matting into a more central
 position. Then stretching himself upon his face and leaning his chin
 upon his hands, he made a careful study of the trampled mud in front
 of him. "Hullo!" said he, suddenly. "What's this?" It was a wax vesta
 half burned, which was so coated with mud that it looked at first
 like a little chip of wood.

 "I cannot think how I came to overlook it," said the Inspector, with
 an expression of annoyance.

 "It was invisible, buried in the mud. I only saw it because I was
 looking for it."

 "What! You expected to find it?"

 "I thought it not unlikely."

 He took the boots from the bag, and compared the impressions of each
 of them with marks upon the ground. Then he clambered up to the rim
 of the hollow, and crawled about among the ferns and bushes.

 "I am afraid that there are no more tracks," said the Inspector. "I
 have examined the ground very carefully for a hundred yards in each
 direction."

 "Indeed!" said Holmes, rising. "I should not have the impertinence to
 do it again after what you say. But I should like to take a little
 walk over the moor before it grows dark, that I may know my ground
 to-morrow, and I think that I shall put this horseshoe into my pocket
 for luck."

 Colonel Ross, who had shown some signs of impatience at my
 companion's quiet and systematic method of work, glanced at his
 watch. "I wish you would come back with me, Inspector," said he.
 "There are several points on which I should like your advice, and
 especially as to whether we do not owe it to the public to remove our
 horse's name from the entries for the Cup."

 "Certainly not," cried Holmes, with decision. "I should let the name
 stand."

 The Colonel bowed. "I am very glad to have had your opinion, sir,"
 said he. "You will find us at poor Straker's house when you have
 finished your walk, and we can drive together into Tavistock."

 He turned back with the Inspector, while Holmes and I walked slowly
 across the moor. The sun was beginning to sink behind the stables of
 Mapleton, and the long, sloping plain in front of us was tinged with
 gold, deepening into rich, ruddy browns where the faded ferns and
 brambles caught the evening light. But the glories of the landscape
 were all wasted upon my companion, who was sunk in the deepest
 thought.

 "It's this way, Watson," said he at last. "We may leave the question
 of who killed John Straker for the instant, and confine ourselves to
 finding out what has become of the horse. Now, supposing that he
 broke away during or after the tragedy, where could he have gone to?
 The horse is a very gregarious creature. If left to himself his
 instincts would have been either to return to King's Pyland or go
 over to Mapleton. Why should he run wild upon the moor? He would
 surely have been seen by now. And why should gypsies kidnap him?
 These people always clear out when they hear of trouble, for they do
 not wish to be pestered by the police. They could not hope to sell
 such a horse. They would run a great risk and gain nothing by taking
 him. Surely that is clear."

 "Where is he, then?"

 "I have already said that he must have gone to King's Pyland or to
 Mapleton. He is not at King's Pyland. Therefore he is at Mapleton.
 Let us take that as a working hypothesis and see what it leads us to.
 This part of the moor, as the Inspector remarked, is very hard and
 dry. But it falls away towards Mapleton, and you can see from here
 that there is a long hollow over yonder, which must have been very
 wet on Monday night. If our supposition is correct, then the horse
 must have crossed that, and there is the point where we should look
 for his tracks."

 We had been walking briskly during this conversation, and a few more
 minutes brought us to the hollow in question. At Holmes' request I
 walked down the bank to the right, and he to the left, but I had not
 taken fifty paces before I heard him give a shout, and saw him waving
 his hand to me. The track of a horse was plainly outlined in the soft
 earth in front of him, and the shoe which he took from his pocket
 exactly fitted the impression.

 "See the value of imagination," said Holmes. "It is the one quality
 which Gregory lacks. We imagined what might have happened, acted upon
 the supposition, and find ourselves justified. Let us proceed."

 We crossed the marshy bottom and passed over a quarter of a mile of
 dry, hard turf. Again the ground sloped, and again we came on the
 tracks. Then we lost them for half a mile, but only to pick them up
 once more quite close to Mapleton. It was Holmes who saw them first,
 and he stood pointing with a look of triumph upon his face. A man's
 track was visible beside the horse's.

 "The horse was alone before," I cried.

 "Quite so. It was alone before. Hullo, what is this?"

 The double track turned sharp off and took the direction of King's
 Pyland. Holmes whistled, and we both followed along after it. His
 eyes were on the trail, but I happened to look a little to one side,
 and saw to my surprise the same tracks coming back again in the
 opposite direction.

 "One for you, Watson," said Holmes, when I pointed it out. "You have
 saved us a long walk, which would have brought us back on our own
 traces. Let us follow the return track."

 We had not to go far. It ended at the paving of asphalt which led up
 to the gates of the Mapleton stables. As we approached, a groom ran
 out from them.

 "We don't want any loiterers about here," said he.

 "I only wished to ask a question," said Holmes, with his finger and
 thumb in his waistcoat pocket. "Should I be too early to see your
 master, Mr. Silas Brown, if I were to call at five o'clock to-morrow
 morning?"

 "Bless you, sir, if any one is about he will be, for he is always the
 first stirring. But here he is, sir, to answer your questions for
 himself. No, sir, no; it is as much as my place is worth to let him
 see me touch your money. Afterwards, if you like."

 As Sherlock Holmes replaced the half-crown which he had drawn from
 his pocket, a fierce-looking elderly man strode out from the gate
 with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand.

 "What's this, Dawson!" he cried. "No gossiping! Go about your
 business! And you, what the devil do you want here?"

 "Ten minutes' talk with you, my good sir," said Holmes in the
 sweetest of voices.

 "I've no time to talk to every gadabout. We want no stranger here. Be
 off, or you may find a dog at your heels."

 Holmes leaned forward and whispered something in the trainer's ear.
 He started violently and flushed to the temples.

 "It's a lie!" he shouted, "an infernal lie!"

 "Very good. Shall we argue about it here in public or talk it over in
 your parlor?"

 "Oh, come in if you wish to."

 Holmes smiled. "I shall not keep you more than a few minutes,
 Watson," said he. "Now, Mr. Brown, I am quite at your disposal."

 It was twenty minutes, and the reds had all faded into grays before
 Holmes and the trainer reappeared. Never have I seen such a change as
 had been brought about in Silas Brown in that short time. His face
 was ashy pale, beads of perspiration shone upon his brow, and his
 hands shook until the hunting-crop wagged like a branch in the wind.
 His bullying, overbearing manner was all gone too, and he cringed
 along at my companion's side like a dog with its master.

 "Your instructions will be done. It shall all be done," said he.

 "There must be no mistake," said Holmes, looking round at him. The
 other winced as he read the menace in his eyes.

 "Oh no, there shall be no mistake. It shall be there. Should I change
 it first or not?"

 Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing. "No, don't,"
 said he; "I shall write to you about it. No tricks, now, or--"

 "Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!"

 "Yes, I think I can. Well, you shall hear from me to-morrow." He
 turned upon his heel, disregarding the trembling hand which the other
 held out to him, and we set off for King's Pyland.

 "A more perfect compound of the bully, coward, and sneak than Master
 Silas Brown I have seldom met with," remarked Holmes as we trudged
 along together.

 "He has the horse, then?"

 "He tried to bluster out of it, but I described to him so exactly
 what his actions had been upon that morning that he is convinced that
 I was watching him. Of course you observed the peculiarly square toes
 in the impressions, and that his own boots exactly corresponded to
 them. Again, of course no subordinate would have dared to do such a
 thing. I described to him how, when according to his custom he was
 the first down, he perceived a strange horse wandering over the moor.
 How he went out to it, and his astonishment at recognizing, from the
 white forehead which has given the favorite its name, that chance had
 put in his power the only horse which could beat the one upon which
 he had put his money. Then I described how his first impulse had been
 to lead him back to King's Pyland, and how the devil had shown him
 how he could hide the horse until the race was over, and how he had
 led it back and concealed it at Mapleton. When I told him every
 detail he gave it up and thought only of saving his own skin."

 "But his stables had been searched?"

 "Oh, and old horse-faker like him has many a dodge."

 "But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his power now, since he
 has every interest in injuring it?"

 "My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his eye. He knows
 that his only hope of mercy is to produce it safe."

 "Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be likely to show
 much mercy in any case."

 "The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross. I follow my own methods,
 and tell as much or as little as I choose. That is the advantage of
 being unofficial. I don't know whether you observed it, Watson, but
 the Colonel's manner has been just a trifle cavalier to me. I am
 inclined now to have a little amusement at his expense. Say nothing
 to him about the horse."

 "Certainly not without your permission."

 "And of course this is all quite a minor point compared to the
 question of who killed John Straker."

 "And you will devote yourself to that?"

 "On the contrary, we both go back to London by the night train."

 I was thunderstruck by my friend's words. We had only been a few
 hours in Devonshire, and that he should give up an investigation
 which he had begun so brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to me.
 Not a word more could I draw from him until we were back at the
 trainer's house. The Colonel and the Inspector were awaiting us in
 the parlor.

 "My friend and I return to town by the night-express," said Holmes.
 "We have had a charming little breath of your beautiful Dartmoor
 air."

 The Inspector opened his eyes, and the Colonel's lip curled in a
 sneer.

 "So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor Straker," said he.

 Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "There are certainly grave
 difficulties in the way," said he. "I have every hope, however, that
 your horse will start upon Tuesday, and I beg that you will have your
 jockey in readiness. Might I ask for a photograph of Mr. John
 Straker?"

 The Inspector took one from an envelope and handed it to him.

 "My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants. If I might ask you to
 wait here for an instant, I have a question which I should like to
 put to the maid."

 "I must say that I am rather disappointed in our London consultant,"
 said Colonel Ross, bluntly, as my friend left the room. "I do not see
 that we are any further than when he came."

 "At least you have his assurance that your horse will run," said I.

 "Yes, I have his assurance," said the Colonel, with a shrug of his
 shoulders. "I should prefer to have the horse."

 I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend when he
 entered the room again.

 "Now, gentlemen," said he, "I am quite ready for Tavistock."

 As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads held the door
 open for us. A sudden idea seemed to occur to Holmes, for he leaned
 forward and touched the lad upon the sleeve.

 "You have a few sheep in the paddock," he said. "Who attends to
 them?"

 "I do, sir."

 "Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?"

 "Well, sir, not of much account; but three of them have gone lame,
 sir."

 I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he chuckled and
 rubbed his hands together.

 "A long shot, Watson; a very long shot," said he, pinching my arm.
 "Gregory, let me recommend to your attention this singular epidemic
 among the sheep. Drive on, coachman!"

 Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the poor opinion
 which he had formed of my companion's ability, but I saw by the
 Inspector's face that his attention had been keenly aroused.

 "You consider that to be important?" he asked.

 "Exceedingly so."

 "Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?"

 "To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time."

 "The dog did nothing in the night-time."

 "That was the curious incident," remarked Sherlock Holmes.

 Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train, bound for
 Winchester to see the race for the Wessex Cup. Colonel Ross met us by
 appointment outside the station, and we drove in his drag to the
 course beyond the town. His face was grave, and his manner was cold
 in the extreme.

 "I have seen nothing of my horse," said he.

 "I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?" asked Holmes.

 The Colonel was very angry. "I have been on the turf for twenty
 years, and never was asked such a question as that before," said he.
 "A child would know Silver Blaze, with his white forehead and his
 mottled off-foreleg."

 "How is the betting?"

 "Well, that is the curious part of it. You could have got fifteen to
 one yesterday, but the price has become shorter and shorter, until
 you can hardly get three to one now."

 "Hum!" said Holmes. "Somebody knows something, that is clear."

 As the drag drew up in the enclosure near the grand stand I glanced
 at the card to see the entries.

 Wessex Plate [it ran] 50 sovs. each h ft with 1000 sovs. added, for
 four and five year olds. Second, Â£300. Third, Â£200. New course (one
 mile and five furlongs).
 
 1. Mr. Heath Newton's The Negro. Red cap. Cinnamon jacket.
 2. Colonel Wardlaw's Pugilist. Pink cap. Blue and black jacket.
 3. Lord Backwater's Desborough. Yellow cap and sleeves.
 4. Colonel Ross's Silver Blaze. Black cap. Red jacket.
 5. Duke of Balmoral's Iris. Yellow and black stripes.
 6. Lord Singleford's Rasper. Purple cap. Black sleeves.

 "We scratched our other one, and put all hopes on your word," said
 the Colonel. "Why, what is that? Silver Blaze favorite?"

 "Five to four against Silver Blaze!" roared the ring. "Five to four
 against Silver Blaze! Five to fifteen against Desborough! Five to
 four on the field!"

 "There are the numbers up," I cried. "They are all six there."

 "All six there? Then my horse is running," cried the Colonel in great
 agitation. "But I don't see him. My colors have not passed."

 "Only five have passed. This must be he."

 As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the weighting
 enclosure and cantered past us, bearing on its back the well-known
 black and red of the Colonel.

 "That's not my horse," cried the owner. "That beast has not a white
 hair upon its body. What is this that you have done, Mr. Holmes?"

 "Well, well, let us see how he gets on," said my friend,
 imperturbably. For a few minutes he gazed through my field-glass.
 "Capital! An excellent start!" he cried suddenly. "There they are,
 coming round the curve!"

 From our drag we had a superb view as they came up the straight. The
 six horses were so close together that a carpet could have covered
 them, but half way up the yellow of the Mapleton stable showed to the
 front. Before they reached us, however, Desborough's bolt was shot,
 and the Colonel's horse, coming away with a rush, passed the post a
 good six lengths before its rival, the Duke of Balmoral's Iris making
 a bad third.

 "It's my race, anyhow," gasped the Colonel, passing his hand over his
 eyes. "I confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it. Don't
 you think that you have kept up your mystery long enough, Mr.
 Holmes?"

 "Certainly, Colonel, you shall know everything. Let us all go round
 and have a look at the horse together. Here he is," he continued, as
 we made our way into the weighing enclosure, where only owners and
 their friends find admittance. "You have only to wash his face and
 his leg in spirits of wine, and you will find that he is the same old
 Silver Blaze as ever."

 "You take my breath away!"

 "I found him in the hands of a faker, and took the liberty of running
 him just as he was sent over."

 "My dear sir, you have done wonders. The horse looks very fit and
 well. It never went better in its life. I owe you a thousand
 apologies for having doubted your ability. You have done me a great
 service by recovering my horse. You would do me a greater still if
 you could lay your hands on the murderer of John Straker."

 "I have done so," said Holmes quietly.

 The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement. "You have got him!
 Where is he, then?"

 "He is here."

 "Here! Where?"

 "In my company at the present moment."

 The Colonel flushed angrily. "I quite recognize that I am under
 obligations to you, Mr. Holmes," said he, "but I must regard what you
 have just said as either a very bad joke or an insult."

 Sherlock Holmes laughed. "I assure you that I have not associated you
 with the crime, Colonel," said he. "The real murderer is standing
 immediately behind you." He stepped past and laid his hand upon the
 glossy neck of the thoroughbred.

 "The horse!" cried both the Colonel and myself.

 "Yes, the horse. And it may lessen his guilt if I say that it was
 done in self-defence, and that John Straker was a man who was
 entirely unworthy of your confidence. But there goes the bell, and as
 I stand to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a lengthy
 explanation until a more fitting time."

 We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that evening as we
 whirled back to London, and I fancy that the journey was a short one
 to Colonel Ross as well as to myself, as we listened to our
 companion's narrative of the events which had occurred at the
 Dartmoor training-stables upon the Monday night, and the means by
 which he had unravelled them.

 "I confess," said he, "that any theories which I had formed from the
 newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. And yet there were
 indications there, had they not been overlaid by other details which
 concealed their true import. I went to Devonshire with the conviction
 that Fitzroy Simpson was the true culprit, although, of course, I saw
 that the evidence against him was by no means complete. It was while
 I was in the carriage, just as we reached the trainer's house, that
 the immense significance of the curried mutton occurred to me. You
 may remember that I was distrait, and remained sitting after you had
 all alighted. I was marvelling in my own mind how I could possibly
 have overlooked so obvious a clue."

 "I confess," said the Colonel, "that even now I cannot see how it
 helps us."

 "It was the first link in my chain of reasoning. Powdered opium is by
 no means tasteless. The flavor is not disagreeable, but it is
 perceptible. Were it mixed with any ordinary dish the eater would
 undoubtedly detect it, and would probably eat no more. A curry was
 exactly the medium which would disguise this taste. By no possible
 supposition could this stranger, Fitzroy Simpson, have caused curry
 to be served in the trainer's family that night, and it is surely too
 monstrous a coincidence to suppose that he happened to come along
 with powdered opium upon the very night when a dish happened to be
 served which would disguise the flavor. That is unthinkable.
 Therefore Simpson becomes eliminated from the case, and our attention
 centers upon Straker and his wife, the only two people who could have
 chosen curried mutton for supper that night. The opium was added
 after the dish was set aside for the stable-boy, for the others had
 the same for supper with no ill effects. Which of them, then, had
 access to that dish without the maid seeing them?

 "Before deciding that question I had grasped the significance of the
 silence of the dog, for one true inference invariably suggests
 others. The Simpson incident had shown me that a dog was kept in the
 stables, and yet, though some one had been in and had fetched out a
 horse, he had not barked enough to arouse the two lads in the loft.
 Obviously the midnight visitor was some one whom the dog knew well.

 "I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that John Straker went
 down to the stables in the dead of the night and took out Silver
 Blaze. For what purpose? For a dishonest one, obviously, or why
 should he drug his own stable-boy? And yet I was at a loss to know
 why. There have been cases before now where trainers have made sure
 of great sums of money by laying against their own horses, through
 agents, and then preventing them from winning by fraud. Sometimes it
 is a pulling jockey. Sometimes it is some surer and subtler means.
 What was it here? I hoped that the contents of his pockets might help
 me to form a conclusion.

 "And they did so. You cannot have forgotten the singular knife which
 was found in the dead man's hand, a knife which certainly no sane man
 would choose for a weapon. It was, as Dr. Watson told us, a form of
 knife which is used for the most delicate operations known in
 surgery. And it was to be used for a delicate operation that night.
 You must know, with your wide experience of turf matters, Colonel
 Ross, that it is possible to make a slight nick upon the tendons of a
 horse's ham, and to do it subcutaneously, so as to leave absolutely
 no trace. A horse so treated would develop a slight lameness, which
 would be put down to a strain in exercise or a touch of rheumatism,
 but never to foul play."

 "Villain! Scoundrel!" cried the Colonel.

 "We have here the explanation of why John Straker wished to take the
 horse out on to the moor. So spirited a creature would have certainly
 roused the soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick of the knife.
 It was absolutely necessary to do it in the open air."

 "I have been blind!" cried the Colonel. "Of course that was why he
 needed the candle, and struck the match."

 "Undoubtedly. But in examining his belongings I was fortunate enough
 to discover not only the method of the crime, but even its motives.
 As a man of the world, Colonel, you know that men do not carry other
 people's bills about in their pockets. We have most of us quite
 enough to do to settle our own. I at once concluded that Straker was
 leading a double life, and keeping a second establishment. The nature
 of the bill showed that there was a lady in the case, and one who had
 expensive tastes. Liberal as you are with your servants, one can
 hardly expect that they can buy twenty-guinea walking dresses for
 their ladies. I questioned Mrs. Straker as to the dress without her
 knowing it, and having satisfied myself that it had never reached
 her, I made a note of the milliner's address, and felt that by
 calling there with Straker's photograph I could easily dispose of the
 mythical Derbyshire.

 "From that time on all was plain. Straker had led out the horse to a
 hollow where his light would be invisible. Simpson in his flight had
 dropped his cravat, and Straker had picked it up--with some idea,
 perhaps, that he might use it in securing the horse's leg. Once in
 the hollow, he had got behind the horse and had struck a light; but
 the creature frightened at the sudden glare, and with the strange
 instinct of animals feeling that some mischief was intended, had
 lashed out, and the steel shoe had struck Straker full on the
 forehead. He had already, in spite of the rain, taken off his
 overcoat in order to do his delicate task, and so, as he fell, his
 knife gashed his thigh. Do I make it clear?"

 "Wonderful!" cried the Colonel. "Wonderful! You might have been
 there!"

 "My final shot was, I confess a very long one. It struck me that so
 astute a man as Straker would not undertake this delicate
 tendon-nicking without a little practice. What could he practice on?
 My eyes fell upon the sheep, and I asked a question which, rather to
 my surprise, showed that my surmise was correct.

 "When I returned to London I called upon the milliner, who had
 recognized Straker as an excellent customer of the name of
 Derbyshire, who had a very dashing wife, with a strong partiality for
 expensive dresses. I have no doubt that this woman had plunged him
 over head and ears in debt, and so led him into this miserable plot."

 "You have explained all but one thing," cried the Colonel. "Where was
 the horse?"

 "Ah, it bolted, and was cared for by one of your neighbors. We must
 have an amnesty in that direction, I think. This is Clapham Junction,
 if I am not mistaken, and we shall be in Victoria in less than ten
 minutes. If you care to smoke a cigar in our rooms, Colonel, I shall
 be happy to give you any other details which might interest you."






                             THE YELLOW FACE

 [In publishing these short sketches based upon the numerous cases in
 which my companion's singular gifts have made us the listeners to,
 and eventually the actors in, some strange drama, it is only natural
 that I should dwell rather upon his successes than upon his failures.
 And this not so much for the sake of his reputations--for, indeed, it
 was when he was at his wits' end that his energy and his versatility
 were most admirable--but because where he failed it happened too
 often that no one else succeeded, and that the tale was left forever
 without a conclusion. Now and again, however, it chanced that even
 when he erred, the truth was still discovered. I have noted of some
 half-dozen cases of the kind of which "The Adventure of the Musgrave
 Ritual" and that which I am about to recount are the two which
 present the strongest features of interest.]

 Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise's
 sake. Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was
 undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have ever
 seen; but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of
 energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save when there was some
 professional object to be served. Then he was absolutely untiring and
 indefatigable. That he should have kept himself in training under
 such circumstances is remarkable, but his diet was usually of the
 sparest, and his habits were simple to the verge of austerity. Save
 for the occasional use of cocaine, he had no vices, and he only
 turned to the drug as a protest against the monotony of existence
 when cases were scanty and the papers uninteresting.

 One day in early spring he had so far relaxed as to go for a walk
 with me in the Park, where the first faint shoots of green were
 breaking out upon the elms, and the sticky spear-heads of the
 chestnuts were just beginning to burst into their five-fold leaves.
 For two hours we rambled about together, in silence for the most
 part, as befits two men who know each other intimately. It was nearly
 five before we were back in Baker Street once more.

 "Beg pardon, sir," said our page-boy, as he opened the door. "There's
 been a gentleman here asking for you, sir."

 Holmes glanced reproachfully at me. "So much for afternoon walks!"
 said he. "Has this gentleman gone, then?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "Didn't you ask him in?"

 "Yes, sir; he came in."

 "How long did he wait?"

 "Half an hour, sir. He was a very restless gentleman, sir, a-walkin'
 and a-stampin' all the time he was here. I was waitin' outside the
 door, sir, and I could hear him. At last he outs into the passage,
 and he cries, 'Is that man never goin' to come?' Those were his very
 words, sir. 'You'll only need to wait a little longer,' says I. 'Then
 I'll wait in the open air, for I feel half choked,' says he. 'I'll be
 back before long.' And with that he ups and he outs, and all I could
 say wouldn't hold him back."

 "Well, well, you did your best," said Holmes, as we walked into our
 room. "It's very annoying, though, Watson. I was badly in need of a
 case, and this looks, from the man's impatience, as if it were of
 importance. Hullo! That's not your pipe on the table. He must have
 left his behind him. A nice old brier with a good long stem of what
 the tobacconists call amber. I wonder how many real amber mouthpieces
 there are in London? Some people think that a fly in it is a sign.
 Well, he must have been disturbed in his mind to leave a pipe behind
 him which he evidently values highly."

 "How do you know that he values it highly?" I asked.

 "Well, I should put the original cost of the pipe at seven and
 sixpence. Now it has, you see, been twice mended, once in the wooden
 stem and once in the amber. Each of these mends, done, as you
 observe, with silver bands, must have cost more than the pipe did
 originally. The man must value the pipe highly when he prefers to
 patch it up rather than buy a new one with the same money."

 "Anything else?" I asked, for Holmes was turning the pipe about in
 his hand, and staring at it in his peculiar pensive way.

 He held it up and tapped on it with his long, thin fore-finger, as a
 professor might who was lecturing on a bone.

 "Pipes are occasionally of extraordinary interest," said he. "Nothing
 has more individuality, save perhaps watches and bootlaces. The
 indications here, however, are neither very marked nor very
 important. The owner is obviously a muscular man, left-handed, with
 an excellent set of teeth, careless in his habits, and with no need
 to practise economy."

 My friend threw out the information in a very offhand way, but I saw
 that he cocked his eye at me to see if I had followed his reasoning.

 "You think a man must be well-to-do if he smokes a seven-shilling
 pipe," said I.

 "This is Grosvenor mixture at eightpence an ounce," Holmes answered,
 knocking a little out on his palm. "As he might get an excellent
 smoke for half the price, he has no need to practise economy."

 "And the other points?"

 "He has been in the habit of lighting his pipe at lamps and gas-jets.
 You can see that it is quite charred all down one side. Of course a
 match could not have done that. Why should a man hold a match to the
 side of his pipe? But you cannot light it at a lamp without getting
 the bowl charred. And it is all on the right side of the pipe. From
 that I gather that he is a left-handed man. You hold your own pipe to
 the lamp, and see how naturally you, being right-handed, hold the
 left side to the flame. You might do it once the other way, but not
 as a constancy. This has always been held so. Then he has bitten
 through his amber. It takes a muscular, energetic fellow, and one
 with a good set of teeth, to do that. But if I am not mistaken I hear
 him upon the stair, so we shall have something more interesting than
 his pipe to study."

 An instant later our door opened, and a tall young man entered the
 room. He was well but quietly dressed in a dark-gray suit, and
 carried a brown wide-awake in his hand. I should have put him at
 about thirty, though he was really some years older.

 "I beg your pardon," said he, with some embarrassment; "I suppose I
 should have knocked. Yes, of course I should have knocked. The fact
 is that I am a little upset, and you must put it all down to that."
 He passed his hand over his forehead like a man who is half dazed,
 and then fell rather than sat down upon a chair.

 "I can see that you have not slept for a night or two," said Holmes,
 in his easy, genial way. "That tries a man's nerves more than work,
 and more even than pleasure. May I ask how I can help you?"

 "I wanted your advice, sir. I don't know what to do and my whole life
 seems to have gone to pieces."

 "You wish to employ me as a consulting detective?"

 "Not that only. I want your opinion as a judicious man--as a man of
 the world. I want to know what I ought to do next. I hope to God
 you'll be able to tell me."

 He spoke in little, sharp, jerky outbursts, and it seemed to me that
 to speak at all was very painful to him, and that his will all
 through was overriding his inclinations.

 "It's a very delicate thing," said he. "One does not like to speak of
 one's domestic affairs to strangers. It seems dreadful to discuss the
 conduct of one's wife with two men whom I have never seen before.
 It's horrible to have to do it. But I've got to the end of my tether,
 and I must have advice."

 "My dear Mr. Grant Munro--" began Holmes.

 Our visitor sprang from his chair. "What!" he cried, "you know my
 name?"

 "If you wish to preserve your incognito," said Holmes, smiling, "I
 would suggest that you cease to write your name upon the lining of
 your hat, or else that you turn the crown towards the person whom you
 are addressing. I was about to say that my friend and I have listened
 to a good many strange secrets in this room, and that we have had the
 good fortune to bring peace to many troubled souls. I trust that we
 may do as much for you. Might I beg you, as time may prove to be of
 importance, to furnish me with the facts of your case without further
 delay?"

 Our visitor again passed his hand over his forehead, as if he found
 it bitterly hard. From every gesture and expression I could see that
 he was a reserved, self-contained man, with a dash of pride in his
 nature, more likely to hide his wounds than to expose them. Then
 suddenly, with a fierce gesture of his closed hand, like one who
 throws reserve to the winds, he began.

 "The facts are these, Mr. Holmes," said he. "I am a married man, and
 have been so for three years. During that time my wife and I have
 loved each other as fondly and lived as happily as any two that ever
 were joined. We have not had a difference, not one, in thought or
 word or deed. And now, since last Monday, there has suddenly sprung
 up a barrier between us, and I find that there is something in her
 life and in her thought of which I know as little as if she were the
 woman who brushes by me in the street. We are estranged, and I want
 to know why.

 "Now there is one thing that I want to impress upon you before I go
 any further, Mr. Holmes. Effie loves me. Don't let there be any
 mistake about that. She loves me with her whole heart and soul, and
 never more than now. I know it. I feel it. I don't want to argue
 about that. A man can tell easily enough when a woman loves him. But
 there's this secret between us, and we can never be the same until it
 is cleared."

 "Kindly let me have the facts, Mr. Munro," said Holmes, with some
 impatience.

 "I'll tell you what I know about Effie's history. She was a widow
 when I met her first, though quite young--only twenty-five. Her name
 then was Mrs. Hebron. She went out to America when she was young, and
 lived in the town of Atlanta, where she married this Hebron, who was
 a lawyer with a good practice. They had one child, but the yellow
 fever broke out badly in the place, and both husband and child died
 of it. I have seen his death certificate. This sickened her of
 America, and she came back to live with a maiden aunt at Pinner, in
 Middlesex. I may mention that her husband had left her comfortably
 off, and that she had a capital of about four thousand five hundred
 pounds, which had been so well invested by him that it returned an
 average of seven per cent. She had only been six months at Pinner
 when I met her; we fell in love with each other, and we married a few
 weeks afterwards.

 "I am a hop merchant myself, and as I have an income of seven or
 eight hundred, we found ourselves comfortably off, and took a nice
 eighty-pound-a-year villa at Norbury. Our little place was very
 countrified, considering that it is so close to town. We had an inn
 and two houses a little above us, and a single cottage at the other
 side of the field which faces us, and except those there were no
 houses until you got half way to the station. My business took me
 into town at certain seasons, but in summer I had less to do, and
 then in our country home my wife and I were just as happy as could be
 wished. I tell you that there never was a shadow between us until
 this accursed affair began.

 "There's one thing I ought to tell you before I go further. When we
 married, my wife made over all her property to me--rather against my
 will, for I saw how awkward it would be if my business affairs went
 wrong. However, she would have it so, and it was done. Well, about
 six weeks ago she came to me.

 "'Jack,' said she, 'when you took my money you said that if ever I
 wanted any I was to ask you for it.'

 "'Certainly,' said I. 'It's all your own.'

 "'Well,' said she, 'I want a hundred pounds.'

 "I was a bit staggered at this, for I had imagined it was simply a
 new dress or something of the kind that she was after.

 "'What on earth for?' I asked.

 "'Oh,' said she, in her playful way, 'you said that you were only my
 banker, and bankers never ask questions, you know.'

 "'If you really mean it, of course you shall have the money,' said I.

 "'Oh, yes, I really mean it.'

 "'And you won't tell me what you want it for?'

 "'Some day, perhaps, but not just at present, Jack.'

 "So I had to be content with that, though it was the first time that
 there had ever been any secret between us. I gave her a check, and I
 never thought any more of the matter. It may have nothing to do with
 what came afterwards, but I thought it only right to mention it.

 "Well, I told you just now that there is a cottage not far from our
 house. There is just a field between us, but to reach it you have to
 go along the road and then turn down a lane. Just beyond it is a nice
 little grove of Scotch firs, and I used to be very fond of strolling
 down there, for trees are always a neighborly kind of things. The
 cottage had been standing empty this eight months, and it was a pity,
 for it was a pretty two storied place, with an old-fashioned porch
 and honeysuckle about it. I have stood many a time and thought what a
 neat little homestead it would make.

 "Well, last Monday evening I was taking a stroll down that way, when
 I met an empty van coming up the lane, and saw a pile of carpets and
 things lying about on the grass-plot beside the porch. It was clear
 that the cottage had at last been let. I walked past it, and wondered
 what sort of folk they were who had come to live so near us. And as I
 looked I suddenly became aware that a face was watching me out of one
 of the upper windows.

 "I don't know what there was about that face, Mr. Holmes, but it
 seemed to send a chill right down my back. I was some little way off,
 so that I could not make out the features, but there was something
 unnatural and inhuman about the face. That was the impression that I
 had, and I moved quickly forwards to get a nearer view of the person
 who was watching me. But as I did so the face suddenly disappeared,
 so suddenly that it seemed to have been plucked away into the
 darkness of the room. I stood for five minutes thinking the business
 over, and trying to analyze my impressions. I could not tell if the
 face were that of a man or a woman. It had been too far from me for
 that. But its color was what had impressed me most. It was of a livid
 chalky white, and with something set and rigid about it which was
 shockingly unnatural. So disturbed was I that I determined to see a
 little more of the new inmates of the cottage. I approached and
 knocked at the door, which was instantly opened by a tall, gaunt
 woman with a harsh, forbidding face.

 "'What may you be wantin'?' she asked, in a Northern accent.

 "'I am your neighbor over yonder,' said I, nodding towards my house.
 'I see that you have only just moved in, so I thought that if I could
 be of any help to you in any--'

 "'Ay, we'll just ask ye when we want ye,' said she, and shut the door
 in my face. Annoyed at the churlish rebuff, I turned my back and
 walked home. All evening, though I tried to think of other things, my
 mind would still turn to the apparition at the window and the
 rudeness of the woman. I determined to say nothing about the former
 to my wife, for she is a nervous, highly strung woman, and I had no
 wish that she would share the unpleasant impression which had been
 produced upon myself. I remarked to her, however, before I fell
 asleep, that the cottage was now occupied, to which she returned no
 reply.

 "I am usually an extremely sound sleeper. It has been a standing jest
 in the family that nothing could ever wake me during the night. And
 yet somehow on that particular night, whether it may have been the
 slight excitement produced by my little adventure or not I know not,
 but I slept much more lightly than usual. Half in my dreams I was
 dimly conscious that something was going on in the room, and
 gradually became aware that my wife had dressed herself and was
 slipping on her mantle and her bonnet. My lips were parted to murmur
 out some sleepy words of surprise or remonstrance at this untimely
 preparation, when suddenly my half-opened eyes fell upon her face,
 illuminated by the candle-light, and astonishment held me dumb. She
 wore an expression such as I had never seen before--such as I should
 have thought her incapable of assuming. She was deadly pale and
 breathing fast, glancing furtively towards the bed as she fastened
 her mantle, to see if she had disturbed me. Then, thinking that I was
 still asleep, she slipped noiselessly from the room, and an instant
 later I heard a sharp creaking which could only come from the hinges
 of the front door. I sat up in bed and rapped my knuckles against the
 rail to make certain that I was truly awake. Then I took my watch
 from under the pillow. It was three in the morning. What on this
 earth could my wife be doing out on the country road at three in the
 morning?

 "I had sat for about twenty minutes turning the thing over in my mind
 and trying to find some possible explanation. The more I thought, the
 more extraordinary and inexplicable did it appear. I was still
 puzzling over it when I heard the door gently close again, and her
 footsteps coming up the stairs.

 "'Where in the world have you been, Effie?' I asked as she entered.

 "She gave a violent start and a kind of gasping cry when I spoke, and
 that cry and start troubled me more than all the rest, for there was
 something indescribably guilty about them. My wife had always been a
 woman of a frank, open nature, and it gave me a chill to see her
 slinking into her own room, and crying out and wincing when her own
 husband spoke to her.

 "'You awake, Jack!' she cried, with a nervous laugh. 'Why, I thought
 that nothing could awake you.'

 "'Where have you been?' I asked, more sternly.

 "'I don't wonder that you are surprised,' said she, and I could see
 that her fingers were trembling as she undid the fastenings of her
 mantle. 'Why, I never remember having done such a thing in my life
 before. The fact is that I felt as though I were choking, and had a
 perfect longing for a breath of fresh air. I really think that I
 should have fainted if I had not gone out. I stood at the door for a
 few minutes, and now I am quite myself again.'

 "All the time that she was telling me this story she never once
 looked in my direction, and her voice was quite unlike her usual
 tones. It was evident to me that she was saying what was false. I
 said nothing in reply, but turned my face to the wall, sick at heart,
 with my mind filled with a thousand venomous doubts and suspicions.
 What was it that my wife was concealing from me? Where had she been
 during that strange expedition? I felt that I should have no peace
 until I knew, and yet I shrank from asking her again after once she
 had told me what was false. All the rest of the night I tossed and
 tumbled, framing theory after theory, each more unlikely than the
 last.

 "I should have gone to the City that day, but I was too disturbed in
 my mind to be able to pay attention to business matters. My wife
 seemed to be as upset as myself, and I could see from the little
 questioning glances which she kept shooting at me that she understood
 that I disbelieved her statement, and that she was at her wits' end
 what to do. We hardly exchanged a word during breakfast, and
 immediately afterwards I went out for a walk, that I might think the
 matter out in the fresh morning air.

 "I went as far as the Crystal Palace, spent an hour in the grounds,
 and was back in Norbury by one o'clock. It happened that my way took
 me past the cottage, and I stopped for an instant to look at the
 windows, and to see if I could catch a glimpse of the strange face
 which had looked out at me on the day before. As I stood there,
 imagine my surprise, Mr. Holmes, when the door suddenly opened and my
 wife walked out.

 "I was struck dumb with astonishment at the sight of her; but my
 emotions were nothing to those which showed themselves upon her face
 when our eyes met. She seemed for an instant to wish to shrink back
 inside the house again; and then, seeing how useless all concealment
 must be, she came forward, with a very white face and frightened eyes
 which belied the smile upon her lips.

 "'Ah, Jack,' she said, 'I have just been in to see if I can be of any
 assistance to our new neighbors. Why do you look at me like that,
 Jack? You are not angry with me?'

 "'So,' said I, 'this is where you went during the night.'

 "'What do you mean?' she cried.

 "'You came here. I am sure of it. Who are these people, that you
 should visit them at such an hour?'

 "'I have not been here before.'

 "'How can you tell me what you know is false?' I cried. 'Your very
 voice changes as you speak. When have I ever had a secret from you? I
 shall enter that cottage, and I shall probe the matter to the
 bottom.'

 "'No, no, Jack, for God's sake!' she gasped, in uncontrollable
 emotion. Then, as I approached the door, she seized my sleeve and
 pulled me back with convulsive strength.

 "'I implore you not to do this, Jack,' she cried. 'I swear that I
 will tell you everything some day, but nothing but misery can come of
 it if you enter that cottage.' Then, as I tried to shake her off, she
 clung to me in a frenzy of entreaty.

 "'Trust me, Jack!' she cried. 'Trust me only this once. You will
 never have cause to regret it. You know that I would not have a
 secret from you if it were not for your own sake. Our whole lives are
 at stake in this. If you come home with me, all will be well. If you
 force your way into that cottage, all is over between us.'

 "There was such earnestness, such despair, in her manner that her
 words arrested me, and I stood irresolute before the door.

 "'I will trust you on one condition, and on one condition only,' said
 I at last. 'It is that this mystery comes to an end from now. You are
 at liberty to preserve your secret, but you must promise me that
 there shall be no more nightly visits, no more doings which are kept
 from my knowledge. I am willing to forget those which are passed if
 you will promise that there shall be no more in the future.'

 "'I was sure that you would trust me,' she cried, with a great sigh
 of relief. 'It shall be just as you wish. Come away--oh, come away up
 to the house.'

 "Still pulling at my sleeve, she led me away from the cottage. As we
 went I glanced back, and there was that yellow livid face watching us
 out of the upper window. What link could there be between that
 creature and my wife? Or how could the coarse, rough woman whom I had
 seen the day before be connected with her? It was a strange puzzle,
 and yet I knew that my mind could never know ease again until I had
 solved it.

 "For two days after this I stayed at home, and my wife appeared to
 abide loyally by our engagement, for, as far as I know, she never
 stirred out of the house. On the third day, however, I had ample
 evidence that her solemn promise was not enough to hold her back from
 this secret influence which drew her away from her husband and her
 duty.

 "I had gone into town on that day, but I returned by the 2.40 instead
 of the 3.36, which is my usual train. As I entered the house the maid
 ran into the hall with a startled face.

 "'Where is your mistress?' I asked.

 "'I think that she has gone out for a walk,' she answered.

 "My mind was instantly filled with suspicion. I rushed upstairs to
 make sure that she was not in the house. As I did so I happened to
 glance out of one of the upper windows, and saw the maid with whom I
 had just been speaking running across the field in the direction of
 the cottage. Then of course I saw exactly what it all meant. My wife
 had gone over there, and had asked the servant to call her if I
 should return. Tingling with anger, I rushed down and hurried across,
 determined to end the matter once and forever. I saw my wife and the
 maid hurrying back along the lane, but I did not stop to speak with
 them. In the cottage lay the secret which was casting a shadow over
 my life. I vowed that, come what might, it should be a secret no
 longer. I did not even knock when I reached it, but turned the handle
 and rushed into the passage.

 "It was all still and quiet upon the ground floor. In the kitchen a
 kettle was singing on the fire, and a large black cat lay coiled up
 in the basket; but there was no sign of the woman whom I had seen
 before. I ran into the other room, but it was equally deserted. Then
 I rushed up the stairs, only to find two other rooms empty and
 deserted at the top. There was no one at all in the whole house. The
 furniture and pictures were of the most common and vulgar
 description, save in the one chamber at the window of which I had
 seen the strange face. That was comfortable and elegant, and all my
 suspicions rose into a fierce bitter flame when I saw that on the
 mantelpiece stood a copy of a full-length photograph of my wife,
 which had been taken at my request only three months ago.

 "I stayed long enough to make certain that the house was absolutely
 empty. Then I left it, feeling a weight at my heart such as I had
 never had before. My wife came out into the hall as I entered my
 house; but I was too hurt and angry to speak with her, and pushing
 past her, I made my way into my study. She followed me, however,
 before I could close the door.

 "'I am sorry that I broke my promise, Jack,' said she; 'but if you
 knew all the circumstances I am sure that you would forgive me.'

 "'Tell me everything, then,' said I.

 "'I cannot, Jack, I cannot,' she cried.

 "'Until you tell me who it is that has been living in that cottage,
 and who it is to whom you have given that photograph, there can never
 be any confidence between us,' said I, and breaking away from her, I
 left the house. That was yesterday, Mr. Holmes, and I have not seen
 her since, nor do I know anything more about this strange business.
 It is the first shadow that has come between us, and it has so shaken
 me that I do not know what I should do for the best. Suddenly this
 morning it occurred to me that you were the man to advise me, so I
 have hurried to you now, and I place myself unreservedly in your
 hands. If there is any point which I have not made clear, pray
 question me about it. But, above all, tell me quickly what I am to
 do, for this misery is more than I can bear."

 Holmes and I had listened with the utmost interest to this
 extraordinary statement, which had been delivered in the jerky,
 broken fashion of a man who is under the influence of extreme
 emotions. My companion sat silent for some time, with his chin upon
 his hand, lost in thought.

 "Tell me," said he at last, "could you swear that this was a man's
 face which you saw at the window?"

 "Each time that I saw it I was some distance away from it, so that it
 is impossible for me to say."

 "You appear, however, to have been disagreeably impressed by it."

 "It seemed to be of an unnatural color, and to have a strange
 rigidity about the features. When I approached, it vanished with a
 jerk."

 "How long is it since your wife asked you for a hundred pounds?"

 "Nearly two months."

 "Have you ever seen a photograph of her first husband?"

 "No; there was a great fire at Atlanta very shortly after his death,
 and all her papers were destroyed."

 "And yet she had a certificate of death. You say that you saw it."

 "Yes; she got a duplicate after the fire."

 "Did you ever meet any one who knew her in America?"

 "No."

 "Did she ever talk of revisiting the place?"

 "No."

 "Or get letters from it?"

 "No."

 "Thank you. I should like to think over the matter a little now. If
 the cottage is now permanently deserted we may have some difficulty.
 If, on the other hand, as I fancy is more likely, the inmates were
 warned of your coming, and left before you entered yesterday, then
 they may be back now, and we should clear it all up easily. Let me
 advise you, then, to return to Norbury, and to examine the windows of
 the cottage again. If you have reason to believe that is inhabited,
 do not force your way in, but send a wire to my friend and me. We
 shall be with you within an hour of receiving it, and we shall then
 very soon get to the bottom of the business."

 "And if it is still empty?"

 "In that case I shall come out to-morrow and talk it over with you.
 Good-bye, and, above all, do not fret until you know that you really
 have a cause for it."

 "I am afraid that this is a bad business, Watson," said my companion,
 as he returned after accompanying Mr. Grant Munro to the door. "What
 do you make of it?"

 "It had an ugly sound," I answered.

 "Yes. There's blackmail in it, or I am much mistaken."

 "And who is the blackmailer?"

 "Well, it must be the creature who lives in the only comfortable room
 in the place, and has her photograph above his fireplace. Upon my
 word, Watson, there is something very attractive about that livid
 face at the window, and I would not have missed the case for worlds."

 "You have a theory?"

 "Yes, a provisional one. But I shall be surprised if it does not turn
 out to be correct. This woman's first husband is in that cottage."

 "Why do you think so?"

 "How else can we explain her frenzied anxiety that her second one
 should not enter it? The facts, as I read them, are something like
 this: This woman was married in America. Her husband developed some
 hateful qualities; or shall we say that he contracted some loathsome
 disease, and became a leper or an imbecile? She flies from him at
 last, returns to England, changes her name, and starts her life, as
 she thinks, afresh. She has been married three years, and believes
 that her position is quite secure, having shown her husband the death
 certificate of some man whose name she has assumed, when suddenly her
 whereabouts is discovered by her first husband; or, we may suppose,
 by some unscrupulous woman who has attached herself to the invalid.
 They write to the wife, and threaten to come and expose her. She asks
 for a hundred pounds, and endeavors to buy them off. They come in
 spite of it, and when the husband mentions casually to the wife that
 there are new-comers in the cottage, she knows in some way that they
 are her pursuers. She waits until her husband is asleep, and then she
 rushes down to endeavor to persuade them to leave her in peace.
 Having no success, she goes again next morning, and her husband meets
 her, as he has told us, as she comes out. She promises him then not
 to go there again, but two days afterwards the hope of getting rid of
 those dreadful neighbors was too strong for her, and she made another
 attempt, taking down with her the photograph which had probably been
 demanded from her. In the midst of this interview the maid rushed in
 to say that the master had come home, on which the wife, knowing that
 he would come straight down to the cottage, hurried the inmates out
 at the back door, into the grove of fir-trees, probably, which was
 mentioned as standing near. In this way he found the place deserted.
 I shall be very much surprised, however, if it still so when he
 reconnoitres it this evening. What do you think of my theory?"

 "It is all surmise."

 "But at least it covers all the facts. When new facts come to our
 knowledge which cannot be covered by it, it will be time enough to
 reconsider it. We can do nothing more until we have a message from
 our friend at Norbury."

 But we had not a very long time to wait for that. It came just as we
 had finished our tea.

 "The cottage is still tenanted," it said. "Have seen the face again
 at the window. Will meet the seven o'clock train, and will take no
 steps until you arrive."

 He was waiting on the platform when we stepped out, and we could see
 in the light of the station lamps that he was very pale, and
 quivering with agitation.

 "They are still there, Mr. Holmes," said he, laying his hand hard
 upon my friend's sleeve. "I saw lights in the cottage as I came down.
 We shall settle it now once and for all."

 "What is your plan, then?" asked Holmes, as he walked down the dark
 tree-lined road.

 "I am going to force my way in and see for myself who is in the
 house. I wish you both to be there as witnesses."

 "You are quite determined to do this, in spite of your wife's warning
 that it is better that you should not solve the mystery?"

 "Yes, I am determined."

 "Well, I think that you are in the right. Any truth is better than
 indefinite doubt. We had better go up at once. Of course, legally, we
 are putting ourselves hopelessly in the wrong; but I think that it is
 worth it."

 It was a very dark night, and a thin rain began to fall as we turned
 from the high road into a narrow lane, deeply rutted, with hedges on
 either side. Mr. Grant Munro pushed impatiently forward, however, and
 we stumbled after him as best we could.

 "There are the lights of my house," he murmured, pointing to a
 glimmer among the trees. "And here is the cottage which I am going to
 enter."

 We turned a corner in the lane as he spoke, and there was the
 building close beside us. A yellow bar falling across the black
 foreground showed that the door was not quite closed, and one window
 in the upper story was brightly illuminated. As we looked, we saw a
 dark blur moving across the blind.

 "There is that creature!" cried Grant Munro. "You can see for
 yourselves that some one is there. Now follow me, and we shall soon
 know all."

 We approached the door; but suddenly a woman appeared out of the
 shadow and stood in the golden track of the lamp-light. I could not
 see her face in the darkness, but her arms were thrown out in an
 attitude of entreaty.

 "For God's sake, don't Jack!" she cried. "I had a presentiment that
 you would come this evening. Think better of it, dear! Trust me
 again, and you will never have cause to regret it."

 "I have trusted you too long, Effie," he cried, sternly. "Leave go of
 me! I must pass you. My friends and I are going to settle this matter
 once and forever!" He pushed her to one side, and we followed closely
 after him. As he threw the door open an old woman ran out in front of
 him and tried to bar his passage, but he thrust her back, and an
 instant afterwards we were all upon the stairs. Grant Munro rushed
 into the lighted room at the top, and we entered at his heels.

 It was a cosy, well-furnished apartment, with two candles burning
 upon the table and two upon the mantelpiece. In the corner, stooping
 over a desk, there sat what appeared to be a little girl. Her face
 was turned away as we entered, but we could see that she was dressed
 in a red frock, and that she had long white gloves on. As she whisked
 round to us, I gave a cry of surprise and horror. The face which she
 turned towards us was of the strangest livid tint, and the features
 were absolutely devoid of any expression. An instant later the
 mystery was explained. Holmes, with a laugh, passed his hand behind
 the child's ear, a mask peeled off from her countenance, an there was
 a little coal black negress, with all her white teeth flashing in
 amusement at our amazed faces. I burst out laughing, out of sympathy
 with her merriment; but Grant Munro stood staring, with his hand
 clutching his throat.

 "My God!" he cried. "What can be the meaning of this?"

 "I will tell you the meaning of it," cried the lady, sweeping into
 the room with a proud, set face. "You have forced me, against my own
 judgment, to tell you, and now we must both make the best of it. My
 husband died at Atlanta. My child survived."

 "Your child?"

 She drew a large silver locket from her bosom. "You have never seen
 this open."

 "I understood that it did not open."

 She touched a spring, and the front hinged back. There was a portrait
 within of a man strikingly handsome and intelligent-looking, but
 bearing unmistakable signs upon his features of his African descent.

 "That is John Hebron, of Atlanta," said the lady, "and a nobler man
 never walked the earth. I cut myself off from my race in order to wed
 him, but never once while he lived did I for an instant regret it. It
 was our misfortune that our only child took after his people rather
 than mine. It is often so in such matches, and little Lucy is darker
 far than ever her father was. But dark or fair, she is my own dear
 little girlie, and her mother's pet." The little creature ran across
 at the words and nestled up against the lady's dress. "When I left
 her in America," she continued, "it was only because her health was
 weak, and the change might have done her harm. She was given to the
 care of a faithful Scotch woman who had once been our servant. Never
 for an instant did I dream of disowning her as my child. But when
 chance threw you in my way, Jack, and I learned to love you, I feared
 to tell you about my child. God forgive me, I feared that I should
 lose you, and I had not the courage to tell you. I had to choose
 between you, and in my weakness I turned away from my own little
 girl. For three years I have kept her existence a secret from you,
 but I heard from the nurse, and I knew that all was well with her. At
 last, however, there came an overwhelming desire to see the child
 once more. I struggled against it, but in vain. Though I knew the
 danger, I determined to have the child over, if it were but for a few
 weeks. I sent a hundred pounds to the nurse, and I gave her
 instructions about this cottage, so that she might come as a
 neighbor, without my appearing to be in any way connected with her. I
 pushed my precautions so far as to order her to keep the child in the
 house during the daytime, and to cover up her little face and hands
 so that even those who might see her at the window should not gossip
 about there being a black child in the neighborhood. If I had been
 less cautious I might have been more wise, but I was half crazy with
 fear that you should learn the truth.

 "It was you who told me first that the cottage was occupied. I should
 have waited for the morning, but I could not sleep for excitement,
 and so at last I slipped out, knowing how difficult it is to awake
 you. But you saw me go, and that was the beginning of my troubles.
 Next day you had my secret at your mercy, but you nobly refrained
 from pursuing your advantage. Three days later, however, the nurse
 and child only just escaped from the back door as you rushed in at
 the front one. And now to-night you at last know all, and I ask you
 what is to become of us, my child and me?" She clasped her hands and
 waited for an answer.

 It was a long ten minutes before Grant Munro broke the silence, and
 when his answer came it was one of which I love to think. He lifted
 the little child, kissed her, and then, still carrying her, he held
 his other hand out to his wife and turned towards the door.

 "We can talk it over more comfortably at home," said he. "I am not a
 very good man, Effie, but I think that I am a better one than you
 have given me credit for being."

 Holmes and I followed them down the lane, and my friend plucked at my
 sleeve as we came out.

 "I think," said he, "that we shall be of more use in London than in
 Norbury."

 Not another word did he say of the case until late that night, when
 he was turning away, with his lighted candle, for his bedroom.

 "Watson," said he, "if it should ever strike you that I am getting a
 little over-confident in my powers, or giving less pains to a case
 than it deserves, kindly whisper 'Norbury' in my ear, and I shall be
 infinitely obliged to you." 






                        THE STOCK-BROKER'S CLERK

 Shortly after my marriage I had bought a connection in the Paddington
 district. Old Mr. Farquhar, from whom I purchased it, had at one time
 an excellent general practice; but his age, and an affliction of the
 nature of St. Vitus's dance from which he suffered, had very much
 thinned it. The public not unnaturally goes on the principle that he
 who would heal others must himself be whole, and looks askance at the
 curative powers of the man whose own case is beyond the reach of his
 drugs. Thus as my predecessor weakened his practice declined, until
 when I purchased it from him it had sunk from twelve hundred to
 little more than three hundred a year. I had confidence, however, in
 my own youth and energy, and was convinced that in a very few years
 the concern would be as flourishing as ever.

 For three months after taking over the practice I was kept very
 closely at work, and saw little of my friend Sherlock Holmes, for I
 was too busy to visit Baker Street, and he seldom went anywhere
 himself save upon professional business. I was surprised, therefore,
 when, one morning in June, as I sat reading the British Medical
 Journal after breakfast, I heard a ring at the bell, followed by the
 high, somewhat strident tones of my old companion's voice.

 "Ah, my dear Watson," said he, striding into the room, "I am very
 delighted to see you! I trust that Mrs. Watson has entirely recovered
 from all the little excitements connected with our adventure of the
 Sign of Four."

 "Thank you, we are both very well," said I, shaking him warmly by the
 hand.

 "And I hope, also," he continued, sitting down in the rocking-chair,
 "that the cares of medical practice have not entirely obliterated the
 interest which you used to take in our little deductive problems."

 "On the contrary," I answered, "it was only last night that I was
 looking over my old notes, and classifying some of our past results."

 "I trust that you don't consider your collection closed."

 "Not at all. I should wish nothing better than to have some more of
 such experiences."

 "To-day, for example?"

 "Yes, to-day, if you like."

 "And as far off as Birmingham?"

 "Certainly, if you wish it."

 "And the practice?"

 "I do my neighbor's when he goes. He is always ready to work off the
 debt."

 "Ha! Nothing could be better," said Holmes, leaning back in his chair
 and looking keenly at me from under his half closed lids. "I perceive
 that you have been unwell lately. Summer colds are always a little
 trying."

 "I was confined to the house by a severe chill for three days last
 week. I thought, however, that I had cast off every trace of it."

 "So you have. You look remarkably robust."

 "How, then, did you know of it?"

 "My dear fellow, you know my methods."

 "You deduced it, then?"

 "Certainly."

 "And from what?"

 "From your slippers."

 I glanced down at the new patent leathers which I was wearing. "How
 on earth--" I began, but Holmes answered my question before it was
 asked.

 "Your slippers are new," he said. "You could not have had them more
 than a few weeks. The soles which you are at this moment presenting
 to me are slightly scorched. For a moment I thought they might have
 got wet and been burned in the drying. But near the instep there is a
 small circular wafer of paper with the shopman's hieroglyphics upon
 it. Damp would of course have removed this. You had, then, been
 sitting with our feet outstretched to the fire, which a man would
 hardly do even in so wet a June as this if he were in his full
 health."

 Like all Holmes's reasoning the thing seemed simplicity itself when
 it was once explained. He read the thought upon my features, and his
 smile had a tinge of bitterness.

 "I am afraid that I rather give myself away when I explain," said he.
 "Results without causes are much more impressive. You are ready to
 come to Birmingham, then?"

 "Certainly. What is the case?"

 "You shall hear it all in the train. My client is outside in a
 four-wheeler. Can you come at once?"

 "In an instant." I scribbled a note to my neighbor, rushed upstairs
 to explain the matter to my wife, and joined Holmes upon the
 door-step.

 "Your neighbor is a doctor," said he, nodding at the brass plate.

 "Yes; he bought a practice as I did."

 "An old-established one?"

 "Just the same as mine. Both have been ever since the houses were
 built."

 "Ah! Then you got hold of the best of the two."

 "I think I did. But how do you know?"

 "By the steps, my boy. Yours are worn three inches deeper than his.
 But this gentleman in the cab is my client, Mr. Hall Pycroft. Allow
 me to introduce you to him. Whip your horse up, cabby, for we have
 only just time to catch our train."

 The man whom I found myself facing was a well built,
 fresh-complexioned young fellow, with a frank, honest face and a
 slight, crisp, yellow mustache. He wore a very shiny top hat and a
 neat suit of sober black, which made him look what he was--a smart
 young City man, of the class who have been labeled cockneys, but who
 give us our crack volunteer regiments, and who turn out more fine
 athletes and sportsmen than any body of men in these islands. His
 round, ruddy face was naturally full of cheeriness, but the corners
 of his mouth seemed to me to be pulled down in a half-comical
 distress. It was not, however, until we were all in a first-class
 carriage and well started upon our journey to Birmingham that I was
 able to learn what the trouble was which had driven him to Sherlock
 Holmes.

 "We have a clear run here of seventy minutes," Holmes remarked. "I
 want you, Mr. Hall Pycroft, to tell my friend your very interesting
 experience exactly as you have told it to me, or with more detail if
 possible. It will be of use to me to hear the succession of events
 again. It is a case, Watson, which may prove to have something in it,
 or may prove to have nothing, but which, at least, presents those
 unusual and outrÃ© features which are as dear to you as they are to
 me. Now, Mr. Pycroft, I shall not interrupt you again."

 Our young companion looked at me with a twinkle in his eye.

 "The worst of the story is," said he, "that I show myself up as such
 a confounded fool. Of course it may work out all right, and I don't
 see that I could have done otherwise; but if I have lost my crib and
 get nothing in exchange I shall feel what a soft Johnnie I have been.
 I'm not very good at telling a story, Dr. Watson, but it is like this
 with me:

 "I used to have a billet at Coxon & Woodhouse's, of Draper's Gardens,
 but they were let in early in the spring through the Venezuelan loan,
 as no doubt you remember, and came a nasty cropper. I had been with
 them five years, and old Coxon gave me a ripping good testimonial
 when the smash came, but of course we clerks were all turned adrift,
 the twenty-seven of us. I tried here and tried there, but there were
 lots of other chaps on the same lay as myself, and it was a perfect
 frost for a long time. I had been taking three pounds a week at
 Coxon's, and I had saved about seventy of them, but I soon worked my
 way through that and out at the other end. I was fairly at the end of
 my tether at last, and could hardly find the stamps to answer the
 advertisements or the envelopes to stick them to. I had worn out my
 boots paddling up office stairs, and I seemed just as far from
 getting a billet as ever.

 "At last I saw a vacancy at Mawson & Williams's, the great
 stock-broking firm in Lombard Street. I dare say E. C. is not much in
 your line, but I can tell you that this is about the richest house in
 London. The advertisement was to be answered by letter only. I sent
 in my testimonial and application, but without the least hope of
 getting it. Back came an answer by return, saying that if I would
 appear next Monday I might take over my new duties at once, provided
 that my appearance was satisfactory. No one knows how these things
 are worked. Some people say that the manager just plunges his hand
 into the heap and takes the first that comes. Anyhow it was my
 innings that time, and I don't ever wish to feel better pleased. The
 screw was a pound a week rise, and the duties just about the same as
 at Coxon's.

 "And now I come to the queer part of the business. I was in diggings
 out Hampstead way, 17 Potter's Terrace. Well, I was sitting doing a
 smoke that very evening after I had been promised the appointment,
 when up came my landlady with a card which had "Arthur Pinner,
 Financial Agent," printed upon it. I had never heard the name before
 and could not imagine what he wanted with me; but, of course, I asked
 her to show him up. In he walked, a middle-sized, dark-haired,
 dark-eyed, black-bearded man, with a touch of the sheeny about his
 nose. He had a brisk kind of way with him and spoke sharply, like a
 man who knew the value of time.

 "'Mr. Hall Pycroft, I believe?' said he.

 "'Yes, sir,' I answered, pushing a chair towards him.

 "'Lately engaged at Coxon & Woodhouse's?'

 "'Yes, sir.'

 "'And now on the staff of Mawson's.'

 "'Quite so.'

 "'Well,' said he, 'the fact is that I have heard some really
 extraordinary stories about your financial ability. You remember
 Parker, who used to be Coxon's manager? He can never say enough about
 it.'

 "Of course I was pleased to hear this. I had always been pretty sharp
 in the office, but I had never dreamed that I was talked about in the
 City in this fashion.

 "'You have a good memory?' said he.

 "'Pretty fair,' I answered, modestly.

 "'Have you kept in touch with the market while you have been out of
 work?' he asked.

 "'Yes. I read the stock exchange list every morning.'

 "'Now that shows real application!' he cried. 'That is the way to
 prosper! You won't mind my testing you, will you? Let me see. How are
 Ayrshires?'

 "'A hundred and six and a quarter to a hundred and five and
 seven-eighths.'

 "'And New Zealand consolidated?'

 "'A hundred and four.'

 "'And British Broken Hills?'

 "'Seven to seven-and-six.'

 "'Wonderful!' he cried, with his hands up. 'This quite fits in with
 all that I had heard. My boy, my boy, you are very much too good to
 be a clerk at Mawson's!'

 "This outburst rather astonished me, as you can think. 'Well,' said
 I, 'other people don't think quite so much of me as you seem to do,
 Mr. Pinner. I had a hard enough fight to get this berth, and I am
 very glad to have it.'

 "'Pooh, man; you should soar above it. You are not in your true
 sphere. Now, I'll tell you how it stands with me. What I have to
 offer is little enough when measured by your ability, but when
 compared with Mawson's, it's light to dark. Let me see. When do you
 go to Mawson's?'

 "'On Monday.'

 "'Ha, ha! I think I would risk a little sporting flutter that you
 don't go there at all.'

 "'Not go to Mawson's?'

 "'No, sir. By that day you will be the business manager of the
 Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, with a hundred and
 thirty-four branches in the towns and villages of France, not
 counting one in Brussels and one in San Remo.'

 "This took my breath away. 'I never heard of it,' said I.

 "'Very likely not. It has been kept very quiet, for the capital was
 all privately subscribed, and it's too good a thing to let the public
 into. My brother, Harry Pinner, is promoter, and joins the board
 after allotment as managing director. He knew I was in the swim down
 here, and asked me to pick up a good man cheap. A young, pushing man
 with plenty of snap about him. Parker spoke of you, and that brought
 me here tonight. We can only offer you a beggarly five hundred to
 start with.'

 "'Five hundred a year!' I shouted.

 "'Only that at the beginning; but you are to have an overriding
 commission of one per cent on all business done by your agents, and
 you may take my word for it that this will come to more than your
 salary.'

 "'But I know nothing about hardware.'

 "'Tut, my boy; you know about figures.'

 "My head buzzed, and I could hardly sit still in my chair. But
 suddenly a little chill of doubt came upon me.

 "'I must be frank with you,' said I. 'Mawson only gives me two
 hundred, but Mawson is safe. Now, really, I know so little about your
 company that--'

 "'Ah, smart, smart!' he cried, in a kind of ecstasy of delight. 'You
 are the very man for us. You are not to be talked over, and quite
 right, too. Now, here's a note for a hundred pounds, and if you think
 that we can do business you may just slip it into your pocket as an
 advance upon your salary.'

 "'That is very handsome,' said I. 'When should I take over my new
 duties?'

 "'Be in Birmingham to-morrow at one,' said he. 'I have a note in my
 pocket here which you will take to my brother. You will find him at
 126b Corporation Street, where the temporary offices of the company
 are situated. Of course he must confirm your engagement, but between
 ourselves it will be all right.'

 "'Really, I hardly know how to express my gratitude, Mr. Pinner,'
 said I.

 "'Not at all, my boy. You have only got your desserts. There are one
 or two small things--mere formalities--which I must arrange with you.
 You have a bit of paper beside you there. Kindly write upon it "I am
 perfectly willing to act as business manager to the Franco-Midland
 Hardware Company, Limited, at a minimum salary of Â£500."'

 "I did as he asked, and he put the paper in his pocket.

 "'There is one other detail,' said he. 'What do you intend to do
 about Mawson's?'

 "I had forgotten all about Mawson's in my joy. 'I'll write and
 resign,' said I.

 "'Precisely what I don't want you to do. I had a row over you with
 Mawson's manager. I had gone up to ask him about you, and he was very
 offensive; accused me of coaxing you away from the service of the
 firm, and that sort of thing. At last I fairly lost my temper. "If
 you want good men you should pay them a good price," said I.

 "'"He would rather have our small price than your big one," said he.

 "'"I'll lay you a fiver," said I, "that when he has my offer you'll
 never so much as hear from him again."

 "'"Done!" said he. "We picked him out of the gutter, and he won't
 leave us so easily." Those were his very words.'

 "'The impudent scoundrel!' I cried. 'I've never so much as seen him
 in my life. Why should I consider him in any way? I shall certainly
 not write if you would rather I didn't.'

 "'Good! That's a promise,' said he, rising from his chair. 'Well, I'm
 delighted to have got so good a man for my brother. Here's your
 advance of a hundred pounds, and here is the letter. Make a note of
 the address, 126b Corporation Street, and remember that one o'clock
 to-morrow is your appointment. Good-night; and may you have all the
 fortune that you deserve!'

 "That's just about all that passed between us, as near as I can
 remember. You can imagine, Dr. Watson, how pleased I was at such an
 extraordinary bit of good fortune. I sat up half the night hugging
 myself over it, and next day I was off to Birmingham in a train that
 would take me in plenty time for my appointment. I took my things to
 a hotel in New Street, and then I made my way to the address which
 had been given me.

 "It was a quarter of an hour before my time, but I thought that would
 make no difference. 126b was a passage between two large shops, which
 led to a winding stone stair, from which there were many flats, let
 as offices to companies or professional men. The names of the
 occupants were painted at the bottom on the wall, but there was no
 such name as the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited. I stood
 for a few minutes with my heart in my boots, wondering whether the
 whole thing was an elaborate hoax or not, when up came a man and
 addressed me. He was very like the chap I had seen the night before,
 the same figure and voice, but he was clean shaven and his hair was
 lighter.

 "'Are you Mr. Hall Pycroft?' he asked.

 "'Yes,' said I.

 "'Oh! I was expecting you, but you are a trifle before your time. I
 had a note from my brother this morning in which he sang your praises
 very loudly.'

 "'I was just looking for the offices when you came.'

 "'We have not got our name up yet, for we only secured these
 temporary premises last week. Come up with me, and we will talk the
 matter over.'

 "I followed him to the top of a very lofty stair, and there, right
 under the slates, were a couple of empty, dusty little rooms,
 uncarpeted and uncurtained, into which he led me. I had thought of a
 great office with shining tables and rows of clerks, such as I was
 used to, and I dare say I stared rather straight at the two deal
 chairs and one little table, which, with a ledger and a waste paper
 basket, made up the whole furniture.

 "'Don't be disheartened, Mr. Pycroft,' said my new acquaintance,
 seeing the length of my face. 'Rome was not built in a day, and we
 have lots of money at our backs, though we don't cut much dash yet in
 offices. Pray sit down, and let me have your letter.'

 "I gave it to him, and her read it over very carefully.

 "'You seem to have made a vast impression upon my brother Arthur,'
 said he; 'and I know that he is a pretty shrewd judge. He swears by
 London, you know; and I by Birmingham; but this time I shall follow
 his advice. Pray consider yourself definitely engaged.'

 "'What are my duties?' I asked.

 "'You will eventually manage the great depot in Paris, which will
 pour a flood of English crockery into the shops of a hundred and
 thirty-four agents in France. The purchase will be completed in a
 week, and meanwhile you will remain in Birmingham and make yourself
 useful.'

 "'How?'

 "For answer, he took a big red book out of a drawer.

 "'This is a directory of Paris,' said he, 'with the trades after the
 names of the people. I want you to take it home with you, and to mark
 off all the hardware sellers, with their addresses. It would be of
 the greatest use to me to have them.'

 "'Surely there are classified lists?' I suggested.

 "'Not reliable ones. Their system is different from ours. Stick at
 it, and let me have the lists by Monday, at twelve. Good-day, Mr.
 Pycroft. If you continue to show zeal and intelligence you will find
 the company a good master.'

 "I went back to the hotel with the big book under my arm, and with
 very conflicting feelings in my breast. On the one hand, I was
 definitely engaged and had a hundred pounds in my pocket; on the
 other, the look of the offices, the absence of name on the wall, and
 other of the points which would strike a business man had left a bad
 impression as to the position of my employers. However, come what
 might, I had my money, so I settled down to my task. All Sunday I was
 kept hard at work, and yet by Monday I had only got as far as H. I
 went round to my employer, found him in the same dismantled kind of
 room, and was told to keep at it until Wednesday, and then come
 again. On Wednesday it was still unfinished, so I hammered away until
 Friday--that is, yesterday. Then I brought it round to Mr. Harry
 Pinner.

 "'Thank you very much,' said he; 'I fear that I underrated the
 difficulty of the task. This list will be of very material assistance
 to me.'

 "'It took some time,' said I.

 "'And now,' said he, 'I want you to make a list of the furniture
 shops, for they all sell crockery.'

 "'Very good.'

 "'And you can come up to-morrow evening, at seven, and let me know
 how you are getting on. Don't overwork yourself. A couple of hours at
 Day's Music Hall in the evening would do you no harm after your
 labors.' He laughed as he spoke, and I saw with a thrill that his
 second tooth upon the left-hand side had been very badly stuffed with
 gold."

 Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands with delight, and I stared with
 astonishment at our client.

 "You may well look surprised, Dr. Watson; but it is this way," said
 he: "When I was speaking to the other chap in London, at the time
 that he laughed at my not going to Mawson's, I happened to notice
 that his tooth was stuffed in this very identical fashion. The glint
 of the gold in each case caught my eye, you see. When I put that with
 the voice and figure being the same, and only those things altered
 which might be changed by a razor or a wig, I could not doubt that it
 was the same man. Of course you expect two brothers to be alike, but
 not that they should have the same tooth stuffed in the same way. He
 bowed me out, and I found myself in the street, hardly knowing
 whether I was on my head or my heels. Back I went to my hotel, put my
 head in a basin of cold water, and tried to think it out. Why had he
 sent me from London to Birmingham? Why had he got there before me?
 And why had he written a letter from himself to himself? It was
 altogether too much for me, and I could make no sense of it. And then
 suddenly it struck me that what was dark to me might be very light to
 Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I had just time to get up to town by the night
 train to see him this morning, and to bring you both back with me to
 Birmingham."

 There was a pause after the stock-broker's clerk had concluded his
 surprising experience. Then Sherlock Holmes cocked his eye at me,
 leaning back on the cushions with a pleased and yet critical face,
 like a connoisseur who has just taken his first sip of a comet
 vintage.

 "Rather fine, Watson, is it not?" said he. "There are points in it
 which please me. I think that you will agree with me that an
 interview with Mr. Arthur Harry Pinner in the temporary offices of
 the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, would be a rather
 interesting experience for both of us."

 "But how can we do it?" I asked.

 "Oh, easily enough," said Hall Pycroft, cheerily. "You are two
 friends of mine who are in want of a billet, and what could be more
 natural than that I should bring you both round to the managing
 director?"

 "Quite so, of course," said Holmes. "I should like to have a look at
 the gentleman, and see if I can make anything of his little game.
 What qualities have you, my friend, which would make your services so
 valuable? Or is it possible that--" He began biting his nails and
 staring blankly out of the window, and we hardly drew another word
 from him until we were in New Street.

 At seven o'clock that evening we were walking, the three of us, down
 Corporation Street to the company's offices.

 "It is no use our being at all before our time," said our client. "He
 only comes there to see me, apparently, for the place is deserted up
 to the very hour he names."

 "That is suggestive," remarked Holmes.

 "By Jove, I told you so!" cried the clerk. "That's he walking ahead
 of us there."

 He pointed to a smallish, dark, well-dressed man who was bustling
 along the other side of the road. As we watched him he looked across
 at a boy who was bawling out the latest edition of the evening paper,
 and running over among the cabs and busses, he bought one from him.
 Then, clutching it in his hand, he vanished through a door-way.

 "There he goes!" cried Hall Pycroft. "These are the company's offices
 into which he has gone. Come with me, and I'll fix it up as easily as
 possible."

 Following his lead, we ascended five stories, until we found
 ourselves outside a half-opened door, at which our client tapped. A
 voice within bade us enter, and we entered a bare, unfurnished room
 such as Hall Pycroft had described. At the single table sat the man
 whom we had seen in the street, with his evening paper spread out in
 front of him, and as he looked up at us it seemed to me that I had
 never looked upon a face which bore such marks of grief, and of
 something beyond grief--of a horror such as comes to few men in a
 lifetime. His brow glistened with perspiration, his cheeks were of
 the dull, dead white of a fish's belly, and his eyes were wild and
 staring. He looked at his clerk as though he failed to recognize him,
 and I could see by the astonishment depicted upon our conductor's
 face that this was by no means the usual appearance of his employer.

 "You look ill, Mr. Pinner!" he exclaimed.

 "Yes, I am not very well," answered the other, making obvious efforts
 to pull himself together, and licking his dry lips before he spoke.
 "Who are these gentlemen whom you have brought with you?"

 "One is Mr. Harris, of Bermondsey, and the other is Mr. Price, of
 this town," said our clerk, glibly. "They are friends of mine and
 gentlemen of experience, but they have been out of a place for some
 little time, and they hoped that perhaps you might find an opening
 for them in the company's employment."

 "Very possibly! Very possibly!" cried Mr. Pinner with a ghastly
 smile. "Yes, I have no doubt that we shall be able to do something
 for you. What is your particular line, Mr. Harris?"

 "I am an accountant," said Holmes.

 "Ah yes, we shall want something of the sort. And you, Mr. Price?"

 "A clerk," said I.

 "I have every hope that the company may accommodate you. I will let
 you know about it as soon as we come to any conclusion. And now I beg
 that you will go. For God's sake leave me to myself!"

 These last words were shot out of him, as though the constraint which
 he was evidently setting upon himself had suddenly and utterly burst
 asunder. Holmes and I glanced at each other, and Hall Pycroft took a
 step towards the table.

 "You forget, Mr. Pinner, that I am here by appointment to receive
 some directions from you," said he.

 "Certainly, Mr. Pycroft, certainly," the other resumed in a calmer
 tone. "You may wait here a moment; and there is no reason why your
 friends should not wait with you. I will be entirely at your service
 in three minutes, if I might trespass upon your patience so far." He
 rose with a very courteous air, and, bowing to us, he passed out
 through a door at the farther end of the room, which he closed behind
 him.

 "What now?" whispered Holmes. "Is he giving us the slip?"

 "Impossible," answered Pycroft.

 "Why so?"

 "That door leads into an inner room."

 "There is no exit?"

 "None."

 "Is it furnished?"

 "It was empty yesterday."

 "Then what on earth can he be doing? There is something which I don't
 understand in his manner. If ever a man was three parts mad with
 terror, that man's name is Pinner. What can have put the shivers on
 him?"

 "He suspects that we are detectives," I suggested.

 "That's it," cried Pycroft.

 Holmes shook his head. "He did not turn pale. He was pale when we
 entered the room," said he. "It is just possible that--"

 His words were interrupted by a sharp rat-tat from the direction of
 the inner door.

 "What the deuce is he knocking at his own door for?" cried the clerk.

 Again and much louder cam the rat-tat-tat. We all gazed expectantly
 at the closed door. Glancing at Holmes, I saw his face turn rigid,
 and he leaned forward in intense excitement. Then suddenly came a low
 guggling, gargling sound, and a brisk drumming upon woodwork. Holmes
 sprang frantically across the room and pushed at the door. It was
 fastened on the inner side. Following his example, we threw ourselves
 upon it with all our weight. One hinge snapped, then the other, and
 down came the door with a crash. Rushing over it, we found ourselves
 in the inner room. It was empty.

 But it was only for a moment that we were at fault. At one corner,
 the corner nearest the room which we had left, there was a second
 door. Holmes sprang to it and pulled it open. A coat and waistcoat
 were lying on the floor, and from a hook behind the door, with his
 own braces round his neck, was hanging the managing director of the
 Franco-Midland Hardware Company. His knees were drawn up, his head
 hung at a dreadful angle to his body, and the clatter of his heels
 against the door made the noise which had broken in upon our
 conversation. In an instant I had caught him round the waist, and
 held him up while Holmes and Pycroft untied the elastic bands which
 had disappeared between the livid creases of skin. Then we carried
 him into the other room, where he lay with a clay-colored face,
 puffing his purple lips in and out with every breath--a dreadful
 wreck of all that he had been but five minutes before.

 "What do you think of him, Watson?" asked Holmes.

 I stooped over him and examined him. His pulse was feeble and
 intermittent, but his breathing grew longer, and there was a little
 shivering of his eyelids, which showed a thin white slit of ball
 beneath.

 "It has been touch and go with him," said I, "but he'll live now.
 Just open that window, and hand me the water carafe." I undid his
 collar, poured the cold water over his face, and raised and sank his
 arms until he drew a long, natural breath. "It's only a question of
 time now," said I, as I turned away from him.

 Holmes stood by the table, with his hands deep in his trouser's
 pockets and his chin upon his breast.

 "I suppose we ought to call the police in now," said he. "And yet I
 confess that I'd like to give them a complete case when they come."

 "It's a blessed mystery to me," cried Pycroft, scratching his head.
 "Whatever they wanted to bring me all the way up here for, and
 then--"

 "Pooh! All that is clear enough," said Holmes impatiently. "It is
 this last sudden move."

 "You understand the rest, then?"

 "I think that it is fairly obvious. What do you say, Watson?"

 I shrugged my shoulders. "I must confess that I am out of my depths,"
 said I.

 "Oh surely if you consider the events at first they can only point to
 one conclusion."

 "What do you make of them?"

 "Well, the whole thing hinges upon two points. The first is the
 making of Pycroft write a declaration by which he entered the service
 of this preposterous company. Do you not see how very suggestive that
 is?"

 "I am afraid I miss the point."

 "Well, why did they want him to do it? Not as a business matter, for
 these arrangements are usually verbal, and there was no earthly
 business reason why this should be an exception. Don't you see, my
 young friend, that they were very anxious to obtain a specimen of
 your handwriting, and had no other way of doing it?"

 "And why?"

 "Quite so. Why? When we answer that we have made some progress with
 our little problem. Why? There can be only one adequate reason.
 Someone wanted to learn to imitate your writing, and had to procure a
 specimen of it first. And now if we pass on to the second point we
 find that each throws light upon the other. That point is the request
 made by Pinner that you should not resign your place, but should
 leave the manager of this important business in the full expectation
 that a Mr. Hall Pycroft, whom he had never seen, was about to enter
 the office upon the Monday morning."

 "My God!" cried our client, "what a blind beetle I have been!"

 "Now you see the point about the handwriting. Suppose that some one
 turned up in your place who wrote a completely different hand from
 that in which you had applied for the vacancy, of course the game
 would have been up. But in the interval the rogue had learned to
 imitate you, and his position was therefore secure, as I presume that
 nobody in the office had ever set eyes upon you."

 "Not a soul," groaned Hall Pycroft.

 "Very good. Of course it was of the utmost importance to prevent you
 from thinking better of it, and also to keep you from coming into
 contact with any one who might tell you that your double was at work
 in Mawson's office. Therefore they gave you a handsome advance on
 your salary, and ran you off to the Midlands, where they gave you
 enough work to do to prevent your going to London, where you might
 have burst their little game up. That is all plain enough."

 "But why should this man pretend to be his own brother?"

 "Well, that is pretty clear also. There are evidently only two of
 them in it. The other is impersonating you at the office. This one
 acted as your engager, and then found that he could not find you an
 employer without admitting a third person into his plot. That he was
 most unwilling to do. He changed his appearance as far as he could,
 and trusted that the likeness, which you could not fail to observe,
 would be put down to a family resemblance. But for the happy chance
 of the gold stuffing, your suspicions would probably never have been
 aroused."

 Hall Pycroft shook his clinched hands in the air. "Good Lord!" he
 cried, "while I have been fooled in this way, what has this other
 Hall Pycroft been doing at Mawson's? What should we do, Mr. Holmes?
 Tell me what to do."

 "We must wire to Mawson's."

 "They shut at twelve on Saturdays."

 "Never mind. There may be some door-keeper or attendant--"

 "Ah yes, they keep a permanent guard there on account of the value of
 the securities that they hold. I remember hearing it talked of in the
 City."

 "Very good; we shall wire to him, and see if all is well, and if a
 clerk of your name is working there. That is clear enough; but what
 is not so clear is why at sight of us one of the rogues should
 instantly walk out of the room and hang himself."

 "The paper!" croaked a voice behind us. The man was sitting up,
 blanched and ghastly, with returning reason in his eyes, and hands
 which rubbed nervously at the broad red band which still encircled
 his throat.

 "The paper! Of course!" yelled Holmes, in a paroxysm of excitement.
 "Idiot that I was! I thought so must of our visit that the paper
 never entered my head for an instant. To be sure, the secret must be
 there." He flattened it out upon the table, and a cry of triumph
 burst from his lips. "Look at this, Watson," he cried. "It is a
 London paper, an early edition of the Evening Standard. Here is what
 we want. Look at the headlines: 'Crime in the City. Murder at Mawson
 & Williams's. Gigantic attempted Robbery. Capture of the Criminal.'
 Here, Watson, we are all equally anxious to hear it, so kindly read
 it aloud to us."

 It appeared from its position in the paper to have been the one event
 of importance in town, and the account of it ran in this way:

 "A desperate attempt at robbery, culminating in the death of one man
 and the capture of the criminal, occurred this afternoon in the City.
 For some time back Mawson & Williams, the famous financial house,
 have been the guardians of securities which amount in the aggregate
 to a sum of considerably over a million sterling. So conscious was
 the manager of the responsibility which devolved upon him in
 consequence of the great interests at stake that safes of the very
 latest construction have been employed, and an armed watchman has
 been left day and night in the building. It appears that last week a
 new clerk named Hall Pycroft was engaged by the firm. This person
 appears to have been none other that Beddington, the famous forger
 and cracksman, who, with his brother, had only recently emerged from
 a five years' spell of penal servitude. By some means, which are not
 yet clear, he succeeded in winning, under a false name, this official
 position in the office, which he utilized in order to obtain moulding
 of various locks, and a thorough knowledge of the position of the
 strong room and the safes.
 "It is customary at Mawson's for the clerks to leave at midday on
 Saturday. Sergeant Tuson, of the City Police, was somewhat surprised,
 therefore to see a gentleman with a carpet bag come down the steps at
 twenty minutes past one. His suspicions being aroused, the sergeant
 followed the man, and with the aid of Constable Pollack succeeded,
 after a most desperate resistance, in arresting him. It was at once
 clear that a daring and gigantic robbery had been committed. Nearly a
 hundred thousand pounds' worth of American railway bonds, with a
 large amount of scrip in mines and other companies, was discovered in
 the bag. On examining the premises the body of the unfortunate
 watchman was found doubled up and thrust into the largest of the
 safes, where it would not have been discovered until Monday morning
 had it not been for the prompt action of Sergeant Tuson. The man's
 skull had been shattered by a blow from a poker delivered from
 behind. There could be no doubt that Beddington had obtained entrance
 by pretending that he had left something behind him, and having
 murdered the watchman, rapidly rifled the large safe, and then made
 off with his booty. His brother, who usually works with him, has not
 appeared in this job as far as can at present be ascertained,
 although the police are making energetic inquiries as to his
 whereabouts."

 "Well, we may save the police some little trouble in that direction,"
 said Holmes, glancing at the haggard figure huddled up by the window.
 "Human nature is a strange mixture, Watson. You see that even a
 villain and murderer can inspire such affection that his brother
 turns to suicide when he learns that his neck is forfeited. However,
 we have no choice as to our action. The doctor and I will remain on
 guard, Mr. Pycroft, if you will have the kindness to step out for the
 police."






                           THE "GLORIA SCOTT"

 "I have some papers here," said my friend Sherlock Holmes, as we sat
 one winter's night on either side of the fire, "which I really think,
 Watson, that it would be worth your while to glance over. These are
 the documents in the extraordinary case of the Gloria Scott, and this
 is the message which struck Justice of the Peace Trevor dead with
 horror when he read it."

 He had picked from a drawer a little tarnished cylinder, and, undoing
 the tape, he handed me a short note scrawled upon a half-sheet of
 slate gray-paper.

 "The supply of game for London is going steadily up," it ran.
 "Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now told to receive all
 orders for fly-paper and for preservation of your hen-pheasant's
 life."

 As I glanced up from reading this enigmatical message, I saw Holmes
 chuckling at the expression upon my face.

 "You look a little bewildered," said he.

 "I cannot see how such a message as this could inspire horror. It
 seems to me to be rather grotesque than otherwise."

 "Very likely. Yet the fact remains that the reader, who was a fine,
 robust old man, was knocked clean down by it as if it had been the
 butt end of a pistol."

 "You arouse my curiosity," said I. "But why did you say just now that
 there were very particular reasons why I should study this case?"

 "Because it was the first in which I was ever engaged."

 I had often endeavored to elicit from my companion what had first
 turned his mind in the direction of criminal research, but had never
 caught him before in a communicative humor. Now he sat forward in his
 arm-chair and spread out the documents upon his knees. Then he lit
 his pipe and sat for some time smoking and turning them over.

 "You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?" he asked. "He was the
 only friend I made during the two years I was at college. I was never
 a very sociable fellow, Watson, always rather fond of moping in my
 rooms and working out my own little methods of thought, so that I
 never mixed much with the men of my year. Bar fencing and boxing I
 had few athletic tastes, and then my line of study was quite distinct
 from that of the other fellows, so that we had no points of contact
 at all. Trevor was the only man I knew, and that only through the
 accident of his bull terrier freezing on to my ankle one morning as I
 went down to chapel.

 "It was a prosaic way of forming a friendship, but it was effective.
 I was laid by the heels for ten days, but Trevor used to come in to
 inquire after me. At first it was only a minute's chat, but soon his
 visits lengthened, and before the end of the term we were close
 friends. He was a hearty, full-blooded fellow, full of spirits and
 energy, the very opposite to me in most respects, but we had some
 subjects in common, and it was a bond of union when I found that he
 was as friendless as I. Finally, he invited me down to his father's
 place at Donnithorpe, in Norfolk, and I accepted his hospitality for
 a month of the long vacation.

 "Old Trevor was evidently a man of some wealth and consideration, a
 J.P., and a landed proprietor. Donnithorpe is a little hamlet just to
 the north of Langmere, in the country of the Broads. The house was an
 old-fashioned, wide-spread, oak-beamed brick building, with a fine
 lime-lined avenue leading up to it. There was excellent wild-duck
 shooting in the fens, remarkably good fishing, a small but select
 library, taken over, as I understood, from a former occupant, and a
 tolerable cook, so that he would be a fastidious man who could not
 put in a pleasant month there.

 "Trevor senior was a widower, and my friend his only son.

 "There had been a daughter, I heard, but she had died of diphtheria
 while on a visit to Birmingham. The father interested me extremely.
 He was a man of little culture, but with a considerable amount of
 rude strength, both physically and mentally. He knew hardly any
 books, but he had traveled far, had seen much of the world. And had
 remembered all that he had learned. In person he was a thick-set,
 burly man with a shock of grizzled hair, a brown, weather-beaten
 face, and blue eyes which were keen to the verge of fierceness. Yet
 he had a reputation for kindness and charity on the country-side, and
 was noted for the leniency of his sentences from the bench.

 "One evening, shortly after my arrival, we were sitting over a glass
 of port after dinner, when young Trevor began to talk about those
 habits of observation and inference which I had already formed into a
 system, although I had not yet appreciated the part which they were
 to play in my life. The old man evidently thought that his son was
 exaggerating in his description of one or two trivial feats which I
 had performed.

 "'Come, now, Mr. Holmes,' said he, laughing good-humoredly. 'I'm an
 excellent subject, if you can deduce anything from me.'

 "'I fear there is not very much,' I answered; 'I might suggest that
 you have gone about in fear of some personal attack within the last
 twelve months.'

 "The laugh faded from his lips, and he stared at me in great
 surprise.

 "'Well, that's true enough,' said he. 'You know, Victor,' turning to
 his son, 'when we broke up that poaching gang they swore to knife us,
 and Sir Edward Holly has actually been attacked. I've always been on
 my guard since then, though I have no idea how you know it.'

 "'You have a very handsome stick,' I answered. 'By the inscription I
 observed that you had not had it more than a year. But you have taken
 some pains to bore the head of it and pour melted lead into the hole
 so as to make it a formidable weapon. I argued that you would not
 take such precautions unless you had some danger to fear.'

 "'Anything else?' he asked, smiling.

 "'You have boxed a good deal in your youth.'

 "'Right again. How did you know it?  Is my nose knocked a little out
 of the straight?'

 "'No,' said I. 'It is your ears. They have the peculiar flattening
 and thickening which marks the boxing man.'

 "'Anything else?'

 "'You have done a good deal of digging by your callosities.'

 "'Made all my money at the gold fields.'

 "'You have been in New Zealand.'

 "'Right again.'

 "'You have visited Japan.'

 "'Quite true.'

 "'And you have been most intimately associated with some one whose
 initials were J. A., and whom you afterwards were eager to entirely
 forget.'

 "Mr. Trevor stood slowly up, fixed his large blue eyes upon me with a
 strange wild stare, and then pitched forward, with his face among the
 nutshells which strewed the cloth, in a dead faint.

 "You can imagine, Watson, how shocked both his son and I were. His
 attack did not last long, however, for when we undid his collar, and
 sprinkled the water from one of the finger-glasses over his face, he
 gave a gasp or two and sat up.

 "'Ah, boys,' said he, forcing a smile, 'I hope I haven't frightened
 you. Strong as I look, there is a weak place in my heart, and it does
 not take much to knock me over. I don't know how you manage this, Mr.
 Holmes, but it seems to me that all the detectives of fact and of
 fancy would be children in your hands. That's your line of life, sir,
 and you may take the word of a man who has seen something of the
 world.'

 "And that recommendation, with the exaggerated estimate of my ability
 with which he prefaced it, was, if you will believe me, Watson, the
 very first thing which ever made me feel that a profession might be
 made out of what had up to that time been the merest hobby. At the
 moment, however, I was too much concerned at the sudden illness of my
 host to think of anything else.

 "'I hope that I have said nothing to pain you?' said I.

 "'Well, you certainly touched upon rather a tender point. Might I ask
 how you know, and how much you know?' He spoke now in a half-jesting
 fashion, but a look of terror still lurked at the back of his eyes.

 "'It is simplicity itself,' said I. 'When you bared your arm to draw
 that fish into the boat I saw that J. A. had been tattooed in the
 bend of the elbow. The letters were still legible, but it was
 perfectly clear from their blurred appearance, and from the staining
 of the skin round them, that efforts had been made to obliterate
 them. It was obvious, then, that those initials had once been very
 familiar to you, and that you had afterwards wished to forget them.'

 "'What an eye you have!' he cried, with a sigh of relief. 'It is just
 as you say. But we won't talk of it. Of all ghosts the ghosts of our
 old lovers are the worst. Come into the billiard-room and have a
 quiet cigar.'

 "From that day, amid all his cordiality, there was always a touch of
 suspicion in Mr. Trevor's manner towards me. Even his son remarked
 it. 'You've given the governor such a turn,' said he, 'that he'll
 never be sure again of what you know and what you don't know.' He did
 not mean to show it, I am sure, but it was so strongly in his mind
 that it peeped out at every action. At last I became so convinced
 that I was causing him uneasiness that I drew my visit to a close. On
 the very day, however, before I left, an incident occurred which
 proved in the sequel to be of importance.

 "We were sitting out upon the lawn on garden chairs, the three of us,
 basking in the sun and admiring the view across the Broads, when a
 maid came out to say that there was a man at the door who wanted to
 see Mr. Trevor.

 "'What is his name?' asked my host.

 "'He would not give any.'

 "'What does he want, then?'

 "'He says that you know him, and that he only wants a moment's
 conversation.'

 "'Show him round here.' An instant afterwards there appeared a little
 wizened fellow with a cringing manner and a shambling style of
 walking. He wore an open jacket, with a splotch of tar on the sleeve,
 a red-and-black check shirt, dungaree trousers, and heavy boots badly
 worn. His face was thin and brown and crafty, with a perpetual smile
 upon it, which showed an irregular line of yellow teeth, and his
 crinkled hands were half closed in a way that is distinctive of
 sailors. As he came slouching across the lawn I heard Mr. Trevor make
 a sort of hiccoughing noise in his throat, and jumping out of his
 chair, he ran into the house. He was back in a moment, and I smelt a
 strong reek of brandy as he passed me.

 "'Well, my man,' said he. 'What can I do for you?'

 "The sailor stood looking at him with puckered eyes, and with the
 same loose-lipped smile upon his face.

 "'You don't know me?' he asked.

 "'Why, dear me, it is surely Hudson,' said Mr. Trevor in a tone of
 surprise.

 "'Hudson it is, sir,' said the seaman. 'Why, it's thirty year and
 more since I saw you last. Here you are in your house, and me still
 picking my salt meat out of the harness cask.'

 "'Tut, you will find that I have not forgotten old times,' cried Mr.
 Trevor, and, walking towards the sailor, he said something in a low
 voice. 'Go into the kitchen,' he continued out loud, 'and you will
 get food and drink. I have no doubt that I shall find you a
 situation.'

 "'Thank you, sir,' said the seaman, touching his fore-lock. 'I'm just
 off a two-yearer in an eight-knot tramp, short-handed at that, and I
 wants a rest. I thought I'd get it either with Mr. Beddoes or with
 you.'

 "'Ah!' cried Trevor. 'You know where Mr. Beddoes is?'

 "'Bless you, sir, I know where all my old friends are,' said the
 fellow with a sinister smile, and he slouched off after the maid to
 the kitchen. Mr. Trevor mumbled something to us about having been
 shipmate with the man when he was going back to the diggings, and
 then, leaving us on the lawn, he went indoors. An hour later, when we
 entered the house, we found him stretched dead drunk upon the
 dining-room sofa. The whole incident left a most ugly impression upon
 my mind, and I was not sorry next day to leave Donnithorpe behind me,
 for I felt that my presence must be a source of embarrassment to my
 friend.

 "All this occurred during the first month of the long vacation. I
 went up to my London rooms, where I spent seven weeks working out a
 few experiments in organic chemistry. One day, however, when the
 autumn was far advanced and the vacation drawing to a close, I
 received a telegram from my friend imploring me to return to
 Donnithorpe, and saying that he was in great need of my advice and
 assistance. Of course I dropped everything and set out for the North
 once more.

 "He met me with the dog-cart at the station, and I saw at a glance
 that the last two months had been very trying ones for him. He had
 grown thin and careworn, and had lost the loud, cheery manner for
 which he had been remarkable.

 "'The governor is dying,' were the first words he said.

 "'Impossible!' I cried. 'What is the matter?'

 "'Apoplexy. Nervous shock, He's been on the verge all day. I doubt if
 we shall find him alive.'

 "I was, as you may think, Watson, horrified at this unexpected news.

 "'What has caused it?' I asked.

 "'Ah, that is the point. Jump in and we can talk it over while we
 drive. You remember that fellow who came upon the evening before you
 left us?'

 "'Perfectly.'

 "'Do you know who it was that we let into the house that day?'

 "'I have no idea.'

 "'It was the devil, Holmes,' he cried.

 "I stared at him in astonishment.

 "'Yes, it was the devil himself. We have not had a peaceful hour
 since--not one. The governor has never held up his head from that
 evening, and now the life has been crushed out of him and his heart
 broken, all through this accursed Hudson.'

 "'What power had he, then?'

 "'Ah, that is what I would give so much to know. The kindly,
 charitable, good old governor--how could he have fallen into the
 clutches of such a ruffian! But I am so glad that you have come,
 Holmes. I trust very much to your judgment and discretion, and I know
 that you will advise me for the best.'

 "We were dashing along the smooth white country road, with the long
 stretch of the Broads in front of us glimmering in the red light of
 the setting sun. From a grove upon our left I could already see the
 high chimneys and the flag-staff which marked the squire's dwelling.

 "'My father made the fellow gardener,' said my companion, 'and then,
 as that did not satisfy him, he was promoted to be butler. The house
 seemed to be at his mercy, and he wandered about and did what he
 chose in it. The maids complained of his drunken habits and his vile
 language. The dad raised their wages all round to recompense them for
 the annoyance. The fellow would take the boat and my father's best
 gun and treat himself to little shooting trips. And all this with
 such a sneering, leering, insolent face that I would have knocked him
 down twenty times over if he had been a man of my own age. I tell
 you, Holmes, I have had to keep a tight hold upon myself all this
 time; and now I am asking myself whether, if I had let myself go a
 little more, I might not have been a wiser man.

 "'Well, matters went from bad to worse with us, and this animal
 Hudson became more and more intrusive, until at last, on making some
 insolent reply to my father in my presence one day, I took him by the
 shoulders and turned him out of the room. He slunk away with a livid
 face and two venomous eyes which uttered more threats than his tongue
 could do. I don't know what passed between the poor dad and him after
 that, but the dad came to me next day and asked me whether I would
 mind apologizing to Hudson. I refused, as you can imagine, and asked
 my father how he could allow such a wretch to take such liberties
 with himself and his household.

 "'"Ah, my boy," said he, "it is all very well to talk, but you don't
 know how I am placed. But you shall know, Victor. I'll see that you
 shall know, come what may. You wouldn't believe harm of your poor old
 father, would you, lad?" He was very much moved, and shut himself up
 in the study all day, where I could see through the window that he
 was writing busily.

 "'That evening there came what seemed to me to be a grand release,
 for Hudson told us that he was going to leave us. He walked into the
 dining-room as we sat after dinner, and announced his intention in
 the thick voice of a half-drunken man.

 "'"I've had enough of Norfolk," said he. "I'll run down to Mr.
 Beddoes in Hampshire. He'll be as glad to see me as you were, I dare
 say."

 "'"You're not going away in any kind of spirit, Hudson, I hope," said
 my father, with a tameness which mad my blood boil.

 "'"I've not had my 'pology," said he sulkily, glancing in my
 direction.

 "'"Victor, you will acknowledge that you have used this worthy fellow
 rather roughly," said the dad, turning to me.

 "'"On the contrary, I think that we have both shown extraordinary
 patience towards him," I answered.

 "'"Oh, you do, do you?" he snarls. "Very good, mate. We'll see about
 that!"

 "'He slouched out of the room, and half an hour afterwards left the
 house, leaving my father in a state of pitiable nervousness. Night
 after night I heard him pacing his room, and it was just as he was
 recovering his confidence that the blow did at last fall.'

 "'And how?' I asked eagerly.

 "'In a most extraordinary fashion. A letter arrived for my father
 yesterday evening, bearing the Fordingbridge post-mark. My father
 read it, clapped both his hands to his head, and began running round
 the room in little circles like a man who has been driven out of his
 senses. When I at last drew him down on to the sofa, his mouth and
 eyelids were all puckered on one side, and I saw that he had a
 stroke. Dr. Fordham came over at once. We put him to bed; but the
 paralysis has spread, he has shown no sign of returning
 consciousness, and I think that we shall hardly find him alive.'

 "'You horrify me, Trevor!' I cried. 'What then could have been in
 this letter to cause so dreadful a result?'

 "'Nothing. There lies the inexplicable part of it. The message was
 absurd and trivial. Ah, my God, it is as I feared!'

 "As he spoke we came round the curve of the avenue, and saw in the
 fading light that every blind in the house had been drawn down. As we
 dashed up to the door, my friend's face convulsed with grief, a
 gentleman in black emerged from it.

 "'When did it happen, doctor?' asked Trevor.

 "'Almost immediately after you left.'

 "'Did he recover consciousness?'

 "'For an instant before the end.'

 "'Any message for me?'

 "'Only that the papers were in the back drawer of the Japanese
 cabinet.'

 "My friend ascended with the doctor to the chamber of death, while I
 remained in the study, turning the whole matter over and over in my
 head, and feeling as sombre as ever I had done in my life. What was
 the past of this Trevor, pugilist, traveler, and gold-digger, and how
 had he placed himself in the power of this acid-faced seaman?  Why,
 too, should he faint at an allusion to the half-effaced initials upon
 his arm, and die of fright when he had a letter from Fordingham? 
 Then I remembered that Fordingham was in Hampshire, and that this Mr.
 Beddoes, whom the seaman had gone to visit and presumably to
 blackmail, had also been mentioned as living in Hampshire. The
 letter, then, might either come from Hudson, the seaman, saying that
 he had betrayed the guilty secret which appeared to exist, or it
 might come from Beddoes, warning an old confederate that such a
 betrayal was imminent. So far it seemed clear enough. But then how
 could this letter be trivial and grotesque, as described by the son? 
 He must have misread it. If so, it must have been one of those
 ingenious secret codes which mean one thing while they seem to mean
 another. I must see this letter. If there were a hidden meaning in
 it, I was confident that I could pluck it forth. For an hour I sat
 pondering over it in the gloom, until at last a weeping maid brought
 in a lamp, and close at her heels came my friend Trevor, pale but
 composed, with these very papers which lie upon my knee held in his
 grasp. He sat down opposite to me, drew the lamp to the edge of the
 table, and handed me a short note scribbled, as you see, upon a
 single sheet of gray paper. 'The supply of game for London is going
 steadily up,' it ran. 'Head-keeper Hudson, we believe, has been now
 told to receive all orders for fly-paper and for preservation of your
 hen-pheasant's life.'

 "I dare say my face looked as bewildered as yours did just now when
 first I read this message. Then I reread it very carefully. It was
 evidently as I had thought, and some secret meaning must lie buried
 in this strange combination of words. Or could it be that there was a
 prearranged significance to such phrases as 'fly-paper' and
 'hen-pheasant'?  Such a meaning would be arbitrary and could not be
 deduced in any way. And yet I was loath to believe that this was the
 case, and the presence of the word Hudson seemed to show that the
 subject of the message was as I had guessed, and that it was from
 Beddoes rather than the sailor. I tried it backwards, but the
 combination 'life pheasant's hen' was not encouraging. Then I tried
 alternate words, but neither 'the of for' nor 'supply game London'
 promised to throw any light upon it.

 "And then in an instant the key of the riddle was in my hands, and I
 saw that every third word, beginning with the first, would give a
 message which might well drive old Trevor to despair.

 "It was short and terse, the warning, as I now read it to my
 companion:

 "'The game is up. Hudson has told all. Fly for your life.'

 "Victor Trevor sank his face into his shaking hands, 'It must be
 that, I suppose,' said he. "This is worse than death, for it means
 disgrace as well. But what is the meaning of these "head-keepers" and
 "hen-pheasants"?

 "'It means nothing to the message, but it might mean a good deal to
 us if we had no other means of discovering the sender. You see that
 he has begun by writing "The ... game ... is," and so on. Afterwards
 he had, to fulfill the prearranged cipher, to fill in any two words
 in each space. He would naturally use the first words which came to
 his mind, and if there were so many which referred to sport among
 them, you may be tolerably sure that he is either an ardent shot or
 interested in breeding. Do you know anything of this Beddoes?'

 "'Why, now that you mention it,' said he, 'I remember that my poor
 father used to have an invitation from him to shoot over his
 preserves every autumn.'

 "'Then it is undoubtedly from him that the note comes,' said I. 'It
 only remains for us to find out what this secret was which the sailor
 Hudson seems to have held over the heads of these two wealthy and
 respected men.'

 "'Alas, Holmes, I fear that it is one of sin and shame!' cried my
 friend. 'But from you I shall have no secrets. Here is the statement
 which was drawn up by my father when he knew that the danger from
 Hudson had become imminent. I found it in the Japanese cabinet, as he
 told the doctor. Take it and read it to me, for I have neither the
 strength nor the courage to do it myself.'

 "These are the very papers, Watson, which he handed to me, and I will
 read them to you, as I read them in the old study that night to him.
 They are endorsed outside, as you see, 'Some particulars of the
 voyage of the bark Gloria Scott, from her leaving Falmouth on the 8th
 October, 1855, to her destruction in N. Lat. 15Â° 20', W. Long. 25Â°
 14' on Nov. 6th.' It is in the form of a letter, and runs in this
 way:

 "'My dear, dear son, now that approaching disgrace begins to darken
 the closing years of my life, I can write with all truth and honesty
 that it is not the terror of the law, it is not the loss of my
 position in the county, nor is it my fall in the eyes of all who have
 known me, which cuts me to the heart; but it is the thought that you
 should come to blush for me--you who love me and who have seldom, I
 hope, had reason to do other than respect me. But if the blow falls
 which is forever hanging over me, then I should wish you to read
 this, that you may know straight from me how far I have been to
 blame. On the other hand, if all should go well (which may kind God
 Almighty grant!), then if by any chance this paper should be still
 undestroyed and should fall into your hands, I conjure you, by all
 you hold sacred, by the memory of your dear mother, and by the love
 which had been between us, to hurl it into the fire and to never give
 one thought to it again.

 "'If then your eye goes onto read this line, I know that I shall
 already have been exposed and dragged from my home, or as is more
 likely, for you know that my heart is weak, by lying with my tongue
 sealed forever in death. In either case the time for suppression is
 past, and every word which I tell you is the naked truth, and this I
 swear as I hope for mercy.

 "'My name, dear lad, is not Trevor. I was James Armitage in my
 younger days, and you can understand now the shock that it was to me
 a few weeks ago when your college friend addressed me in words which
 seemed to imply that he had surprised my secret. As Armitage it was
 that I entered a London banking-house, and as Armitage I was
 convicted of breaking my country's laws, and was sentenced to
 transportation. Do not think very harshly of me, laddie. It was a
 debt of honor, so called, which I had to pay, and I used money which
 was not my own to do it, in the certainty that I could replace it
 before there could be any possibility of its being missed. But the
 most dreadful ill-luck pursued me. The money which I had reckoned
 upon never came to hand, and a premature examination of accounts
 exposed my deficit. The case might have been dealt leniently with,
 but the laws were more harshly administered thirty years ago than
 now, and on my twenty-third birthday I found myself chained as a
 felon with thirty-seven other convicts in 'tween-decks of the bark
 Gloria Scott, bound for Australia.

 "'It was the year '55 when the Crimean war was at its height, and the
 old convict ships had been largely used as transports in the Black
 Sea. The government was compelled, therefore, to use smaller and less
 suitable vessels for sending out their prisoners. The Gloria Scott
 had been in the Chinese tea-trade, but she was an old-fashioned,
 heavy-bowed, broad-beamed craft, and the new clippers had cut her
 out. She was a five-hundred-ton boat; and besides her thirty-eight
 jail-birds, she carried twenty-six of a crew, eighteen soldiers, a
 captain, three mates, a doctor, a chaplain, and four warders. Nearly
 a hundred souls were in her, all told, when we set sail from
 Falmouth.

 "'The partitions between the cells of the convicts, instead of being
 of thick oak, as is usual in convict-ships, were quite thin and
 frail. The man next to me, upon the aft side, was one whom I had
 particularly noticed when we were led down the quay. He was a young
 man with a clear, hairless face, a long, thin nose, and rather
 nut-cracker jaws. He carried his head very jauntily in the air, had a
 swaggering style of walking, and was, above all else, remarkable for
 his extraordinary height. I don't think any of our heads would have
 come up to his shoulder, and I am sure that he could not have
 measured less than six and a half feet. It was strange among so many
 sad and weary faces to see one which was full of energy and
 resolution. The sight of it was to me like a fire in a snow-storm. I
 was glad, then, to find that he was my neighbor, and gladder still
 when, in the dead of the night, I heard a whisper close to my ear,
 and found that he had managed to cut an opening in the board which
 separated us.

 "'"Hullo, chummy!" said he, "what's your name, and what are you here
 for?"

 "'I answered him, and asked in turn who I was talking with.

 "'"I'm Jack Prendergast," said he, "and by God! You'll learn to bless
 my name before you've done with me."

 "'I remembered hearing of his case, for it was one which had made an
 immense sensation throughout the country some time before my own
 arrest. He was a man of good family and of great ability, but of
 incurably vicious habits, who had, by an ingenious system of fraud,
 obtained huge sums of money from the leading London merchants.

 "'"Ha, ha! You remember my case!" said he proudly.

 "'"Very well, indeed."

 "'"Then maybe you remember something queer about it?"

 "'"What was that, then?"

 "'"I'd had nearly a quarter of a million, hadn't I?"

 "'"So it was said."

 "'"But none was recovered, eh?"

 "'"No."

 "'"Well, where d'ye suppose the balance is?" he asked.

 "'"I have no idea," said I.

 "'"Right between my finger and thumb," he cried. "By God! I've got
 more pounds to my name than you've hairs on your head. And if you've
 money, my son, and know how to handle it and spread it, you can do
 anything. Now, you don't think it likely that a man who could do
 anything is going to wear his breeches out sitting in the stinking
 hold of a rat-gutted, beetle-ridden, mouldy old coffin of a Chin
 China coaster. No, sir, such a man will look after himself and will
 look after his chums. You may lay to that! You hold on to him, and
 you may kiss the book that he'll haul you through."

 "'That was his style of talk, and at first I thought it meant
 nothing; but after a while, when he had tested me and sworn me in
 with all possible solemnity, he let me understand that there really
 was a plot to gain command of the vessel. A dozen of the prisoners
 had hatched it before they came aboard, Prendergast was the leader,
 and his money was the motive power.

 "'"I'd a partner," said he, "a rare good man, as true as a stock to a
 barrel. He's got the dibbs, he has, and where do you think he is at
 this moment?  Why, he's the chaplain of this ship--the chaplain, no
 less! He came aboard with a black coat, and his papers right, and
 money enough in his box to buy the thing right up from keel to
 main-truck. The crew are his, body and soul. He could buy 'em at so
 much a gross with a cash discount, and he did it before ever they
 signed on. He's got two of the warders and Mercer, the second mate,
 and he'd get the captain himself, if he thought him worth it."

 "'"What are we to do, then?" I asked.

 "'"What do you think?" said he. "We'll make the coats of some of
 these soldiers redder than ever the tailor did."

 "'"But they are armed," said I.

 "'"And so shall we be, my boy. There's a brace of pistols for every
 mother's son of us, and if we can't carry this ship, with the crew at
 our back, it's time we were all sent to a young misses'
 boarding-school. You speak to your mate upon the left to-night, and
 see if he is to be trusted."

 "'I did so, and found my other neighbor to be a young fellow in much
 the same position as myself, whose crime had been forgery. His name
 was Evans, but he afterwards changed it, like myself, and he is now a
 rich and prosperous man in the south of England. He was ready enough
 to join the conspiracy, as the only means of saving ourselves, and
 before we had crossed the Bay there were only two of the prisoners
 who were not in the secret. One of these was of weak mind, and we did
 not dare to trust him, and the other was suffering from jaundice, and
 could not be of any use to us.

 "'From the beginning there was really nothing to prevent us from
 taking possession of the ship. The crew were a set of ruffians,
 specially picked for the job. The sham chaplain came into our cells
 to exhort us, carrying a black bag, supposed to be full of tracts,
 and so often did he come that by the third day we had each stowed
 away at the foot of our beds a file, a brace of pistols, a pound of
 powder, and twenty slugs. Two of the warders were agents of
 Prendergast, and the second mate was his right-hand man. The captain,
 the two mates, two warders Lieutenant Martin, his eighteen soldiers,
 and the doctor were all that we had against us. Yet, safe as it was,
 we determined to neglect no precaution, and to make our attack
 suddenly by night. It came, however, more quickly than we expected,
 and in this way.

 "'One evening, about the third week after our start, the doctor had
 come down to see one of the prisoners who was ill, and putting his
 hand down on the bottom of his bunk he felt the outline of the
 pistols. If he had been silent he might have blown the whole thing,
 but he was a nervous little chap, so he gave a cry of surprise and
 turned so pale that the man knew what was up in an instant and seized
 him. He was gagged before he could give the alarm, and tied down upon
 the bed. He had unlocked the door that led to the deck, and we were
 through it in a rush. The two sentries were shot down, and so was a
 corporal who came running to see what was the matter. There were two
 more soldiers at the door of the state-room, and their muskets seemed
 not to be loaded, for they never fired upon us, and they were shot
 while trying to fix their bayonets. Then we rushed on into the
 captain's cabin, but as we pushed open the door there was an
 explosion from within, and there he lay with his brains smeared over
 the chart of the Atlantic which was pinned upon the table, while the
 chaplain stood with a smoking pistol in his hand at his elbow. The
 two mates had both been seized by the crew, and the whole business
 seemed to be settled.

 "'The state-room was next the cabin, and we flocked in there and
 flopped down on the settees, all speaking together, for we were just
 mad with the feeling that we were free once more. There were lockers
 all round, and Wilson, the sham chaplain, knocked one of them in, and
 pulled out a dozen of brown sherry. We cracked off the necks of the
 bottles, poured the stuff out into tumblers, and were just tossing
 them off, when in an instant without warning there came the roar of
 muskets in our ears, and the saloon was so full of smoke that we
 could not see across the table. When it cleared again the place was a
 shambles. Wilson and eight others were wriggling on the top of each
 other on the floor, and the blood and the brown sherry on that table
 turn me sick now when I think of it. We were so cowed by the sight
 that I think we should have given the job up if had not been for
 Prendergast. He bellowed like a bull and rushed for the door with all
 that were left alive at his heels. Out we ran, and there on the poop
 were the lieutenent and ten of his men. The swing skylights above the
 saloon table had been a bit open, and they had fired on us through
 the slit.  We got on them before they could load, and they stood to
 it like men; but we had the upper hand of them, and in five minutes
 it was all over. My God! Was there ever a slaughter-house like that
 ship! Predergast was like a raging devil, and he picked the soldiers
 up as if they had been children and threw them overboard alive or
 dead. There was one sergeant that was horribly wounded and yet kept
 on swimming for a surprising time, until some one in mercy blew out
 his brains. When the fighting was over there was no one left of our
 enemies except just the warders, the mates, and the doctor.

 "'It was over them that the great quarrel arose. There were many of
 us who were glad enough to win back our freedom, and yet who had no
 wish to have murder on our souls. It was one thing to knock the
 soldiers over with their muskets in their hands, and it was another
 to stand by while men were being killed in cold blood. Eight of us,
 five convicts and three sailors, said that we would not see it done.
 But there was no moving Predergast and those who were with him. Our
 only chance of safety lay in making a clean job of it, said he, and
 he would not leave a tongue with power to wag in a witness-box. It
 nearly came to our sharing the fate of the prisoners, but at last he
 said that if we wished we might take a boat and go. We jumped at the
 offer, for we were already sick of these blookthirsty doings, and we
 saw that there would be worse before it was done. We were given a
 suit of sailor togs each, a barrel of water, two casks, one of junk
 and one of biscuits, and a compass. Prendergast threw us over a
 chart, told us that we were shipwrecked mariners whose ship had
 foundered in Lat. 15Â° and Long. 25Â° west, and then cut the painter
 and let us go.

 "'And now I come to the most surprising part of my story, my dear
 son. The seamen had hauled the fore-yard aback during the rising, but
 now as we left them they brought it square again, and as there was a
 light wind from the north and east the bark began to draw slowly away
 from us. Our boat lay, rising and falling, upon the long, smooth
 rollers, and Evans and I, who were the most educated of the party,
 were sitting in the sheets working out our position and planning what
 coast we should make for. It was a nice question, for the Cape de
 Verds were about five hundred miles to the north of us, and the
 African coast about seven hundred to the east. On the whole, as the
 wind was coming round to the north, we thought that Sierra Leone
 might be best, and turned our head in that direction, the bark being
 at that time nearly hull down on our starboard quarter. Suddenly as
 we looked at her we saw a dense black cloud of smoke shoot up from
 her, which hung like a monstrous tree upon the sky line. A few
 seconds later a roar like thunder burst upon our ears, and as the
 smoke thinned away there was no sign left of the Gloria Scott. In an
 instant we swept the boat's head round again and pulled with all our
 strength for the place where the haze still trailing over the water
 marked the scene of this catastrophe.

 "'It was a long hour before we reached it, and at first we feared
 that we had come too late to save any one. A splintered boat and a
 number of crates and fragments of spars rising and falling on the
 waves showed us where the vessel had foundered; but there was no sign
 of life, and we had turned away in despair when we heard a cry for
 help, and saw at some distance a piece of wreckage with a man lying
 stretched across it. When we pulled him aboard the boat he proved to
 be a young seaman of the name of Hudson, who was so burned and
 exhausted that he could give us no account of what had happened until
 the following morning.

 "'It seemed that after we had left, Prendergast and his gang had
 proceeded to put to death the five remaining prisoners. The two
 warders had been shot and thrown overboard, and so also had the third
 mate. Prendergast then descended into the 'tween-decks and with his
 own hands cut the throat of the unfortunate surgeon. There only
 remained the first mate, who was a bold and active man. When he saw
 the convict approaching him with the bloody knife in his hand he
 kicked off his bonds, which he had somehow contrived to loosen, and
 rushing down the deck he plunged into the after-hold. A dozen
 convicts, who descended with their pistols in search of him, found
 him with a match-box in his hand seated beside an open powder-barrel,
 which was one of a hundred carried on board, and swearing that he
 would blow all hands up if he were in any way molested. An instant
 later the explosion occurred, though Hudson thought it was caused by
 the misdirected bullet of one of the convicts rather than the mate's
 match. Be the cause what I may, it was the end of the Gloria Scott
 and of the rabble who held command of her.

 "'Such, in a few words, my dear boy, is the history of this terrible
 business in which I was involved. Next day we were picked up by the
 brig Hotspur, bound for Australia, whose captain found no difficulty
 in believing that we were the survivors of a passenger ship which had
 foundered. The transport ship Gloria Scott was set down by the
 Admiralty as being lost at sea, and no word has ever leaked out as to
 her true fate. After an excellent voyage the Hotspur landed us at
 Sydney, where Evans and I changed our names and made our way to the
 diggings, where, among the crowds who were gathered from all nations,
 we had no difficulty in losing our former identities. The rest I need
 not relate. We prospered, we traveled, we came back as rich colonials
 to England, and we bought country estates. For more than twenty years
 we have led peaceful and useful lives, and we hoped that our past was
 forever buried. Imagine, then, my feelings when in the seaman who
 came to us I recognized instantly the man who had been picked off the
 wreck. He had tracked us down somehow, and had set himself to live
 upon our fears. You will understand now how it was that I strove to
 keep the peace with him, and you will in some measure sympathize with
 me in the fears which fill me, now that he has gone from me to his
 other victim with threats upon his tongue.'

 "Underneath is written in a hand so shaky as to be hardly legible,
 'Beddoes writes in cipher to say H. has told all. Sweet Lord, have
 mercy on our souls!'

 "That was the narrative which I read that night to young Trevor, and
 I think, Watson, that under the circumstances it was a dramatic one.
 The good fellow was heart-broken at it, and went out to the Terai tea
 planting, where I hear that he is doing well. As to the sailor and
 Beddoes, neither of them was ever heard of again after that day on
 which the letter of warning was written. They both disappeared
 utterly and completely. No complaint had been lodged with the police,
 so that Beddoes had mistaken a threat for a deed. Hudson had been
 seen lurking about, and it was believed by the police that he had
 done away with Beddoes and had fled. For myself I believe that the
 truth was exactly the opposite. I think that it is most probable that
 Beddoes, pushed to desperation and believing himself to have been
 already betrayed, had revenged himself upon Hudson, and had fled from
 the country with as much money as he could lay his hands on. Those
 are the facts of the case, Doctor, and if they are of any use to your
 collection, I am sure that they are very heartily at your service."






                           THE MUSGRAVE RITUAL

 An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend
 Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he was
 the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although also he
 affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the less in
 his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever drove a
 fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least conventional
 in that respect myself. The rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan,
 coming on the top of a natural Bohemianism of disposition, has made
 me rather more lax than befits a medical man. But with me there is a
 limit, and when I find a man who keeps his cigars in the
 coal-scuttle, his tobacco in the toe end of a Persian slipper, and
 his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the
 very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself
 virtuous airs. I have always held, too, that pistol practice should
 be distinctly an open-air pastime; and when Holmes, in one of his
 queer humors, would sit in an arm-chair with his hair-trigger and a
 hundred Boxer cartridges, and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with
 a patriotic V. R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that neither
 the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room was improved by it.

 Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics
 which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of turning
 up in the butter-dish or in even less desirable places. But his
 papers were my great crux. He had a horror of destroying documents,
 especially those which were connected with his past cases, and yet it
 was only once in every year or two that he would muster energy to
 docket and arrange them; for, as I have mentioned somewhere in these
 incoherent memoirs, the outbursts of passionate energy when he
 performed the remarkable feats with which his name is associated were
 followed by reactions of lethargy during which he would lie about
 with his violin and his books, hardly moving save from the sofa to
 the table. Thus month after month his papers accumulated, until every
 corner of the room was stacked with bundles of manuscript which were
 on no account to be burned, and which could not be put away save by
 their owner. One winter's night, as we sat together by the fire, I
 ventured to suggest to him that, as he had finished pasting extracts
 into his common-place book, he might employ the next two hours in
 making our room a little more habitable. He could not deny the
 justice of my request, so with a rather rueful face he went off to
 his bedroom, from which he returned presently pulling a large tin box
 behind him. This he placed in the middle of the floor and, squatting
 down upon a stool in front of it, he threw back the lid. I could see
 that it was already a third full of bundles of paper tied up with red
 tape into separate packages.

 "There are cases enough here, Watson," said he, looking at me with
 mischievous eyes. "I think that if you knew all that I had in this
 box you would ask me to pull some out instead of putting others in."

 "These are the records of your early work, then?" I asked. "I have
 often wished that I had notes of those cases."

 "Yes, my boy, these were all done prematurely before my biographer
 had come to glorify me." He lifted bundle after bundle in a tender,
 caressing sort of way. "They are not all successes, Watson," said he.
 "But there are some pretty little problems among them. Here's the
 record of the Tarleton murders, and the case of Vamberry, the wine
 merchant, and the adventure of the old Russian woman, and the
 singular affair of the aluminium crutch, as well as a full account of
 Ricoletti of the club-foot, and his abominable wife. And here--ah,
 now, this really is something a little recherchÃ©."

 He dived his arm down to the bottom of the chest, and brought up a
 small wooden box with a sliding lid, such as children's toys are kept
 in. From within he produced a crumpled piece of paper, an
 old-fashioned brass key, a peg of wood with a ball of string attached
 to it, and three rusty old disks of metal.

 "Well, my boy, what do you make of this lot?" he asked, smiling at my
 expression.

 "It is a curious collection."

 "Very curious, and the story that hangs round it will strike you as
 being more curious still."

 "These relics have a history then?"

 "So much so that they are history."

 "What do you mean by that?"

 Sherlock Holmes picked them up one by one, and laid them along the
 edge of the table. Then he reseated himself in his chair and looked
 them over with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

 "These," said he, "are all that I have left to remind me of the
 adventure of the Musgrave Ritual."

 I had heard him mention the case more than once, though I had never
 been able to gather the details. "I should be so glad," said I, "if
 you would give me an account of it."

 "And leave the litter as it is?" he cried, mischievously. "Your
 tidiness won't bear much strain after all, Watson. But I should be
 glad that you should add this case to your annals, for there are
 points in it which make it quite unique in the criminal records of
 this or, I believe, of any other country. A collection of my trifling
 achievements would certainly be incomplete which contained no account
 of this very singular business.

 "You may remember how the affair of the Gloria Scott, and my
 conversation with the unhappy man whose fate I told you of, first
 turned my attention in the direction of the profession which has
 become my life's work. You see me now when my name has become known
 far and wide, and when I am generally recognized both by the public
 and by the official force as being a final court of appeal in
 doubtful cases. Even when you knew me first, at the time of the
 affair which you have commemorated in 'A Study in Scarlet,' I had
 already established a considerable, though not a very lucrative,
 connection. You can hardly realize, then, how difficult I found it at
 first, and how long I had to wait before I succeeded in making any
 headway.

 "When I first came up to London I had rooms in Montague Street, just
 round the corner from the British Museum, and there I waited, filling
 in my too abundant leisure time by studying all those branches of
 science which might make me more efficient. Now and again cases came
 in my way, principally through the introduction of old
 fellow-students, for during my last years at the University there was
 a good deal of talk there about myself and my methods. The third of
 these cases was that of the Musgrave Ritual, and it is to the
 interest which was aroused by that singular chain of events, and the
 large issues which proved to be at stake, that I trace my first
 stride towards the position which I now hold.

 "Reginald Musgrave had been in the same college as myself, and I had
 some slight acquaintance with him. He was not generally popular among
 the undergraduates, though it always seemed to me that what was set
 down as pride was really an attempt to cover extreme natural
 diffidence. In appearance he was a man of exceedingly aristocratic
 type, thin, high-nosed, and large-eyed, with languid and yet courtly
 manners. He was indeed a scion of one of the very oldest families in
 the kingdom, though his branch was a cadet one which had separated
 from the northern Musgraves some time in the sixteenth century, and
 had established itself in western Sussex, where the Manor House of
 Hurlstone is perhaps the oldest inhabited building in the county.
 Something of his birth place seemed to cling to the man, and I never
 looked at his pale, keen face or the poise of his head without
 associating him with gray archways and mullioned windows and all the
 venerable wreckage of a feudal keep. Once or twice we drifted into
 talk, and I can remember that more than once he expressed a keen
 interest in my methods of observation and inference.

 "For four years I had seen nothing of him until one morning he walked
 into my room in Montague Street. He had changed little, was dressed
 like a young man of fashion--he was always a bit of a dandy--and
 preserved the same quiet, suave manner which had formerly
 distinguished him.

 "'How has all gone with you Musgrave?' I asked, after we had
 cordially shaken hands.

 "'You probably heard of my poor father's death,' said he; 'he was
 carried off about two years ago. Since then I have of course had the
 Hurlstone estates to manage, and as I am member for my district as
 well, my life has been a busy one. But I understand, Holmes, that you
 are turning to practical ends those powers with which you used to
 amaze us?'

 "'Yes,' said I, 'I have taken to living by my wits.'

 "'I am delighted to hear it, for your advice at present would be
 exceedingly valuable to me. We have had some very strange doings at
 Hurlstone, and the police have been able to throw no light upon the
 matter. It is really the most extraordinary and inexplicable
 business.'

 "You can imagine with what eagerness I listened to him, Watson, for
 the very chance for which I had been panting during all those months
 of inaction seemed to have come within my reach. In my inmost heart I
 believed that I could succeed where others failed, and now I had the
 opportunity to test myself.

 "'Pray, let me have the details,' I cried.

 "Reginald Musgrave sat down opposite to me, and lit the cigarette
 which I had pushed towards him.

 "'You must know,' said he, 'that though I am a bachelor, I have to
 keep up a considerable staff of servants at Hurlstone, for it is a
 rambling old place, and takes a good deal of looking after. I
 preserve, too, and in the pheasant months I usually have a
 house-party, so that it would not do to be short-handed. Altogether
 there are eight maids, the cook, the butler, two footmen, and a boy.
 The garden and the stables of course have a separate staff.

 "'Of these servants the one who had been longest in our service was
 Brunton the butler. He was a young school-master out of place when he
 was first taken up by my father, but he was a man of great energy and
 character, and he soon became quite invaluable in the household. He
 was a well-grown, handsome man, with a splendid forehead, and though
 he has been with us for twenty years he cannot be more than forty
 now. With his personal advantages and his extraordinary gifts--for he
 can speak several languages and play nearly every musical
 instrument--it is wonderful that he should have been satisfied so
 long in such a position, but I suppose that he was comfortable, and
 lacked energy to make any change. The butler of Hurlstone is always a
 thing that is remembered by all who visit us.

 "'But this paragon has one fault. He is a bit of a Don Juan, and you
 can imagine that for a man like him it is not a very difficult part
 to play in a quiet country district. When he was married it was all
 right, but since he has been a widower we have had no end of trouble
 with him. A few months ago we were in hopes that he was about to
 settle down again for he became engaged to Rachel Howells, our second
 house-maid; but he has thrown her over since then and taken up with
 Janet Tregellis, the daughter of the head game-keeper. Rachel--who is
 a very good girl, but of an excitable Welsh temperament--had a sharp
 touch of brain-fever, and goes about the house now--or did until
 yesterday--like a black-eyed shadow of her former self. That was our
 first drama at Hurlstone; but a second one came to drive it from our
 minds, and it was prefaced by the disgrace and dismissal of butler
 Brunton.

 "'This was how it came about. I have said that the man was
 intelligent, and this very intelligence has caused his ruin, for it
 seems to have led to an insatiable curiosity about things which did
 not in the least concern him. I had no idea of the lengths to which
 this would carry him, until the merest accident opened my eyes to it.

 "'I have said that the house is a rambling one. One day last week--on
 Thursday night, to be more exact--I found that I could not sleep,
 having foolishly taken a cup of strong cafÃ© noir after my dinner.
 After struggling against it until two in the morning, I felt that it
 was quite hopeless, so I rose and lit the candle with the intention
 of continuing a novel which I was reading. The book, however, had
 been left in the billiard-room, so I pulled on my dressing-gown and
 started off to get it.

 "'In order to reach the billiard-room I had to descend a flight of
 stairs and then to cross the head of a passage which led to the
 library and the gun-room. You can imagine my surprise when, as I
 looked down this corridor, I saw a glimmer of light coming from the
 open door of the library. I had myself extinguished the lamp and
 closed the door before coming to bed. Naturally my first thought was
 of burglars. The corridors at Hurlstone have their walls largely
 decorated with trophies of old weapons. From one of these I picked a
 battle-axe, and then, leaving my candle behind me, I crept on tiptoe
 down the passage and peeped in at the open door.

 "'Brunton, the butler, was in the library. He was sitting, fully
 dressed, in an easy-chair, with a slip of paper which looked like a
 map upon his knee, and his forehead sunk forward upon his hand in
 deep thought. I stood dumb with astonishment, watching him from the
 darkness. A small taper on the edge of the table shed a feeble light
 which sufficed to show me that he was fully dressed. Suddenly, as I
 looked, he rose from his chair, and walking over to a bureau at the
 side, he unlocked it and drew out one of the drawers. From this he
 took a paper, and returning to his seat he flattened it out beside
 the taper on the edge of the table, and began to study it with minute
 attention. My indignation at this calm examination of our family
 documents overcame me so far that I took a step forward, and Brunton,
 looking up, saw me standing in the doorway. He sprang to his feet,
 his face turned livid with fear, and he thrust into his breast the
 chart-like paper which he had been originally studying.

 "'"So!" said I. "This is how you repay the trust which we have
 reposed in you. You will leave my service to-morrow."

 "'He bowed with the look of a man who is utterly crushed, and slunk
 past me without a word. The taper was still on the table, and by its
 light I glanced to see what the paper was which Brunton had taken
 from the bureau. To my surprise it was nothing of any importance at
 all, but simply a copy of the questions and answers in the singular
 old observance called the Musgrave Ritual. It is a sort of ceremony
 peculiar to our family, which each Musgrave for centuries past has
 gone through on his coming of age--a thing of private interest, and
 perhaps of some little importance to the archaeologist, like our own
 blazonings and charges, but of no practical use whatever.'

 "'We had better come back to the paper afterwards,' said I.

 "'If you think it really necessary,' he answered, with some
 hesitation. 'To continue my statement, however: I relocked the
 bureau, using the key which Brunton had left, and I had turned to go
 when I was surprised to find that the butler had returned, and was
 standing before me.

 "'"Mr. Musgrave, sir," he cried, in a voice which was hoarse with
 emotion, "I can't bear disgrace, sir. I've always been proud above my
 station in life, and disgrace would kill me. My blood will be on your
 head, sir--it will, indeed--if you drive me to despair. If you cannot
 keep me after what has passed, then for God's sake let me give you
 notice and leave in a month, as if of my own free will. I could stand
 that, Mr. Musgrave, but not to be cast out before all the folk that I
 know so well."

 "'"You don't deserve much consideration, Brunton," I answered. "Your
 conduct has been most infamous. However, as you have been a long time
 in the family, I have no wish to bring public disgrace upon you. A
 month, however is too long. Take yourself away in a week, and give
 what reason you like for going."

 "'"Only a week, sir?" he cried, in a despairing voice. "A
 fortnight--say at least a fortnight!"

 "'"A week," I repeated, "and you may consider yourself to have been
 very leniently dealt with."

 "'He crept away, his face sunk upon his breast, like a broken man,
 while I put out the light and returned to my room.

 "'For two days after this Brunton was most assiduous in his attention
 to his duties. I made no allusion to what had passed, and waited with
 some curiosity to see how he would cover his disgrace. On the third
 morning, however he did not appear, as was his custom, after
 breakfast to receive my instructions for the day. As I left the
 dining-room I happened to meet Rachel Howells, the maid. I have told
 you that she had only recently recovered from an illness, and was
 looking so wretchedly pale and wan that I remonstrated with her for
 being at work.

 "'"You should be in bed," I said. "Come back to your duties when you
 are stronger."

 "'She looked at me with so strange an expression that I began to
 suspect that her brain was affected.

 "'"I am strong enough, Mr. Musgrave," said she.

 "'"We will see what the doctor says," I answered. "You must stop work
 now, and when you go downstairs just say that I wish to see Brunton."

 "'"The butler is gone," said she.

 "'"Gone! Gone where?"

 "'"He is gone. No one has seen him. He is not in his room. Oh, yes,
 he is gone, he is gone!" She fell back against the wall with shriek
 after shriek of laughter, while I, horrified at this sudden
 hysterical attack, rushed to the bell to summon help. The girl was
 taken to her room, still screaming and sobbing, while I made
 inquiries about Brunton. There was no doubt about it that he had
 disappeared. His bed had not been slept in, he had been seen by no
 one since he had retired to his room the night before, and yet it was
 difficult to see how he could have left the house, as both windows
 and doors were found to be fastened in the morning. His clothes, his
 watch, and even his money were in his room, but the black suit which
 he usually wore was missing. His slippers, too, were gone, but his
 boots were left behind. Where then could butler Brunton have gone in
 the night, and what could have become of him now?

 "'Of course we searched the house from cellar to garret, but there
 was no trace of him. It is, as I have said, a labyrinth of an old
 house, especially the original wing, which is now practically
 uninhabited; but we ransacked every room and cellar without
 discovering the least sign of the missing man. It was incredible to
 me that he could have gone away leaving all his property behind him,
 and yet where could he be? I called in the local police, but without
 success. Rain had fallen on the night before and we examined the lawn
 and the paths all round the house, but in vain. Matters were in this
 state, when a new development quite drew our attention away from the
 original mystery.

 "'For two days Rachel Howells had been so ill, sometimes delirious,
 sometimes hysterical, that a nurse had been employed to sit up with
 her at night. On the third night after Brunton's disappearance, the
 nurse, finding her patient sleeping nicely, had dropped into a nap in
 the arm-chair, when she woke in the early morning to find the bed
 empty, the window open, and no signs of the invalid. I was instantly
 aroused, and, with the two footmen, started off at once in search of
 the missing girl. It was not difficult to tell the direction which
 she had taken, for, starting from under her window, we could follow
 her footmarks easily across the lawn to the edge of the mere, where
 they vanished close to the gravel path which leads out of the
 grounds. The lake there is eight feet deep, and you can imagine our
 feelings when we saw that the trail of the poor demented girl came to
 an end at the edge of it.

 "'Of course, we had the drags at once, and set to work to recover the
 remains, but no trace of the body could we find. On the other hand,
 we brought to the surface an object of a most unexpected kind. It was
 a linen bag which contained within it a mass of old rusted and
 discolored metal and several dull-colored pieces of pebble or glass.
 This strange find was all that we could get from the mere, and,
 although we made every possible search and inquiry yesterday, we know
 nothing of the fate either of Rachel Howells or of Richard Brunton.
 The county police are at their wits' end, and I have come up to you
 as a last resource.'

 "You can imagine, Watson, with what eagerness I listened to this
 extraordinary sequence of events, and endeavored to piece them
 together, and to devise some common thread upon which they might all
 hang. The butler was gone. The maid was gone. The maid had loved the
 butler, but had afterwards had cause to hate him. She was of Welsh
 blood, fiery and passionate. She had been terribly excited
 immediately after his disappearance. She had flung into the lake a
 bag containing some curious contents. These were all factors which
 had to be taken into consideration, and yet none of them got quite to
 the heart of the matter. What was the starting-point of this chain of
 events? There lay the end of this tangled line.

 "'I must see that paper, Musgrave,' said I, 'which this butler of
 your thought it worth his while to consult, even at the risk of the
 loss of his place.'

 "'It is rather an absurd business, this ritual of ours,' he answered.
 'But it has at least the saving grace of antiquity to excuse it. I
 have a copy of the questions and answers here if you care to run your
 eye over them.'

 "He handed me the very paper which I have here, Watson, and this is
 the strange catechism to which each Musgrave had to submit when he
 came to man's estate. I will read you the questions and answers as
 they stand.

 "'Whose was it?'

 "'His who is gone.'

 "'Who shall have it?'

 "'He who will come.'

 "'What was the month?'

 "'The sixth from the first.'

 "'Where was the sun?'

 "'Over the oak.'

 "'Where was the shadow?'

 "'Under the elm.'

 "'How was it stepped?'

 "'North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and
 by two, west by one and by one, and so under.'

 "'What shall we give for it?'

 "'All that is ours.'

 "'Why should we give it?'

 "'For the sake of the trust.'

 "'The original has no date, but is in the spelling of the middle of
 the seventeenth century,' remarked Musgrave. 'I am afraid, however,
 that it can be of little help to you in solving this mystery.'

 "'At least,' said I, 'it gives us another mystery, and one which is
 even more interesting than the first. It may be that the solution of
 the one may prove to be the solution of the other. You will excuse
 me, Musgrave, if I say that your butler appears to me to have been a
 very clever man, and to have had a clearer insight that ten
 generations of his masters.'

 "'I hardly follow you,' said Musgrave. 'The paper seems to me to be
 of no practical importance.'

 "'But to me it seems immensely practical, and I fancy that Brunton
 took the same view. He had probably seen it before that night on
 which you caught him.'

 "'It is very possible. We took no pains to hide it.'

 "'He simply wished, I should imagine, to refresh his memory upon that
 last occasion. He had, as I understand, some sort of map or chart
 which he was comparing with the manuscript, and which he thrust into
 his pocket when you appeared.'

 "'That is true. But what could he have to do with this old family
 custom of ours, and what does this rigmarole mean?'

 "'I don't think that we should have much difficulty in determining
 that,' said I; 'with your permission we will take the first train
 down to Sussex, and go a little more deeply into the matter upon the
 spot.'

 "The same afternoon saw us both at Hurlstone. Possibly you have seen
 pictures and read descriptions of the famous old building, so I will
 confine my account of it to saying that it is built in the shape of
 an L, the long arm being the more modern portion, and the shorter the
 ancient nucleus, from which the other had developed. Over the low,
 heavily-lintelled door, in the centre of this old part, is chiseled
 the date, 1607, but experts are agreed that the beams and stone-work
 are really much older than this. The enormously thick walls and tiny
 windows of this part had in the last century driven the family into
 building the new wing, and the old one was used now as a store-house
 and a cellar, when it was used at all. A splendid park with fine old
 timber surrounds the house, and the lake, to which my client had
 referred, lay close to the avenue, about two hundred yards from the
 building.

 "I was already firmly convinced, Watson, that there were not three
 separate mysteries here, but one only, and that if I could read the
 Musgrave Ritual aright I should hold in my hand the clue which would
 lead me to the truth concerning both the butler Brunton and the maid
 Howells. To that then I turned all my energies. Why should this
 servant be so anxious to master this old formula? Evidently because
 he saw something in it which had escaped all those generations of
 country squires, and from which he expected some personal advantage.
 What was it then, and how had it affected his fate?

 "It was perfectly obvious to me, on reading the ritual, that the
 measurements must refer to some spot to which the rest of the
 document alluded, and that if we could find that spot, we should be
 in a fair way towards finding what the secret was which the old
 Musgraves had thought it necessary to embalm in so curious a fashion.
 There were two guides given us to start with, an oak and an elm. As
 to the oak there could be no question at all. Right in front of the
 house, upon the left-hand side of the drive, there stood a patriarch
 among oaks, one of the most magnificent trees that I have ever seen.

 "'That was there when your ritual was drawn up,' said I, as we drove
 past it.

 "'It was there at the Norman Conquest in all probability,' he
 answered. 'It has a girth of twenty-three feet.'

 "Here was one of my fixed points secured.

 "'Have you any old elms?' I asked.

 "'There used to be a very old one over yonder but it was struck by
 lightning ten years ago, and we cut down the stump,'

 "'You can see where it used to be?'

 "'Oh, yes.'

 "'There are no other elms?'

 "'No old ones, but plenty of beeches.'

 "'I should like to see where it grew.'

 "We had driven up in a dogcart, and my client led me away at once,
 without our entering the house, to the scar on the lawn where the elm
 had stood. It was nearly midway between the oak and the house. My
 investigation seemed to be progressing.

 "'I suppose it is impossible to find out how high the elm was?' I
 asked.

 "'I can give you it at once. It was sixty-four feet.'

 "'How do you come to know it?' I asked, in surprise.

 "'When my old tutor used to give me an exercise in trigonometry, it
 always took the shape of measuring heights. When I was a lad I worked
 out every tree and building in the estate.'

 "This was an unexpected piece of luck. My data were coming more
 quickly than I could have reasonably hoped.

 "'Tell me,' I asked, 'did your butler ever ask you such a question?'

 "Reginald Musgrave looked at me in astonishment. 'Now that you call
 it to my mind,' he answered, 'Brunton did ask me about the height of
 the tree some months ago, in connection with some little argument
 with the groom.'

 "This was excellent news, Watson, for it showed me that I was on the
 right road. I looked up at the sun. It was low in the heavens, and I
 calculated that in less than an hour it would lie just above the
 topmost branches of the old oak. One condition mentioned in the
 Ritual would then be fulfilled. And the shadow of the elm must mean
 the farther end of the shadow, otherwise the trunk would have been
 chosen as the guide. I had, then, to find where the far end of the
 shadow would fall when the sun was just clear of the oak."

 "That must have been difficult, Holmes, when the elm was no longer
 there."

 "Well, at least I knew that if Brunton could do it, I could also.
 Besides, there was no real difficulty. I went with Musgrave to his
 study and whittled myself this peg, to which I tied this long string
 with a knot at each yard. Then I took two lengths of a fishing-rod,
 which came to just six feet, and I went back with my client to where
 the elm had been. The sun was just grazing the top of the oak. I
 fastened the rod on end, marked out the direction of the shadow, and
 measured it. It was nine feet in length.

 "Of course the calculation now was a simple one. If a rod of six feet
 threw a shadow of nine, a tree of sixty-four feet would throw one of
 ninety-six, and the line of the one would of course be the line of
 the other. I measured out the distance, which brought me almost to
 the wall of the house, and I thrust a peg into the spot. You can
 imagine my exultation, Watson, when within two inches of my peg I saw
 a conical depression in the ground. I knew that it was the mark made
 by Brunton in his measurements, and that I was still upon his trail.

 "From this starting-point I proceeded to step, having first taken the
 cardinal points by my pocket-compass. Ten steps with each foot took
 me along parallel with the wall of the house, and again I marked my
 spot with a peg. Then I carefully paced off five to the east and two
 to the south. It brought me to the very threshold of the old door.
 Two steps to the west meant now that I was to go two paces down the
 stone-flagged passage, and this was the place indicated by the
 Ritual.

 "Never have I felt such a cold chill of disappointment, Watson. For a
 moment it seemed to me that there must be some radical mistake in my
 calculations. The setting sun shone full upon the passage floor, and
 I could see that the old, foot-worn gray stones with which it was
 paved were firmly cemented together, and had certainly not been moved
 for many a long year. Brunton had not been at work here. I tapped
 upon the floor, but it sounded the same all over, and there was no
 sign of any crack or crevice. But fortunately, Musgrave, who had
 begun to appreciate the meaning of my proceedings, and who was now as
 excited as myself, took out his manuscript to check my calculation.

 "'And under,' he cried. 'You have omitted the "and under."'

 "I had thought that it meant that we were to dig, but now, of course,
 I saw at once that I was wrong. 'There is a cellar under this then?'
 I cried.

 "'Yes, and as old as the house. Down here, through this door.'

 "We went down a winding stone stair, and my companion, striking a
 match, lit a large lantern which stood on a barrel in the corner. In
 an instant it was obvious that we had at last come upon the true
 place, and that we had not been the only people to visit the spot
 recently.

 "It had been used for the storage of wood, but the billets, which had
 evidently been littered over the floor, were now piled at the sides,
 so as to leave a clear space in the middle. In this space lay a large
 and heavy flagstone with a rusted iron ring in the centre to which a
 thick shepherd's-check muffler was attached.

 "'By Jove!' cried my client. 'That's Brunton's muffler. I have seen
 it on him, and could swear to it. What has the villain been doing
 here?'

 "At my suggestion a couple of the county police were summoned to be
 present, and I then endeavored to raise the stone by pulling on the
 cravat. I could only move it slightly, and it was with the aid of one
 of the constables that I succeeded at last in carrying it to one
 side. A black hole yawned beneath into which we all peered, while
 Musgrave, kneeling at the side, pushed down the lantern.

 "A small chamber about seven feet deep and four feet square lay open
 to us. At one side of this was a squat, brass-bound wooden box, the
 lid of which was hinged upwards, with this curious old-fashioned key
 projecting from the lock. It was furred outside by a thick layer of
 dust, and damp and worms had eaten through the wood, so that a crop
 of livid fungi was growing on the inside of it. Several discs of
 metal, old coins apparently, such as I hold here, were scattered over
 the bottom of the box, but it contained nothing else.

 "At the moment, however, we had no thought for the old chest, for our
 eyes were riveted upon that which crouched beside it. It was the
 figure of a man, clad in a suit of black, who squatted down upon his
 hams with his forehead sunk upon the edge of the box and his two arms
 thrown out on each side of it. The attitude had drawn all the
 stagnant blood to the face, and no man could have recognized that
 distorted liver-colored countenance; but his height, his dress, and
 his hair were all sufficient to show my client, when we had drawn the
 body up, that it was indeed his missing butler. He had been dead some
 days, but there was no wound or bruise upon his person to show how he
 had met his dreadful end. When his body had been carried from the
 cellar we found ourselves still confronted with a problem which was
 almost as formidable as that with which we had started.

 "I confess that so far, Watson, I had been disappointed in my
 investigation. I had reckoned upon solving the matter when once I had
 found the place referred to in the Ritual; but now I was there, and
 was apparently as far as ever from knowing what it was which the
 family had concealed with such elaborate precautions. It is true that
 I had thrown a light upon the fate of Brunton, but now I had to
 ascertain how that fate had come upon him, and what part had been
 played in the matter by the woman who had disappeared. I sat down
 upon a keg in the corner and thought the whole matter carefully over.

 "You know my methods in such cases, Watson. I put myself in the man's
 place and, having first gauged his intelligence, I try to imagine how
 I should myself have proceeded under the same circumstances. In this
 case the matter was simplified by Brunton's intelligence being quite
 first-rate, so that it was unnecessary to make any allowance for the
 personal equation, as the astronomers have dubbed it. He knew that
 something valuable was concealed. He had spotted the place. He found
 that the stone which covered it was just too heavy for a man to move
 unaided. What would he do next? He could not get help from outside,
 even if he had some one whom he could trust, without the unbarring of
 doors and considerable risk of detection. It was better, if he could,
 to have his helpmate inside the house. But whom could he ask? This
 girl had been devoted to him. A man always finds it hard to realize
 that he may have finally lost a woman's love, however badly he may
 have treated her. He would try by a few attentions to make his peace
 with the girl Howells, and then would engage her as his accomplice.
 Together they would come at night to the cellar, and their united
 force would suffice to raise the stone. So far I could follow their
 actions as if I had actually seen them.

 "But for two of them, and one a woman, it must have been heavy work
 the raising of that stone. A burly Sussex policeman and I had found
 it no light job. What would they do to assist them? Probably what I
 should have done myself. I rose and examined carefully the different
 billets of wood which were scattered round the floor. Almost at once
 I came upon what I expected. One piece, about three feet in length,
 had a very marked indentation at one end, while several were
 flattened at the sides as if they had been compressed by some
 considerable weight. Evidently, as they had dragged the stone up they
 had thrust the chunks of wood into the chink, until at last, when the
 opening was large enough to crawl through, they would hold it open by
 a billet placed lengthwise, which might very well become indented at
 the lower end, since the whole weight of the stone would press it
 down on to the edge of this other slab. So far I was still on safe
 ground.

 "And now how was I to proceed to reconstruct this midnight drama?
 Clearly, only one could fit into the hole, and that one was Brunton.
 The girl must have waited above. Brunton then unlocked the box,
 handed up the contents presumably--since they were not to be
 found--and then--and then what happened?

 "What smouldering fire of vengeance had suddenly sprung into flame in
 this passionate Celtic woman's soul when she saw the man who had
 wronged her--wronged her, perhaps, far more than we suspected--in her
 power? Was it a chance that the wood had slipped, and that the stone
 had shut Brunton into what had become his sepulchre? Had she only
 been guilty of silence as to his fate? Or had some sudden blow from
 her hand dashed the support away and sent the slab crashing down into
 its place? Be that as it might, I seemed to see that woman's figure
 still clutching at her treasure trove and flying wildly up the
 winding stair, with her ears ringing perhaps with the muffled screams
 from behind her and with the drumming of frenzied hands against the
 slab of stone which was choking her faithless lover's life out.

 "Here was the secret of her blanched face, her shaken nerves, her
 peals of hysterical laughter on the next morning. But what had been
 in the box? What had she done with that? Of course, it must have been
 the old metal and pebbles which my client had dragged from the mere.
 She had thrown them in there at the first opportunity to remove the
 last trace of her crime.

 "For twenty minutes I had sat motionless, thinking the matter out.
 Musgrave still stood with a very pale face, swinging his lantern and
 peering down into the hole.

 "'These are coins of Charles the First,' said he, holding out the few
 which had been in the box; 'you see we were right in fixing our date
 for the Ritual.'

 "'We may find something else of Charles the First,' I cried, as the
 probable meaning of the first two question of the Ritual broke
 suddenly upon me. 'Let me see the contents of the bag which you
 fished from the mere.'

 "We ascended to his study, and he laid the debris before me. I could
 understand his regarding it as of small importance when I looked at
 it, for the metal was almost black and the stones lustreless and
 dull. I rubbed one of them on my sleeve, however, and it glowed
 afterwards like a spark in the dark hollow of my hand. The metal work
 was in the form of a double ring, but it had been bent and twisted
 out of its original shape.

 "'You must bear in mind,' said I, 'that the royal party made head in
 England even after the death of the King, and that when they at last
 fled they probably left many of their most precious possessions
 buried behind them, with the intention of returning for them in more
 peaceful times.'

 "'My ancestor, Sir Ralph Musgrave, was a prominent Cavalier and the
 right-hand man of Charles the Second in his wanderings,' said my
 friend.

 "'Ah, indeed!' I answered. 'Well now, I think that really should give
 us the last link that we wanted. I must congratulate you on coming
 into the possession, though in rather a tragic manner, of a relic
 which is of great intrinsic value, but of even greater importance as
 an historical curiosity.'

 "'What is it, then?' he gasped in astonishment.

 "'It is nothing less than the ancient crown of the kings of England.'

 "'The crown!'

 "'Precisely. Consider what the Ritual says: How does it run? "Whose
 was it?" "His who is gone." That was after the execution of Charles.
 Then, "Who shall have it?" "He who will come." That was Charles the
 Second, whose advent was already foreseen. There can, I think, be no
 doubt that this battered and shapeless diadem once encircled the
 brows of the royal Stuarts.'

 "'And how came it in the pond?'

 "'Ah, that is a question that will take some time to answer.' And
 with that I sketched out to him the whole long chain of surmise and
 of proof which I had constructed. The twilight had closed in and the
 moon was shining brightly in the sky before my narrative was
 finished.

 "'And how was it then that Charles did not get his crown when he
 returned?' asked Musgrave, pushing back the relic into its linen bag.

 "'Ah, there you lay your finger upon the one point which we shall
 probably never be able to clear up. It is likely that the Musgrave
 who held the secret died in the interval, and by some oversight left
 this guide to his descendant without explaining the meaning of it.
 From that day to this it has been handed down from father to son,
 until at last it came within reach of a man who tore its secret out
 of it and lost his life in the venture.'

 "And that's the story of the Musgrave Ritual, Watson. They have the
 crown down at Hurlstone--though they had some legal bother and a
 considerable sum to pay before they were allowed to retain it. I am
 sure that if you mentioned my name they would be happy to show it to
 you. Of the woman nothing was ever heard, and the probability is that
 she got away out of England and carried herself and the memory of her
 crime to some land beyond the seas."






                           THE REIGATE SQUIRES

 It was some time before the health of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes
 recovered from the strain caused by his immense exertions in the
 spring of '87. The whole question of the Netherland-Sumatra Company
 and of the colossal schemes of Baron Maupertuis are too recent in the
 minds of the public, and are too intimately concerned with politics
 and finance to be fitting subjects for this series of sketches. They
 led, however, in an indirect fashion to a singular and complex
 problem which gave my friend an opportunity of demonstrating the
 value of a fresh weapon among the many with which he waged his
 life-long battle against crime.

 On referring to my notes I see that it was upon the 14th of April
 that I received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that Holmes
 was lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four hours I was in
 his sick-room, and was relieved to find that there was nothing
 formidable in his symptoms. Even his iron constitution, however, had
 broken down under the strain of an investigation which had extended
 over two months, during which period he had never worked less than
 fifteen hours a day, and had more than once, as he assured me, kept
 to his task for five days at a stretch. Even the triumphant issue of
 his labors could not save him from reaction after so terrible an
 exertion, and at a time when Europe was ringing with his name and
 when his room was literally ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams
 I found him a prey to the blackest depression. Even the knowledge
 that he had succeeded where the police of three countries had failed,
 and that he had outmanoeuvred at every point the most accomplished
 swindler in Europe, was insufficient to rouse him from his nervous
 prostration.

 Three days later we were back in Baker Street together; but it was
 evident that my friend would be much the better for a change, and the
 thought of a week of spring time in the country was full of
 attractions to me also. My old friend, Colonel Hayter, who had come
 under my professional care in Afghanistan, had now taken a house near
 Reigate in Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come down to him
 upon a visit. On the last occasion he had remarked that if my friend
 would only come with me he would be glad to extend his hospitality to
 him also. A little diplomacy was needed, but when Holmes understood
 that the establishment was a bachelor one, and that he would be
 allowed the fullest freedom, he fell in with my plans and a week
 after our return from Lyons we were under the Colonel's roof. Hayter
 was a fine old soldier who had seen much of the world, and he soon
 found, as I had expected, that Holmes and he had much in common.

 On the evening of our arrival we were sitting in the Colonel's
 gun-room after dinner, Holmes stretched upon the sofa, while Hayter
 and I looked over his little armory of Eastern weapons.

 "By the way," said he suddenly, "I think I'll take one of these
 pistols upstairs with me in case we have an alarm."

 "An alarm!" said I.

 "Yes, we've had a scare in this part lately. Old Acton, who is one of
 our county magnates, had his house broken into last Monday. No great
 damage done, but the fellows are still at large."

 "No clue?" asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the Colonel.

 "None as yet. But the affair is a pretty one, one of our little
 country crimes, which must seem too small for your attention, Mr.
 Holmes, after this great international affair."

 Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it had
 pleased him.

 "Was there any feature of interest?"

 "I fancy not. The thieves ransacked the library and got very little
 for their pains. The whole place was turned upside down, drawers
 burst open, and presses ransacked, with the result that an odd volume
 of Pope's Homer, two plated candlesticks, an ivory letter-weight, a
 small oak barometer, and a ball of twine are all that have vanished."

 "What an extraordinary assortment!" I exclaimed.

 "Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold of everything they could
 get."

 Holmes grunted from the sofa.

 "The county police ought to make something of that," said he; "why,
 it is surely obvious that--"

 But I held up a warning finger.

 "You are here for a rest, my dear fellow. For Heaven's sake don't get
 started on a new problem when your nerves are all in shreds."

 Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic resignation
 towards the Colonel, and the talk drifted away into less dangerous
 channels.

 It was destined, however, that all my professional caution should be
 wasted, for next morning the problem obtruded itself upon us in such
 a way that it was impossible to ignore it, and our country visit took
 a turn which neither of us could have anticipated. We were at
 breakfast when the Colonel's butler rushed in with all his propriety
 shaken out of him.

 "Have you heard the news, sir?" he gasped. "At the Cunningham's sir!"

 "Burglary!" cried the Colonel, with his coffee-cup in mid-air.

 "Murder!"

 The Colonel whistled. "By Jove!" said he. "Who's killed, then? The
 J.P. or his son?"

 "Neither, sir. It was William the coachman. Shot through the heart,
 sir, and never spoke again."

 "Who shot him, then?"

 "The burglar, sir. He was off like a shot and got clean away. He'd
 just broke in at the pantry window when William came on him and met
 his end in saving his master's property."

 "What time?"

 "It was last night, sir, somewhere about twelve."

 "Ah, then, we'll step over afterwards," said the Colonel, coolly
 settling down to his breakfast again. "It's a baddish business," he
 added when the butler had gone; "he's our leading man about here, is
 old Cunningham, and a very decent fellow too. He'll be cut up over
 this, for the man has been in his service for years and was a good
 servant. It's evidently the same villains who broke into Acton's."

 "And stole that very singular collection," said Holmes, thoughtfully.

 "Precisely."

 "Hum! It may prove the simplest matter in the world, but all the same
 at first glance this is just a little curious, is it not? A gang of
 burglars acting in the country might be expected to vary the scene of
 their operations, and not to crack two cribs in the same district
 within a few days. When you spoke last night of taking precautions I
 remember that it passed through my mind that this was probably the
 last parish in England to which the thief or thieves would be likely
 to turn their attention--which shows that I have still much to
 learn."

 "I fancy it's some local practitioner," said the Colonel. "In that
 case, of course, Acton's and Cunningham's are just the places he
 would go for, since they are far the largest about here."

 "And richest?"

 "Well, they ought to be, but they've had a lawsuit for some years
 which has sucked the blood out of both of them, I fancy. Old Acton
 has some claim on half Cunningham's estate, and the lawyers have been
 at it with both hands."

 "If it's a local villain there should not be much difficulty in
 running him down," said Holmes with a yawn. "All right, Watson, I
 don't intend to meddle."

 "Inspector Forrester, sir," said the butler, throwing open the door.

 The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the
 room. "Good-morning, Colonel," said he; "I hope I don't intrude, but
 we hear that Mr. Holmes of Baker Street is here."

 The Colonel waved his hand towards my friend, and the Inspector
 bowed.

 "We thought that perhaps you would care to step across, Mr. Holmes."

 "The fates are against you, Watson," said he, laughing. "We were
 chatting about the matter when you came in, Inspector. Perhaps you
 can let us have a few details." As he leaned back in his chair in the
 familiar attitude I knew that the case was hopeless.

 "We had no clue in the Acton affair. But here we have plenty to go
 on, and there's no doubt it is the same party in each case. The man
 was seen."

 "Ah!"

 "Yes, sir. But he was off like a deer after the shot that killed poor
 William Kirwan was fired. Mr. Cunningham saw him from the bedroom
 window, and Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from the back passage. It was
 quarter to twelve when the alarm broke out. Mr. Cunningham had just
 got into bed, and Mr. Alec was smoking a pipe in his dressing-gown.
 They both heard William the coachman calling for help, and Mr. Alec
 ran down to see what was the matter. The back door was open, and as
 he came to the foot of the stairs he saw two men wrestling together
 outside. One of them fired a shot, the other dropped, and the
 murderer rushed across the garden and over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham,
 looking out of his bedroom, saw the fellow as he gained the road, but
 lost sight of him at once. Mr. Alec stopped to see if he could help
 the dying man, and so the villain got clean away. Beyond the fact
 that he was a middle-sized man and dressed in some dark stuff, we
 have no personal clue; but we are making energetic inquiries, and if
 he is a stranger we shall soon find him out."

 "What was this William doing there? Did he say anything before he
 died?"

 "Not a word. He lives at the lodge with his mother, and as he was a
 very faithful fellow we imagine that he walked up to the house with
 the intention of seeing that all was right there. Of course this
 Acton business has put every one on their guard. The robber must have
 just burst open the door--the lock has been forced--when William came
 upon him."

 "Did William say anything to his mother before going out?"

 "She is very old and deaf, and we can get no information from her.
 The shock has made her half-witted, but I understand that she was
 never very bright. There is one very important circumstance, however.
 Look at this!"

 He took a small piece of torn paper from a note-book and spread it
 out upon his knee.

 "This was found between the finger and thumb of the dead man. It
 appears to be a fragment torn from a larger sheet. You will observe
 that the hour mentioned upon it is the very time at which the poor
 fellow met his fate. You see that his murderer might have torn the
 rest of the sheet from him or he might have taken this fragment from
 the murderer. It reads almost as though it were an appointment."

 Holmes took up the scrap of paper, a facsimile of which is here
 reproduced.

 [ Picture: Scrap showing the words: At quarter to twelve, learn what,
 may be ]

 "Presuming that it is an appointment," continued the Inspector, "it
 is of course a conceivable theory that this William Kirwan--though he
 had the reputation of being an honest man, may have been in league
 with the thief. He may have met him there, may even have helped him
 to break in the door, and then they may have fallen out between
 themselves."

 "This writing is of extraordinary interest," said Holmes, who had
 been examining it with intense concentration. "These are much deeper
 waters than I had thought." He sank his head upon his hands, while
 the Inspector smiled at the effect which his case had had upon the
 famous London specialist.

 "Your last remark," said Holmes, presently, "as to the possibility of
 there being an understanding between the burglar and the servant, and
 this being a note of appointment from one to the other, is an
 ingenious and not entirely impossible supposition. But this writing
 opens up--" He sank his head into his hands again and remained for
 some minutes in the deepest thought. When he raised his face again, I
 was surprised to see that his cheek was tinged with color, and his
 eyes as bright as before his illness. He sprang to his feet with all
 his old energy.

 "I'll tell you what," said he, "I should like to have a quiet little
 glance into the details of this case. There is something in it which
 fascinates me extremely. If you will permit me, Colonel, I will leave
 my friend Watson and you, and I will step round with the Inspector to
 test the truth of one or two little fancies of mine. I will be with
 you again in half an hour."

 An hour and half had elapsed before the Inspector returned alone.

 "Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field outside," said he.
 "He wants us all four to go up to the house together."

 "To Mr. Cunningham's?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "What for?"

 The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. "I don't quite know, sir.
 Between ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes had not quite got over his
 illness yet. He's been behaving very queerly, and he is very much
 excited."

 "I don't think you need alarm yourself," said I. "I have usually
 found that there was method in his madness."

 "Some folks might say there was madness in his method," muttered the
 Inspector. "But he's all on fire to start, Colonel, so we had best go
 out if you are ready."

 We found Holmes pacing up and down in the field, his chin sunk upon
 his breast, and his hands thrust into his trousers pockets.

 "The matter grows in interest," said he. "Watson, your country-trip
 has been a distinct success. I have had a charming morning."

 "You have been up to the scene of the crime, I understand," said the
 Colonel.

 "Yes; the Inspector and I have made quite a little reconnaissance
 together."

 "Any success?"

 "Well, we have seen some very interesting things. I'll tell you what
 we did as we walk. First of all, we saw the body of this unfortunate
 man. He certainly died from a revolver wound as reported."

 "Had you doubted it, then?"

 "Oh, it is as well to test everything. Our inspection was not wasted.
 We then had an interview with Mr. Cunningham and his son, who were
 able to point out the exact spot where the murderer had broken
 through the garden-hedge in his flight. That was of great interest."

 "Naturally."

 "Then we had a look at this poor fellow's mother. We could get no
 information from her, however, as she is very old and feeble."

 "And what is the result of your investigations?"

 "The conviction that the crime is a very peculiar one. Perhaps our
 visit now may do something to make it less obscure. I think that we
 are both agreed, Inspector, that the fragment of paper in the dead
 man's hand, bearing, as it does, the very hour of his death written
 upon it, is of extreme importance."

 "It should give a clue, Mr. Holmes."

 "It does give a clue. Whoever wrote that note was the man who brought
 William Kirwan out of his bed at that hour. But where is the rest of
 that sheet of paper?"

 "I examined the ground carefully in the hope of finding it," said the
 Inspector.

 "It was torn out of the dead man's hand. Why was some one so anxious
 to get possession of it? Because it incriminated him. And what would
 he do with it? Thrust it into his pocket, most likely, never noticing
 that a corner of it had been left in the grip of the corpse. If we
 could get the rest of that sheet it is obvious that we should have
 gone a long way towards solving the mystery."

 "Yes, but how can we get at the criminal's pocket before we catch the
 criminal?"

 "Well, well, it was worth thinking over. Then there is another
 obvious point. The note was sent to William. The man who wrote it
 could not have taken it; otherwise, of course, he might have
 delivered his own message by word of mouth. Who brought the note,
 then? Or did it come through the post?"

 "I have made inquiries," said the Inspector. "William received a
 letter by the afternoon post yesterday. The envelope was destroyed by
 him."

 "Excellent!" cried Holmes, clapping the Inspector on the back.
 "You've seen the postman. It is a pleasure to work with you. Well,
 here is the lodge, and if you will come up, Colonel, I will show you
 the scene of the crime."

 We passed the pretty cottage where the murdered man had lived, and
 walked up an oak-lined avenue to the fine old Queen Anne house, which
 bears the date of Malplaquet upon the lintel of the door. Holmes and
 the Inspector led us round it until we came to the side gate, which
 is separated by a stretch of garden from the hedge which lines the
 road. A constable was standing at the kitchen door.

 "Throw the door open, officer," said Holmes. "Now, it was on those
 stairs that young Mr. Cunningham stood and saw the two men struggling
 just where we are. Old Mr. Cunningham was at that window--the second
 on the left--and he saw the fellow get away just to the left of that
 bush. So did the son. They are both sure of it on account of the
 bush. Then Mr. Alec ran out and knelt beside the wounded man. The
 ground is very hard, you see, and there are no marks to guide us." As
 he spoke two men came down the garden path, from round the angle of
 the house. The one was an elderly man, with a strong, deep-lined,
 heavy-eyed face; the other a dashing young fellow, whose bright,
 smiling expression and showy dress were in strange contrast with the
 business which had brought us there.

 "Still at it, then?" said he to Holmes. "I thought you Londoners were
 never at fault. You don't seem to be so very quick, after all."

 "Ah, you must give us a little time," said Holmes good-humoredly.

 "You'll want it," said young Alec Cunningham. "Why, I don't see that
 we have any clue at all."

 "There's only one," answered the Inspector. "We thought that if we
 could only find--Good heavens, Mr. Holmes! What is the matter?"

 My poor friend's face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful
 expression. His eyes rolled upwards, his features writhed in agony,
 and with a suppressed groan he dropped on his face upon the ground.
 Horrified at the suddenness and severity of the attack, we carried
 him into the kitchen, where he lay back in a large chair, and
 breathed heavily for some minutes. Finally, with a shamefaced apology
 for his weakness, he rose once more.

 "Watson would tell you that I have only just recovered from a severe
 illness," he explained. "I am liable to these sudden nervous
 attacks."

 "Shall I send you home in my trap?" asked old Cunningham.

 "Well, since I am here, there is one point on which I should like to
 feel sure. We can very easily verify it."

 "What was it?"

 "Well, it seems to me that it is just possible that the arrival of
 this poor fellow William was not before, but after, the entrance of
 the burglary into the house. You appear to take it for granted that,
 although the door was forced, the robber never got in."

 "I fancy that is quite obvious," said Mr. Cunningham, gravely. "Why,
 my son Alec had not yet gone to bed, and he would certainly have
 heard any one moving about."

 "Where was he sitting?"

 "I was smoking in my dressing-room."

 "Which window is that?"

 "The last on the left next my father's."

 "Both of your lamps were lit, of course?"

 "Undoubtedly."

 "There are some very singular points here," said Holmes, smiling. "Is
 it not extraordinary that a burglary--and a burglar who had had some
 previous experience--should deliberately break into a house at a time
 when he could see from the lights that two of the family were still
 afoot?"

 "He must have been a cool hand."

 "Well, of course, if the case were not an odd one we should not have
 been driven to ask you for an explanation," said young Mr. Alec. "But
 as to your ideas that the man had robbed the house before William
 tackled him, I think it a most absurd notion. Wouldn't we have found
 the place disarranged, and missed the things which he had taken?"

 "It depends on what the things were," said Holmes. "You must remember
 that we are dealing with a burglar who is a very peculiar fellow, and
 who appears to work on lines of his own. Look, for example, at the
 queer lot of things which he took from Acton's--what was it?--a ball
 of string, a letter-weight, and I don't know what other odds and
 ends."

 "Well, we are quite in your hands, Mr. Holmes," said old Cunningham.
 "Anything which you or the Inspector may suggest will most certainly
 be done."

 "In the first place," said Holmes, "I should like you to offer a
 reward--coming from yourself, for the officials may take a little
 time before they would agree upon the sum, and these things cannot be
 done too promptly. I have jotted down the form here, if you would not
 mind signing it. Fifty pound was quite enough, I thought."

 "I would willingly give five hundred," said the J.P., taking the slip
 of paper and the pencil which Holmes handed to him. "This is not
 quite correct, however," he added, glancing over the document.

 "I wrote it rather hurriedly."

 "You see you begin, 'Whereas, at about a quarter to one on Tuesday
 morning an attempt was made,' and so on. It was at a quarter to
 twelve, as a matter of fact."

 I was pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would feel
 any slip of the kind. It was his specialty to be accurate as to fact,
 but his recent illness had shaken him, and this one little incident
 was enough to show me that he was still far from being himself. He
 was obviously embarrassed for an instant, while the Inspector raised
 his eyebrows, and Alec Cunningham burst into a laugh. The old
 gentleman corrected the mistake, however, and handed the paper back
 to Holmes.

 "Get it printed as soon as possible," he said; "I think your idea is
 an excellent one."

 Holmes put the slip of paper carefully away into his pocket-book.

 "And now," said he, "it really would be a good thing that we should
 all go over the house together and make certain that this rather
 erratic burglar did not, after all, carry anything away with him."

 Before entering, Holmes made an examination of the door which had
 been forced. It was evident that a chisel or strong knife had been
 thrust in, and the lock forced back with it. We could see the marks
 in the wood where it had been pushed in.

 "You don't use bars, then?" he asked.

 "We have never found it necessary."

 "You don't keep a dog?"

 "Yes, but he is chained on the other side of the house."

 "When do the servants go to bed?"

 "About ten."

 "I understand that William was usually in bed also at that hour."

 "Yes."

 "It is singular that on this particular night he should have been up.
 Now, I should be very glad if you would have the kindness to show us
 over the house, Mr. Cunningham."

 A stone-flagged passage, with the kitchens branching away from it,
 led by a wooden staircase directly to the first floor of the house.
 It came out upon the landing opposite to a second more ornamental
 stair which came up from the front hall. Out of this landing opened
 the drawing-room and several bedrooms, including those of Mr.
 Cunningham and his son. Holmes walked slowly, taking keen note of the
 architecture of the house. I could tell from his expression that he
 was on a hot scent, and yet I could not in the least imagine in what
 direction his inferences were leading him.

 "My good sir," said Mr. Cunningham with some impatience, "this is
 surely very unnecessary. That is my room at the end of the stairs,
 and my son's is the one beyond it. I leave it to your judgment
 whether it was possible for the thief to have come up here without
 disturbing us."

 "You must try round and get on a fresh scent, I fancy," said the son
 with a rather malicious smile.

 "Still, I must ask you to humor me a little further. I should like,
 for example, to see how far the windows of the bedrooms command the
 front. This, I understand is your son's room"--he pushed open the
 door--"and that, I presume, is the dressing-room in which he sat
 smoking when the alarm was given. Where does the window of that look
 out to?" He stepped across the bedroom, pushed open the door, and
 glanced round the other chamber.

 "I hope that you are satisfied now?" said Mr. Cunningham, tartly.

 "Thank you, I think I have seen all that I wished."

 "Then if it is really necessary we can go into my room."

 "If it is not too much trouble."

 The J.P. shrugged his shoulders, and led the way into his own
 chamber, which was a plainly furnished and commonplace room. As we
 moved across it in the direction of the window, Holmes fell back
 until he and I were the last of the group. Near the foot of the bed
 stood a dish of oranges and a carafe of water. As we passed it
 Holmes, to my unutterable astonishment, leaned over in front of me
 and deliberately knocked the whole thing over. The glass smashed into
 a thousand pieces and the fruit rolled about into every corner of the
 room.

 "You've done it now, Watson," said he, coolly. "A pretty mess you've
 made of the carpet."

 I stooped in some confusion and began to pick up the fruit,
 understanding for some reason my companion desired me to take the
 blame upon myself. The others did the same, and set the table on its
 legs again.

 "Hullo!" cried the Inspector, "where's he got to?"

 Holmes had disappeared.

 "Wait here an instant," said young Alec Cunningham. "The fellow is
 off his head, in my opinion. Come with me, father, and see where he
 has got to!"

 They rushed out of the room, leaving the Inspector, the Colonel, and
 me staring at each other.

 "'Pon my word, I am inclined to agree with Master Alec," said the
 official. "It may be the effect of this illness, but it seems to me
 that--"

 His words were cut short by a sudden scream of "Help! Help! Murder!"
 With a thrill I recognised the voice as that of my friend. I rushed
 madly from the room on to the landing. The cries, which had sunk down
 into a hoarse, inarticulate shouting, came from the room which we had
 first visited. I dashed in, and on into the dressing-room beyond. The
 two Cunninghams were bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock
 Holmes, the younger clutching his throat with both hands, while the
 elder seemed to be twisting one of his wrists. In an instant the
 three of us had torn them away from him, and Holmes staggered to his
 feet, very pale and evidently greatly exhausted.

 "Arrest these men, Inspector," he gasped.

 "On what charge?"

 "That of murdering their coachman, William Kirwan."

 The Inspector stared about him in bewilderment. "Oh, come now, Mr.
 Holmes," said he at last, "I'm sure you don't really mean to--"

 "Tut, man, look at their faces!" cried Holmes, curtly.

 Never, certainly, have I seen a plainer confession of guilt upon
 human countenances. The older man seemed numbed and dazed with a
 heavy, sullen expression upon his strongly-marked face. The son, on
 the other hand, had dropped all that jaunty, dashing style which had
 characterized him, and the ferocity of a dangerous wild beast gleamed
 in his dark eyes and distorted his handsome features. The Inspector
 said nothing, but, stepping to the door, he blew his whistle. Two of
 his constables came at the call.

 "I have no alternative, Mr. Cunningham," said he. "I trust that this
 may all prove to be an absurd mistake, but you can see that--Ah,
 would you? Drop it!" He struck out with his hand, and a revolver
 which the younger man was in the act of cocking clattered down upon
 the floor.

 "Keep that," said Holmes, quietly putting his foot upon it; "you will
 find it useful at the trial. But this is what we really wanted." He
 held up a little crumpled piece of paper.

 "The remainder of the sheet!" cried the Inspector.

 "Precisely."

 "And where was it?"

 "Where I was sure it must be. I'll make the whole matter clear to you
 presently. I think, Colonel, that you and Watson might return now,
 and I will be with you again in an hour at the furthest. The
 Inspector and I must have a word with the prisoners, but you will
 certainly see me back at luncheon time."

 Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word, for about one o'clock he
 rejoined us in the Colonel's smoking-room. He was accompanied by a
 little elderly gentleman, who was introduced to me as the Mr. Acton
 whose house had been the scene of the original burglary.

 "I wished Mr. Acton to be present while I demonstrated this small
 matter to you," said Holmes, "for it is natural that he should take a
 keen interest in the details. I am afraid, my dear Colonel, that you
 must regret the hour that you took in such a stormy petrel as I am."

 "On the contrary," answered the Colonel, warmly, "I consider it the
 greatest privilege to have been permitted to study your methods of
 working. I confess that they quite surpass my expectations, and that
 I am utterly unable to account for your result. I have not yet seen
 the vestige of a clue."

 "I am afraid that my explanation may disillusion you but it has
 always been my habit to hide none of my methods, either from my
 friend Watson or from any one who might take an intelligent interest
 in them. But, first, as I am rather shaken by the knocking about
 which I had in the dressing-room, I think that I shall help myself to
 a dash of your brandy, Colonel. My strength had been rather tried of
 late."

 "I trust that you had no more of those nervous attacks."

 Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily. "We will come to that in its turn,"
 said he. "I will lay an account of the case before you in its due
 order, showing you the various points which guided me in my decision.
 Pray interrupt me if there is any inference which is not perfectly
 clear to you.

 "It is of the highest importance in the art of detection to be able
 to recognize, out of a number of facts, which are incidental and
 which vital. Otherwise your energy and attention must be dissipated
 instead of being concentrated. Now, in this case there was not the
 slightest doubt in my mind from the first that the key of the whole
 matter must be looked for in the scrap of paper in the dead man's
 hand.

 "Before going into this, I would draw your attention to the fact
 that, if Alec Cunningham's narrative was correct, and if the
 assailant, after shooting William Kirwan, had instantly fled, then it
 obviously could not be he who tore the paper from the dead man's
 hand. But if it was not he, it must have been Alec Cunningham
 himself, for by the time that the old man had descended several
 servants were upon the scene. The point is a simple one, but the
 Inspector had overlooked it because he had started with the
 supposition that these county magnates had had nothing to do with the
 matter. Now, I make a point of never having any prejudices, and of
 following docilely wherever fact may lead me, and so, in the very
 first stage of the investigation, I found myself looking a little
 askance at the part which had been played by Mr. Alec Cunningham.

 "And now I made a very careful examination of the corner of paper
 which the Inspector had submitted to us. It was at once clear to me
 that it formed part of a very remarkable document. Here it is. Do you
 not now observed something very suggestive about it?"

 "It has a very irregular look," said the Colonel.

 "My dear sir," cried Holmes, "there cannot be the least doubt in the
 world that it has been written by two persons doing alternate words.
 When I draw your attention to the strong t's of 'at' and 'to', and
 ask you to compare them with the weak ones of 'quarter' and 'twelve,'
 you will instantly recognize the fact. A very brief analysis of these
 four words would enable you to say with the utmost confidence that
 the 'learn' and the 'maybe' are written in the stronger hand, and the
 'what' in the weaker."

 "By Jove, it's as clear as day!" cried the Colonel. "Why on earth
 should two men write a letter in such a fashion?"

 "Obviously the business was a bad one, and one of the men who
 distrusted the other was determined that, whatever was done, each
 should have an equal hand in it. Now, of the two men, it is clear
 that the one who wrote the 'at' and 'to' was the ringleader."

 "How do you get at that?"

 "We might deduce it from the mere character of the one hand as
 compared with the other. But we have more assured reasons than that
 for supposing it. If you examine this scrap with attention you will
 come to the conclusion that the man with the stronger hand wrote all
 his words first, leaving blanks for the other to fill up. These
 blanks were not always sufficient, and you can see that the second
 man had a squeeze to fit his 'quarter' in between the 'at' and the
 'to,' showing that the latter were already written. The man who wrote
 all his words first is undoubtedly the man who planned the affair."

 "Excellent!" cried Mr. Acton.

 "But very superficial," said Holmes. "We come now, however, to a
 point which is of importance. You may not be aware that the deduction
 of a man's age from his writing is one which has been brought to
 considerable accuracy by experts. In normal cases one can place a man
 in his true decade with tolerable confidence. I say normal cases,
 because ill-health and physical weakness reproduce the signs of old
 age, even when the invalid is a youth. In this case, looking at the
 bold, strong hand of the one, and the rather broken-backed appearance
 of the other, which still retains its legibility although the t's
 have begun to lose their crossing, we can say that the one was a
 young man and the other was advanced in years without being
 positively decrepit."

 "Excellent!" cried Mr. Acton again.

 "There is a further point, however, which is subtler and of greater
 interest. There is something in common between these hands. They
 belong to men who are blood-relatives. It may be most obvious to you
 in the Greek e's, but to me there are many small points which
 indicate the same thing. I have no doubt at all that a family
 mannerism can be traced in these two specimens of writing. I am only,
 of course, giving you the leading results now of my examination of
 the paper. There were twenty-three other deductions which would be of
 more interest to experts than to you. They all tended to deepen the
 impression upon my mind that the Cunninghams, father and son, had
 written this letter.

 "Having got so far, my next step was, of course, to examine into the
 details of the crime, and to see how far they would help us. I went
 up to the house with the Inspector, and saw all that was to be seen.
 The wound upon the dead man was, as I was able to determine with
 absolute confidence, fired from a revolver at the distance of
 something over four yards. There was no powder-blackening on the
 clothes. Evidently, therefore, Alec Cunningham had lied when he said
 that the two men were struggling when the shot was fired. Again, both
 father and son agreed as to the place where the man escaped into the
 road. At that point, however, as it happens, there is a broadish
 ditch, moist at the bottom. As there were no indications of bootmarks
 about this ditch, I was absolutely sure not only that the Cunninghams
 had again lied, but that there had never been any unknown man upon
 the scene at all.

 "And now I have to consider the motive of this singular crime. To get
 at this, I endeavored first of all to solve the reason of the
 original burglary at Mr. Acton's. I understood, from something which
 the Colonel told us, that a lawsuit had been going on between you,
 Mr. Acton, and the Cunninghams. Of course, it instantly occurred to
 me that they had broken into your library with the intention of
 getting at some document which might be of importance in the case."

 "Precisely so," said Mr. Acton. "There can be no possible doubt as to
 their intentions. I have the clearest claim upon half of their
 present estate, and if they could have found a single paper--which,
 fortunately, was in the strong-box of my solicitors--they would
 undoubtedly have crippled our case."

 "There you are," said Holmes, smiling. "It was a dangerous, reckless
 attempt, in which I seem to trace the influence of young Alec. Having
 found nothing they tried to divert suspicion by making it appear to
 be an ordinary burglary, to which end they carried off whatever they
 could lay their hands upon. That is all clear enough, but there was
 much that was still obscure. What I wanted above all was to get the
 missing part of that note. I was certain that Alec had torn it out of
 the dead man's hand, and almost certain that he must have thrust it
 into the pocket of his dressing-gown. Where else could he have put
 it? The only question was whether it was still there. It was worth an
 effort to find out, and for that object we all went up to the house.

 "The Cunninghams joined us, as you doubtless remember, outside the
 kitchen door. It was, of course, of the very first importance that
 they should not be reminded of the existence of this paper, otherwise
 they would naturally destroy it without delay. The Inspector was
 about to tell them the importance which we attached to it when, by
 the luckiest chance in the world, I tumbled down in a sort of fit and
 so changed the conversation."

 "Good heavens!" cried the Colonel, laughing, "do you mean to say all
 our sympathy was wasted and your fit an imposture?"

 "Speaking professionally, it was admirably done," cried I, looking in
 amazement at this man who was forever confounding me with some new
 phase of his astuteness.

 "It is an art which is often useful," said he. "When I recovered I
 managed, by a device which had perhaps some little merit of
 ingenuity, to get old Cunningham to write the word 'twelve,' so that
 I might compare it with the 'twelve' upon the paper."

 "Oh, what an ass I have been!" I exclaimed.

 "I could see that you were commiserating with me over my weakness,"
 said Holmes, laughing. "I was sorry to cause you the sympathetic pain
 which I know that you felt. We then went upstairs together, and
 having entered the room and seen the dressing-gown hanging up behind
 the door, I contrived, by upsetting a table, to engage their
 attention for the moment, and slipped back to examine the pockets. I
 had hardly got the paper, however--which was, as I had expected, in
 one of them--when the two Cunninghams were on me, and would, I verily
 believe, have murdered me then and there but for your prompt and
 friendly aid. As it is, I feel that young man's grip on my throat
 now, and the father has twisted my wrist round in the effort to get
 the paper out of my hand. They saw that I must know all about it, you
 see, and the sudden change from absolute security to complete despair
 made them perfectly desperate.

 "I had a little talk with old Cunningham afterwards as to the motive
 of the crime. He was tractable enough, though his son was a perfect
 demon, ready to blow out his own or anybody else's brains if he could
 have got to his revolver. When Cunningham saw that the case against
 him was so strong he lost all heart and made a clean breast of
 everything. It seems that William had secretly followed his two
 masters on the night when they made their raid upon Mr. Acton's, and
 having thus got them into his power, proceeded, under threats of
 exposure, to levy black-mail upon them. Mr. Alec, however, was a
 dangerous man to play games of that sort with. It was a stroke of
 positive genius on his part to see in the burglary scare which was
 convulsing the country side an opportunity of plausibly getting rid
 of the man whom he feared. William was decoyed up and shot, and had
 they only got the whole of the note and paid a little more attention
 to detail in the accessories, it is very possible that suspicion
 might never have been aroused."

 "And the note?" I asked.

 Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper before us.

 [ Picture: Paper which reads: If you will only come around at quarter
 to twelve to the east gate you will learn what will very much
 surprise you and may be of the greatest service to you and also to
 Annie Morrison. But say nothing to anyone upon the matter ]

 "It is very much the sort of thing that I expected," said he. "Of
 course, we do not yet know what the relations may have been between
 Alec Cunningham, William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison. The results
 shows that the trap was skillfully baited. I am sure that you cannot
 fail to be delighted with the traces of heredity shown in the p's and
 in the tails of the g's. The absence of the i-dots in the old man's
 writing is also most characteristic. Watson, I think our quiet rest
 in the country has been a distinct success, and I shall certainly
 return much invigorated to Baker Street to-morrow." 






                             THE CROOKED MAN

 One summer night, a few months after my marriage, I was seated by my
 own hearth smoking a last pipe and nodding over a novel, for my day's
 work had been an exhausting one.  My wife had already gone upstairs,
 and the sound of the locking of the hall door some time before told
 me that the servants had also retired.  I had risen from my seat and
 was knocking out the ashes of my pipe when I suddenly heard the clang
 of the bell.

 I looked at the clock.  It was a quarter to twelve.  This could not
 be a visitor at so late an hour.  A patient, evidently, and possibly
 an all-night sitting.  With a wry face I went out into the hall and
 opened the door.  To my astonishment it was Sherlock Holmes who stood
 upon my step.

 "Ah, Watson," said he, "I hoped that I might not be too late to catch
 you."

 "My dear fellow, pray come in."

 "You look surprised, and no wonder!  Relieved, too, I fancy!  Hum! 
 You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of your bachelor days then! 
 There's no mistaking that fluffy ash upon your coat.  It's easy to
 tell that you have been accustomed to wear a uniform, Watson.  You'll
 never pass as a pure-bred civilian as long as you keep that habit of
 carrying your handkerchief in your sleeve.  Could you put me up
 tonight?"

 "With pleasure."

 "You told me that you had bachelor quarters for one, and I see that
 you have no gentleman visitor at present.  Your hat-stand proclaims
 as much."

 "I shall be delighted if you will stay."

 "Thank you.  I'll fill the vacant peg then.  Sorry to see that you've
 had the British workman in the house.  He's a token of evil.  Not the
 drains, I hope?"

 "No, the gas."

 "Ah!  He has left two nail-marks from his boot upon your linoleum
 just where the light strikes it.  No, thank you, I had some supper at
 Waterloo, but I'll smoke a pipe with you with pleasure."

 I handed him my pouch, and he seated himself opposite to me and
 smoked for some time in silence.  I was well aware that nothing but
 business of importance would have brought him to me at such an hour,
 so I waited patiently until he should come round to it.

 "I see that you are professionally rather busy just now," said he,
 glancing very keenly across at me.

 "Yes, I've had a busy day," I answered.  "It may seem very foolish in
 your eyes," I added, "but really I don't know how you deduced it."

 Holmes chuckled to himself.

 "I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Watson," said
 he.  "When your round is a short one you walk, and when it is a long
 one you use a hansom.  As I perceive that your boots, although used,
 are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are at present busy
 enough to justify the hansom."

 "Excellent!" I cried.

 "Elementary," said he.  "It is one of those instances where the
 reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his
 neighbor, because the latter has missed the one little point which is
 the basis of the deduction.  The same may be said, my dear fellow,
 for the effect of some of these little sketches of yours, which is
 entirely meretricious, depending as it does upon your retaining in
 your own hands some factors in the problem which are never imparted
 to the reader.  Now, at present I am in the position of these same
 readers, for I hold in this hand several threads of one of the
 strangest cases which ever perplexed a man's brain, and yet I lack
 the one or two which are needful to complete my theory.  But I'll
 have them, Watson, I'll have them!"  His eyes kindled and a slight
 flush sprang into his thin cheeks. For an instant the veil had lifted
 upon his keen, intense nature, but for an instant only. When I
 glanced again his face had resumed that red-Indian composure which
 had made so many regard him as a machine rather than a man.

 "The problem presents features of interest," said he.  "I may even
 say exceptional features of interest.  I have already looked into the
 matter, and have come, as I think, within sight of my solution.  If
 you could accompany me in that last step you might be of considerable
 service to me."

 "I should be delighted."

 "Could you go as far as Aldershot to-morrow?"

 "I have no doubt Jackson would take my practice."

 "Very good.  I want to start by the 11.10 from Waterloo."

 "That would give me time."

 "Then, if you are not too sleepy, I will give you a sketch of what
 has happened, and of what remains to be done."

 "I was sleepy before you came.  I am quite wakeful now."

 "I will compress the story as far as may be done without omitting
 anything vital to the case.  It is conceivable that you may even have
 read some account of the matter.  It is the supposed murder of
 Colonel Barclay, of the Royal Munsters, at Aldershot, which I am
 investigating."

 "I have heard nothing of it."

 "It has not excited much attention yet, except locally.  The facts
 are only two days old.  Briefly they are these:

 "The Royal Munsters is, as you know, one of the most famous Irish
 regiments in the British army.  It did wonders both in the Crimea and
 the Mutiny, and has since that time distinguished itself upon every
 possible occasion.  It was commanded up to Monday night by James
 Barclay, a gallant veteran, who started as a full private, was raised
 to commissioned rank for his bravery at the time of the Mutiny, and
 so lived to command the regiment in which he had once carried a
 musket.

 "Colonel Barclay had married at the time when he was a sergeant, and
 his wife, whose maiden name was Miss Nancy Devoy, was the daughter of
 a former color-sergeant in the same corps.  There was, therefore, as
 can be imagined, some little social friction when the young couple
 (for they were still young) found themselves in their new
 surroundings.  They appear, however, to have quickly adapted
 themselves, and Mrs. Barclay has always, I understand, been as
 popular with the ladies of the regiment as her husband was with his
 brother officers.  I may add that she was a woman of great beauty,
 and that even now, when she has been married for upwards of thirty
 years, she is still of a striking and queenly appearance.

 "Colonel Barclay's family life appears to have been a uniformly happy
 one.  Major Murphy, to whom I owe most of my facts, assures me that
 he has never heard of any misunderstanding between the pair.  On the
 whole, he thinks that Barclay's devotion to his wife was greater than
 his wife's to Barclay.  He was acutely uneasy if he were absent from
 her for a day.  She, on the other hand, though devoted and faithful,
 was less obtrusively affectionate.  But they were regarded in the
 regiment as the very model of a middle-aged couple.  There was
 absolutely nothing in their mutual relations to prepare people for
 the tragedy which was to follow.

 "Colonel Barclay himself seems to have had some singular traits in
 his character.  He was a dashing, jovial old solder in his usual
 mood, but there were occasions on which he seemed to show himself
 capable of considerable violence and vindictiveness.  This side of
 his nature, however, appears never to have been turned towards his
 wife.  Another fact, which had struck Major Murphy and three out of
 five of the other officers with whom I conversed, was the singular
 sort of depression which came upon him at times.  As the major
 expressed it, the smile had often been struck from his mouth, as if
 by some invisible hand, when he has been joining the gaieties and
 chaff of the mess-table.  For days on end, when the mood was on him,
 he has been sunk in the deepest gloom.  This and a certain tinge of
 superstition were the only unusual traits in his character which his
 brother officers had observed.  The latter peculiarity took the form
 of a dislike to being left alone, especially after dark.  This
 puerile feature in a nature which was conspicuously manly had often
 given rise to comment and conjecture.

 "The first battalion of the Royal Munsters (which is the old 117th)
 has been stationed at Aldershot for some years.  The married officers
 live out of barracks, and the Colonel has during all this time
 occupied a villa called Lachine, about half a mile from the north
 camp.  The house stands in its own grounds, but the west side of it
 is not more than thirty yards from the high-road.  A coachman and two
 maids form the staff of servants.  These with their master and
 mistress were the sole occupants of Lachine, for the Barclays had no
 children, nor was it usual for them to have resident visitors.

 "Now for the events at Lachine between nine and ten on the evening of
 last Monday.

 "Mrs. Barclay was, it appears, a member of the Roman Catholic Church,
 and had interested herself very much in the establishment of the
 Guild of St. George, which was formed in connection with the Watt
 Street Chapel for the purpose of supplying the poor with cast-off
 clothing.  A meeting of the Guild had been held that evening at
 eight, and Mrs. Barclay had hurried over her dinner in order to be
 present at it.  When leaving the house she was heard by the coachman
 to make some commonplace remark to her husband, and to assure him
 that she would be back before very long. She then called for Miss
 Morrison, a young lady who lives in the next villa, and the two went
 off together to their meeting.  It lasted forty minutes, and at a
 quarter-past nine Mrs. Barclay returned home, having left Miss
 Morrison at her door as she passed.

 "There is a room which is used as a morning-room at Lachine.  This
 faces the road and opens by a large glass folding-door on to the
 lawn.  The lawn is thirty yards across, and is only divided from the
 highway by a low wall with an iron rail above it.  It was into this
 room that Mrs. Barclay went upon her return.  The blinds were not
 down, for the room was seldom used in the evening, but Mrs. Barclay
 herself lit the lamp and then rang the bell, asking Jane Stewart, the
 house-maid, to bring her a cup of tea, which was quite contrary to
 her usual habits.  The Colonel had been sitting in the dining-room,
 but hearing that his wife had returned he joined her in the
 morning-room.  The coachman saw him cross the hall and enter it.  He
 was never seen again alive.

 "The tea which had been ordered was brought up at the end of ten
 minutes; but the maid, as she approached the door, was surprised to
 hear the voices of her master and mistress in furious altercation. 
 She knocked without receiving any answer, and even turned the handle,
 but only to find that the door was locked upon the inside.  Naturally
 enough she ran down to tell the cook, and the two women with the
 coachman came up into the hall and listened to the dispute which was
 still raging.  They all agreed that only two voices were to be heard,
 those of Barclay and of his wife.  Barclay's remarks were subdued and
 abrupt, so that none of them were audible to the listeners.  The
 lady's, on the other hand, were most bitter, and when she raised her
 voice could be plainly heard.  'You coward!' she repeated over and
 over again.  'What can be done now?  What can be done now?  Give me
 back my life.  I will never so much as breathe the same air with you
 again!  You coward!  You Coward!'  Those were scraps of her
 conversation, ending in a sudden dreadful cry in the man's voice,
 with a crash, and a piercing scream from the woman.  Convinced that
 some tragedy had occurred, the coachman rushed to the door and strove
 to force it, while scream after scream issued from within.  He was
 unable, however, to make his way in, and the maids were too
 distracted with fear to be of any assistance to him.  A sudden
 thought struck him, however, and he ran through the hall door and
 round to the lawn upon which the long French windows open.  One side
 of the window was open, which I understand was quite usual in the
 summer-time, and he passed without difficulty into the room.  His
 mistress had ceased to scream and was stretched insensible upon a
 couch, while with his feet tilted over the side of an arm-chair, and
 his head upon the ground near the corner of the fender, was lying the
 unfortunate soldier stone dead in a pool of his own blood.

 "Naturally, the coachman's first thought, on finding that he could do
 nothing for his master, was to open the door.  But here an unexpected
 and singular difficulty presented itself.  The key was not in the
 inner side of the door, nor could he find it anywhere in the room. 
 He went out again, therefore, through the window, and having obtained
 the help of a policeman and of a medical man, he returned.  The lady,
 against whom naturally the strongest suspicion rested, was removed to
 her room, still in a state of insensibility.  The Colonel's body was
 then placed upon the sofa, and a careful examination made of the
 scene of the tragedy.

 "The injury from which the unfortunate veteran was suffering was
 found to be a jagged cut some two inches long at the back part of his
 head, which had evidently been caused by a violent blow from a blunt
 weapon.  Nor was it difficult to guess what that weapon may have
 been.  Upon the floor, close to the body, was lying a singular club
 of hard carved wood with a bone handle.  The Colonel possessed a
 varied collection of weapons brought from the different countries in
 which he had fought, and it is conjectured by the police that his
 club was among his trophies.  The servants deny having seen it
 before, but among the numerous curiosities in the house it is
 possible that it may have been overlooked.  Nothing else of
 importance was discovered in the room by the police, save the
 inexplicable fact that neither upon Mrs. Barclay's person nor upon
 that of the victim nor in any part of the room was the missing key to
 be found.  The door had eventually to be opened by a locksmith from
 Aldershot.

 "That was the state of things, Watson, when upon the Tuesday morning
 I, at the request of Major Murphy, went down to Aldershot to
 supplement the efforts of the police.  I think that you will
 acknowledge that the problem was already one of interest, but my
 observations soon made me realize that it was in truth much more
 extraordinary than would at first sight appear.

 "Before examining the room I cross-questioned the servants, but only
 succeeded in eliciting the facts which I have already stated.  One
 other detail of interest was remembered by Jane Stewart, the
 housemaid.  You will remember that on hearing the sound of the
 quarrel she descended and returned with the other servants.  On that
 first occasion, when she was alone, she says that the voices of her
 master and mistress were sunk so low that she could hear hardly
 anything, and judged by their tones rather than their words that they
 had fallen out.  On my pressing her, however, she remembered that she
 heard the word David uttered twice by the lady.  The point is of the
 utmost importance as guiding us towards the reason of the sudden
 quarrel.  The Colonel's name, you remember, was James.

 "There was one thing in the case which had made the deepest
 impression both upon the servants and the police.  This was the
 contortion of the Colonel's face.  It had set, according to their
 account, into the most dreadful expression of fear and horror which a
 human countenance is capable of assuming.  More than one person
 fainted at the mere sight of him, so terrible was the effect.  It was
 quite certain that he had foreseen his fate, and that it had caused
 him the utmost horror.  This, of course, fitted in well enough with
 the police theory, if the Colonel could have seen his wife making a
 murderous attack upon him.  Nor was the fact of the wound being on
 the back of his head a fatal objection to this, as he might have
 turned to avoid the blow.  No information could be got from the lady
 herself, who was temporarily insane from an acute attack of
 brain-fever.

 "From the police I learned that Miss Morrison, who you remember went
 out that evening with Mrs. Barclay, denied having any knowledge of
 what it was which had caused the ill-humor in which her companion had
 returned.

 "Having gathered these facts, Watson, I smoked several pipes over
 them, trying to separate those which were crucial from others which
 were merely incidental.  There could be no question that the most
 distinctive and suggestive point in the case was the singular
 disappearance of the door-key.  A most careful search had failed to
 discover it in the room.  Therefore it must have been taken from it. 
 But neither the Colonel nor the Colonel's wife could have taken it. 
 That was perfectly clear.  Therefore a third person must have entered
 the room.  And that third person could only have come in through the
 window.  It seemed to me that a careful examination of the room and
 the lawn might possibly reveal some traces of this mysterious
 individual.  You know my methods, Watson.  There was not one of them
 which I did not apply to the inquiry.  And it ended by my discovering
 traces, but very different ones from those which I had expected. 
 There had been a man in the room, and he had crossed the lawn coming
 from the road.  I was able to obtain five very clear impressions of
 his foot-marks:  one in the roadway itself, at the point where he had
 climbed the low wall, two on the lawn, and two very faint ones upon
 the stained boards near the window where he had entered.  He had
 apparently rushed across the lawn, for his toe-marks were much deeper
 than his heels.  But it was not the man who surprised me.  It was his
 companion."

 "His companion!"

 Holmes pulled a large sheet of tissue-paper out of his pocket and
 carefully unfolded it upon his knee.

 "What do you make of that?" he asked.

 The paper was covered with the tracings of the foot-marks of some
 small animal.  It had five well-marked foot-pads, an indication of
 long nails, and the whole print might be nearly as large as  a
 dessert-spoon.

 "It's a dog," said I.

 "Did you ever hear of a dog running up a curtain?  I found distinct
 traces that this creature had done so."

 "A monkey, then?"

 "But it is not the print of a monkey."

 "What can it be, then?"

 "Neither dog nor cat nor monkey nor any creature that we are familiar
 with.  I have tried to reconstruct it from the measurements.  Here
 are four prints where the beast has been standing motionless.  You
 see that it is no less than fifteen inches from fore-foot to hind. 
 Add to that the length of neck and head, and you get a creature not
 much less than two feet long--probably more if there is any tail. 
 But now observe this other measurement.  The animal has been moving,
 and we have the length of its stride.  In each case it is only about
 three inches.  You have an indication, you see, of a long body with
 very short legs attached to it.  It has not been considerate enough
 to leave any of its hair behind it.  But its general shape must be
 what I have indicated, and it can run up a curtain, and it is
 carnivorous."

 "How do you deduce that?"

 "Because it ran up the curtain.  A canary's cage was hanging in the
 window, and its aim seems to have been to get at the bird."

 "Then what was the beast?"

 "Ah, if I could give it a name it might go a long way towards solving
 the case.  On the whole, it was probably some creature of the weasel
 and stoat tribe--and yet it is larger than any of these that I have
 seen."

 "But what had it to do with the crime?"

 "That, also, is still obscure.  But we have learned a good deal, you
 perceive.  We know that a man stood in the road looking at the
 quarrel between the Barclays--the blinds were up and the room
 lighted.  We know, also, that he ran across the lawn, entered the
 room, accompanied by a strange animal, and that he either struck the
 Colonel or, as is equally possible, that the Colonel fell down from
 sheer fright at the sight of him, and cut his head on the corner of
 the fender.  Finally, we have the curious fact that the intruder
 carried away the key with him when he left."

 "Your discoveries seem to have left the business more obscure that it
 was before," said I.

 "Quite so.  They undoubtedly showed that the affair was much deeper
 than was at first conjectured.  I thought the matter over, and I came
 to the conclusion that I must approach the case from another aspect. 
 But really, Watson, I am keeping you up, and I might just as well
 tell you all this on our way to Aldershot to-morrow."

 "Thank you, you have gone rather too far to stop."

 "It is quite certain that when Mrs. Barclay left the house at
 half-past seven she was on good terms with her husband.  She was
 never, as I think I have said, ostentatiously affectionate, but she
 was heard by the coachman chatting with the Colonel in a friendly
 fashion.  Now, it was equally certain that, immediately on her
 return, she had gone to the room in which she was least likely to see
 her husband, had flown to tea as an agitated woman will, and finally,
 on his coming in to her, had broken into violent recriminations. 
 Therefore something had occurred between seven-thirty and nine
 o'clock which had completely altered her feelings towards him.  But
 Miss Morrison had been with her during the whole of that hour and a
 half.  It was absolutely certain, therefore, in spite of her denial,
 that she must know something of the matter.

 "My first conjecture was, that possibly there had been some passages
 between this young lady and the old soldier, which the former had now
 confessed to the wife.  That would account for the angry return, and
 also for the girl's denial that anything had occurred.  Nor would it
 be entirely incompatible with most of the words overhead.  But there
 was the reference to David, and there was the known affection of the
 Colonel for his wife, to weigh against it, to say nothing of the
 tragic intrusion of this other man, which might, of course, be
 entirely disconnected with what had gone before.  It was not easy to
 pick one's steps, but, on the whole, I was inclined to dismiss the
 idea that there had been anything between the Colonel and Miss
 Morrison, but more than ever convinced that the young lady held the
 clue as to what it was which had turned Mrs. Barclay to hatred of her
 husband.  I took the obvious course, therefore, of calling upon Miss
 M., of explaining to her that I was perfectly certain that she held
 the facts in her possession, and of assuring her that her friend,
 Mrs. Barclay, might find herself in the dock upon a capital charge
 unless the matter were cleared up.

 "Miss Morrison is a little ethereal slip of a girl, with timid eyes
 and blond hair, but I found her by no means wanting in shrewdness and
 common-sense.  She sat thinking for some time after I had spoken, and
 then, turning to me with a brisk air of resolution, she broke into a
 remarkable statement which I will condense for your benefit.

 "'I promised my friend that I would say nothing of the matter, and a
 promise is a promise,' said she; 'but if I can really help her when
 so serious a charge is laid against her, and when her own mouth, poor
 darling, is closed by illness, then I think I am absolved from my
 promise.  I will tell you exactly what happened upon Monday evening.

 "'We were returning from the Watt Street Mission about a quarter to
 nine o'clock.  On our way we had to pass through Hudson Street, which
 is a very quiet thoroughfare.  There is only one lamp in it, upon the
 left-hand side, and as we approached this lamp I saw a man coming
 towards us with is back very bent, and something like a box slung
 over one of his shoulders.  He appeared to be deformed, for he
 carried his head low and walked with his knees bent.  We were passing
 him when he raised his face to look at us in the circle of light
 thrown by the lamp, and as he did so he stopped and screamed out in a
 dreadful voice, "My God, it's Nancy!"  Mrs. Barclay turned as white
 as death, and would have fallen down had the dreadful-looking
 creature not caught hold of her.  I was going to call for the police,
 but she, to my surprise, spoke quite civilly to the fellow.

 "'"I thought you had been dead this thirty years, Henry," said she,
 in a shaking voice.

 "'"So I have," said he, and it was awful to hear the tones that he
 said it in.  He had a very dark, fearsome face, and a gleam in his
 eyes that comes back to me in my dreams.  His hair and whiskers were
 shot with gray, and his face was all crinkled and puckered like a
 withered apple.

 "'"Just walk on a little way, dear," said Mrs. Barclay; "I want to
 have a word with this man.  There is nothing to be afraid of."  She
 tried to speak boldly, but she was still deadly pale and could hardly
 get her words out for the trembling of her lips.

 "'I did as she asked me, and they talked together for a few minutes. 
 Then she came down the street with her eyes blazing, and I saw the
 crippled wretch standing by the lamp-post and shaking his clenched
 fists in the air as if he were mad with rage.  She never said a word
 until we were at the door here, when she took me by the hand and
 begged me to tell no one what had happened.

 "'"It's an old acquaintance of mine who has come down in the world,"
 said she.  When I promised her I would say nothing she kissed me, and
 I have never seen her since.  I have told you now the whole truth,
 and if I withheld it from the police it is because I did not realize
 then the danger in which my dear friend stood.  I know that it can
 only be to her advantage that everything should be known.'

 "There was her statement, Watson, and to me, as you can imagine, it
 was like a light on a dark night.  Everything which had been
 disconnected before began at once to assume its true place, and I had
 a shadowy presentiment of the whole sequence of events.  My next step
 obviously was to find the man who had produced such a remarkable
 impression upon Mrs. Barclay.  If he were still in Aldershot it
 should not be a very difficult matter.  There are not such a very
 great number of civilians, and a deformed man was sure to have
 attracted attention.  I spent a day in the search, and by
 evening--this very evening, Watson--I had run him down.  The man's
 name is Henry Wood, and he lives in lodgings in this same street in
 which the ladies met him.  He has only been five days in the place. 
 In the character of a registration-agent I had a most interesting
 gossip with his landlady.  The man is by trade a conjurer and
 performer, going round the canteens after nightfall, and giving a
 little entertainment at each.  He carries some creature about with
 him in that box; about which the landlady seemed to be in
 considerable trepidation, for she had never seen an animal like it. 
 He uses it in some of his tricks according to her account.  So much
 the woman was able to tell me, and also that it was a wonder the man
 lived, seeing how twisted he was, and that he spoke in a strange
 tongue sometimes, and that for the last two nights she had heard him
 groaning and weeping in his bedroom.  He was all right, as far as
 money went, but in his deposit he had given her what looked like a
 bad florin.  She showed it to me, Watson, and it was an Indian rupee.

 "So now, my dear fellow, you see exactly how we stand and why it is I
 want you.  It is perfectly plain that after the ladies parted from
 this man he followed them at a distance, that he saw the quarrel
 between husband and wife through the window, that he rushed in, and
 that the creature which he carried in his box got loose.  That is all
 very certain.  But he is the only person in this world who can tell
 us exactly what happened in that room."

 "And you intend to ask him?"

 "Most certainly--but in the presence of a witness."

 "And I am the witness?"

 "If you will be so good.  If he can clear the matter up, well and
 good.  If he refuses, we have no alternative but to apply for a
 warrant."

 "But how do you know he'll be there when we return?"

 "You may be sure that I took some precautions.  I have one of my
 Baker Street boys mounting guard over him who would stick to him like
 a burr, go where he might.  We shall find him in Hudson Street
 to-morrow, Watson, and meanwhile I should be the criminal myself if I
 kept you out of bed any longer."

 It was midday when we found ourselves at the scene of the tragedy,
 and, under my companion's guidance, we made our way at once to Hudson
 Street.  In spite of his capacity for concealing his emotions, I
 could easily see that Holmes was in a state of suppressed excitement,
 while I was myself tingling with that half-sporting,
 half-intellectual pleasure which I invariably experienced when I
 associated myself with him in his investigations.

 "This is the street," said he, as we turned into a short thoroughfare
 lined with plain two-storied brick houses.  "Ah, here is Simpson to
 report."

 "He's in all right, Mr. Holmes," cried a small street Arab, running
 up to us.

 "Good, Simpson!" said Holmes, patting him on the head.  "Come along,
 Watson.  This is the house."  He sent in his card with a message that
 he had come on important business, and a moment later we were face to
 face with the man whom we had come to see.  In spite of the warm
 weather he was crouching over a fire, and the little room was like an
 oven.  The man sat all twisted and huddled in his chair in a way
 which gave an indescribably impression of deformity; but the face
 which he turned towards us, though worn and swarthy, must at some
 time have been remarkable for its beauty.  He looked suspiciously at
 us now out of yellow-shot, bilious eyes, and, without speaking or
 rising, he waved towards two chairs.

 "Mr. Henry Wood, late of India, I believe," said Holmes, affably. 
 "I've come over this little matter of Colonel Barclay's death."

 "What should I know about that?"

 "That's what I want to ascertain.  You know, I suppose, that unless
 the matter is cleared up, Mrs. Barclay, who is an old friend of
 yours, will in all probability be tried for murder."

 The man gave a violent start.

 "I don't know who you are," he cried, "nor how you come to know what
 you do know, but will you swear that this is true that you tell me?"

 "Why, they are only waiting for her to come to her senses to arrest
 her."

 "My God!  Are you in the police yourself?"

 "No."

 "What business is it of yours, then?"

 "It's every man's business to see justice done."

 "You can take my word that she is innocent."

 "Then you are guilty."

 "No, I am not."

 "Who killed Colonel James Barclay, then?"

 "It was a just providence that killed him.  But, mind you this, that
 if I had knocked his brains out, as it was in my heart to do, he
 would have had no more than his due from my hands.  If his own guilty
 conscience had not struck him down it is likely enough that I might
 have had his blood upon my soul.  You want me to tell the story. 
 Well, I don't know why I shouldn't, for there's no cause for me to be
 ashamed of it.

 "It was in this way, sir.  You see me now with my back like a camel
 and by ribs all awry, but there was a time when Corporal Henry Wood
 was the smartest man in the 117th foot.  We were in India then, in
 cantonments, at a place we'll call Bhurtee.  Barclay, who died the
 other day, was sergeant in the same company as myself, and the belle
 of the regiment, ay, and the finest girl that ever had the breath of
 life between her lips, was Nancy Devoy, the daughter of the
 color-sergeant.  There were two men that loved her, and one that she
 loved, and you'll smile when you look at this poor thing huddled
 before the fire, and hear me say that it was for my good looks that
 she loved me.

 "Well, though I had her heart, her father was set upon her marrying
 Barclay.  I was a harum-scarum, reckless lad, and he had had an
 education, and was already marked for the sword-belt.  But the girl
 held true to me, and it seemed that I would have had her when the
 Mutiny broke out, and all hell was loose in the country.

 "We were shut up in Bhurtee, the regiment of us with half a battery
 of artillery, a company of Sikhs, and a lot of civilians and
 women-folk.  There were ten thousand rebels round us, and they were
 as keen as a set of terriers round a rat-cage.  About the second week
 of it our water gave out, and it was a question whether we could
 communicate with General Neill's column, which was moving up country.
  It was our only chance, for we could not hope to fight our way out
 with all the women and children, so I volunteered to go out and to
 warn General Neill of our danger.  My offer was accepted, and I
 talked it over with Sergeant Barclay, who was supposed to know the
 ground better than any other man, and who drew up a route by which I
 might get through the rebel lines.  At ten o'clock the same night I
 started off upon my journey.  There were a thousand lives to save,
 but it was of only one that I was thinking when I dropped over the
 wall that night.

 "My way ran down a dried-up watercourse, which we hoped would screen
 me from the enemy's sentries; but as I crept round the corner of it I
 walked right into six of them, who were crouching down in the dark
 waiting for me.  In an instant I was stunned with a blow and bound
 hand and foot.  But the real blow was to my heart and not to my head,
 for as I came to and listened to as much as I could understand of
 their talk, I heard enough to tell me that my comrade, the very man
 who had arranged the way that I was to take, had betrayed me by means
 of a native servant into the hands of the enemy.

 "Well, there's no need for me to dwell on that part of it.  You know
 now what James Barclay was capable of.  Bhurtee was relieved by Neill
 next day, but the rebels took me away with them in their retreat, and
 it was many a long year before ever I saw a white face again.  I was
 tortured and tried to get away, and was captured and tortured again. 
 You can see for yourselves the state in which I was left.  Some of
 them that fled into Nepal took me with them, and then afterwards I
 was up past Darjeeling.  The hill-folk up there murdered the rebels
 who had me, and I became their slave for a time until I escaped; but
 instead of going south I had to go north, until I found myself among
 the Afghans.  There I wandered about for many a year, and at last
 came back to the Punjaub, where I lived mostly among the natives and
 picked up a living by the conjuring tricks that I had learned.  What
 use was it for me, a wretched cripple, to go back to England or to
 make myself known to my old comrades?  Even my wish for revenge would
 not make me do that.  I had rather that Nancy and my old pals should
 think of Harry Wood as having died with a straight back, than see him
 living and crawling with a stick like a chimpanzee.  They never
 doubted that I was dead, and I meant that they never should.  I heard
 that Barclay had married Nancy, and that he was rising rapidly in the
 regiment, but even that did not make me speak.

 "But when one gets old one has a longing for home.  For years I've
 been dreaming of the bright green fields and the hedges of England. 
 At last I determined to see them before I died.  I saved enough to
 bring me across, and then I came here where the soldiers are, for I
 know their ways and how to amuse them and so earn enough to keep me."

 "Your narrative is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes.  "I have
 already heard of your meeting with Mrs. Barclay, and your mutual
 recognition.  You then, as I understand, followed her home and saw
 through the window an altercation between her husband and her, in
 which she doubtless cast his conduct to you in his teeth.  Your own
 feelings overcame you, and you ran across the lawn and broke in upon
 them."

 "I did, sir, and at the sight of me he looked as I have never seen a
 man look before, and over he went with his head on the fender.  But
 he was dead before he fell.  I read death on his face as plain as I
 can read that text over the fire.  The bare sight of me was like a
 bullet through his guilty heart."

 "And then?"

 "Then Nancy fainted, and I caught up the key of the door from her
 hand, intending to unlock it and get help.  But as I was doing it it
 seemed to me better to leave it alone and get away, for the thing
 might look black against me, and any way my secret would be out if I
 were taken.  In my haste I thrust the key into my pocket, and dropped
 my stick while I was chasing Teddy, who had run up the curtain.  When
 I got him into his box, from which he had slipped, I was off as fast
 as I could run."

 "Who's Teddy?" asked Holmes.

 The man leaned over and pulled up the front of a kind of hutch in the
 corner.  In an instant out there slipped a beautiful reddish-brown
 creature, thin and lithe, with the legs of a stoat, a long, thin
 nose, and a pair of the finest red eyes that ever I saw in an
 animal's head.

 "It's a mongoose," I cried.

 "Well, some call them that, and some call them ichneumon," said the
 man.  "Snake-catcher is what I call them, and Teddy is amazing quick
 on cobras.  I have one here without the fangs, and Teddy catches it
 every night to please the folk in the canteen.

 "Any other point, sir?"

 "Well, we may have to apply to you again if Mrs. Barclay should prove
 to be in serious trouble."

 "In that case, of course, I'd come forward."

 "But if not, there is no object in raking up this scandal against a
 dead man, foully as he has acted.  You have at least the satisfaction
 of knowing that for thirty years of his life his conscience bitterly
 reproached him for this wicked deed.  Ah, there goes Major Murphy on
 the other side of the street.  Good-bye, Wood.  I want to learn if
 anything has happened since yesterday."

 We were in time to overtake the major before he reached the corner.

 "Ah, Holmes," he said:  "I suppose you have heard that all this fuss
 has come to nothing?"

 "What then?"

 "The inquest is just over.  The medical evidence showed conclusively
 that death was due to apoplexy.  You see it was quite a simple case
 after all."

 "Oh, remarkably superficial," said Holmes, smiling.  "Come, Watson, I
 don't think we shall be wanted in Aldershot any more."

 "There's one thing," said I, as we walked down to the station.  "If
 the husband's name was James, and the other was Henry, what was this
 talk about David?"

 "That one word, my dear Watson, should have told me the whole story
 had I been the ideal reasoner which you are so fond of depicting.  It
 was evidently a term of reproach."

 "Of reproach?"

 "Yes; David strayed a little occasionally, you know, and on one
 occasion in the same direction as Sergeant James Barclay.  You
 remember the small affair of Uriah and Bathsheba?  My biblical
 knowledge is a trifle rusty, I fear, but you will find the story in
 the first or second of Samuel."






                          THE RESIDENT PATIENT

 Glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of Memoirs with which I
 have endeavored to illustrate a few of the mental peculiarities of my
 friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been struck by the difficulty
 which I have experienced in picking out examples which shall in every
 way answer my purpose. For in those cases in which Holmes has
 performed some tour de force of analytical reasoning, and has
 demonstrated the value of his peculiar methods of investigation, the
 facts themselves have often been so slight or so commonplace that I
 could not feel justified in laying them before the public. On the
 other hand, it has frequently happened that he has been concerned in
 some research where the facts have been of the most remarkable and
 dramatic character, but where the share which he has himself taken in
 determining their causes has been less pronounced than I, as his
 biographer, could wish. The small matter which I have chronicled
 under the heading of "A Study in Scarlet," and that other later one
 connected with the loss of the Gloria Scott, may serve as examples of
 this Scylla and Charybdis which are forever threatening the
 historian. It may be that in the business of which I am now about to
 write the part which my friend played is not sufficiently
 accentuated; and yet the whole train of circumstances is so
 remarkable that I cannot bring myself to omit it entirely from this
 series.

 It had been a close, rainy day in October. Our blinds were
 half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and
 re-reading a letter which he had received by the morning post. For
 myself, my term of service in India had trained me to stand heat
 better than cold, and a thermometer of 90 was no hardship. But the
 paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen. Everybody was out of
 town, and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the shingle
 of Southsea. A depleted bank account had caused me to postpone my
 holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country nor the sea
 presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved to lie in the
 very centre of five millions of people, with his filaments stretching
 out and running through them, responsive to every little rumor or
 suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of Nature found no place
 among his many gifts, and his only change was when he turned his mind
 from the evil-doer of the town to track down his brother of the
 country.

 I cannot be sure of the exact date, for some of my memoranda upon the
 matter have been mislaid, but it must have been towards the end of
 the first year during which Holmes and I shared chambers in Baker
 Street. It was boisterous October weather, and we had both remained
 indoors all day, I because I feared with my shaken health to face the
 keen autumn wind, while he was deep in some of those abstruse
 chemical investigations which absorbed him utterly as long as he was
 engaged upon them. Towards evening, however, the breaking of a
 test-tube brought his research to a premature ending, and he sprang
 up from his chair with an exclamation of impatience and a clouded
 brow.

 "A day's work ruined, Watson," said he, striding across to the
 window. "Ha! The stars are out and he wind has fallen. What do you
 say to a ramble through London?"

 I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly acquiesced. For
 three hours we strolled about together, watching the ever-changing
 kaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet Street and
 the Strand. His characteristic talk, with its keen observance of
 detail and subtle power of inference held me amused and enthralled.
 It was ten o'clock before we reached Baker Street again. A brougham
 was waiting at our door.

 "Hum! A doctor's--general practitioner, I perceive," said Holmes.
 "Not been long in practice, but has had a good deal to do. Come to
 consult us, I fancy! Lucky we came back!"

 I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes's methods to be able to
 follow his reasoning, and to see that the nature and state of the
 various medical instruments in the wicker basket which hung in the
 lamplight inside the brougham had given him the data for his swift
 deduction. The light in our window above showed that this late visit
 was indeed intended for us. With some curiosity as to what could have
 sent a brother medico to us at such an hour, I followed Holmes into
 our sanctum.

 A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from a chair by
 the fire as we entered. His age may not have been more than three or
 four and thirty, but his haggard expression and unhealthy hue told of
 a life which has sapped his strength and robbed him of his youth. His
 manner was nervous and shy, like that of a sensitive gentleman, and
 the thin white hand which he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was
 that of an artist rather than of a surgeon. His dress was quiet and
 sombre--a black frock-coat, dark trousers, and a touch of color about
 his necktie.

 "Good-evening, doctor," said Holmes, cheerily. "I am glad to see that
 you have only been waiting a very few minutes."

 "You spoke to my coachman, then?"

 "No, it was the candle on the side-table that told me. Pray resume
 your seat and let me know how I can serve you."

 "My name is Doctor Percy Trevelyan," said our visitor, "and I live at
 403 Brook Street."

 "Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous lesions?"
 I asked.

 His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that his work was
 known to me.

 "I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was quite dead," said
 he. "My publishers gave me a most discouraging account of its sale.
 You are yourself, I presume, a medical man?"

 "A retired army surgeon."

 "My own hobby has always been nervous disease. I should wish to make
 it an absolute specialty, but, of course, a man must take what he can
 get at first. This, however, is beside the question, Mr. Sherlock
 Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your time is. The fact is
 that a very singular train of events has occurred recently at my
 house in Brook Street, and to-night they came to such a head that I
 felt it was quite impossible for me to wait another hour before
 asking for your advice and assistance."

 Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. "You are very welcome to
 both," said he. "Pray let me have a detailed account of what the
 circumstances are which have disturbed you."

 "One or two of them are so trivial," said Dr. Trevelyan, "that really
 I am almost ashamed to mention them. But the matter is so
 inexplicable, and the recent turn which it has taken is so elaborate,
 that I shall lay it all before you, and you shall judge what is
 essential and what is not.

 "I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my own college
 career. I am a London University man, you know, and I am sure that
 you will not think that I am unduly singing my own praises if I say
 that my student career was considered by my professors to be a very
 promising one. After I had graduated I continued to devote myself to
 research, occupying a minor position in King's College Hospital, and
 I was fortunate enough to excite considerable interest by my research
 into the pathology of catalepsy, and finally to win the Bruce
 Pinkerton prize and medal by the monograph on nervous lesions to
 which your friend has just alluded. I should not go too far if I were
 to say that there was a general impression at that time that a
 distinguished career lay before me.

 "But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want of capital. As you
 will readily understand, a specialist who aims high is compelled to
 start in one of a dozen streets in the Cavendish Square quarter, all
 of which entail enormous rents and furnishing expenses. Besides this
 preliminary outlay, he must be prepared to keep himself for some
 years, and to hire a presentable carriage and horse. To do this was
 quite beyond my power, and I could only hope that by economy I might
 in ten years' time save enough to enable me to put up my plate.
 Suddenly, however, an unexpected incident opened up quite a new
 prospect to me.

 "This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of Blessington, who
 was a complete stranger to me. He came up to my room one morning, and
 plunged into business in an instant.

 "'You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so distinguished a
 career and won a great prize lately?' said he.

 "I bowed.

 "'Answer me frankly,' he continued, 'for you will find it to your
 interest to do so. You have all the cleverness which makes a
 successful man. Have you the tact?'

 "I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the question.

 "'I trust that I have my share,' I said.

 "'Any bad habits? Not drawn towards drink, eh?'

 "'Really, sir!' I cried.

 "'Quite right! That's all right! But I was bound to ask. With all
 these qualities, why are you not in practice?'

 "I shrugged my shoulders.

 "'Come, come!' said he, in his bustling way. 'It's the old story.
 More in your brains than in your pocket, eh? What would you say if I
 were to start you in Brook Street?'

 "I stared at him in astonishment.

 "'Oh, it's for my sake, not for yours,' he cried.  'I'll be perfectly
 frank with you, and if it suits you it will suit me very well. I have
 a few thousands to invest, d'ye see, and I think I'll sink them in
 you.'

 "'But why?' I gasped.

 "'Well, it's just like any other speculation, and safer than most.'

 "'What am I to do, then?'

 "'I'll tell you. I'll take the house, furnish it, pay the maids, and
 run the whole place. All you have to do is just to wear out your
 chair in the consulting-room. I'll let you have pocket-money and
 everything. Then you hand over to me three quarters of what you earn,
 and you keep the other quarter for yourself.'

 "This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which the man
 Blessington approached me. I won't weary you with the account of how
 we bargained and negotiated. It ended in my moving into the house
 next Lady Day, and starting in practice on very much the same
 conditions as he had suggested. He came himself to live with me in
 the character of a resident patient. His heart was weak, it appears,
 and he needed constant medical supervision. He turned the two best
 rooms of the first floor into a sitting-room and bedroom for himself.
 He was a man of singular habits, shunning company and very seldom
 going out. His life was irregular, but in one respect he was
 regularity itself. Every evening, at the same hour, he walked into
 the consulting-room, examined the books, put down five and
 three-pence for every guinea that I had earned, and carried the rest
 off to the strong-box in his own room.

 "I may say with confidence that he never had occasion to regret his
 speculation. From the first it was a success. A few good cases and
 the reputation which I had won in the hospital brought me rapidly to
 the front, and during the last few years I have made him a rich man.

 "So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my relations with Mr.
 Blessington. It only remains for me now to tell you what has occurred
 to bring me here to-night.

 "Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in, as it seemed to
 me, a state of considerable agitation. He spoke of some burglary
 which, he said, had been committed in the West End, and he appeared,
 I remember, to be quite unnecessarily excited about it, declaring
 that a day should not pass before we should add stronger bolts to our
 windows and doors. For a week he continued to be in a peculiar state
 of restlessness, peering continually out of the windows, and ceasing
 to take the short walk which had usually been the prelude to his
 dinner. From his manner it struck me that he was in mortal dread of
 something or somebody, but when I questioned him upon the point he
 became so offensive that I was compelled to drop the subject.
 Gradually, as time passed, his fears appeared to die away, and he had
 renewed his former habits, when a fresh event reduced him to the
 pitiable state of prostration in which he now lies.

 "What happened was this. Two days ago I received the letter which I
 now read to you. Neither address nor date is attached to it.

 "'A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England,' it runs, 'would
 be glad to avail himself of the professional assistance of Dr. Percy
 Trevelyan. He has been for some years a victim to cataleptic attacks,
 on which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is an authority. He
 proposes to call at about quarter past six to-morrow evening, if Dr.
 Trevelyan will make it convenient to be at home.'

 "This letter interested me deeply, because the chief difficulty in
 the study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease. You may
 believe, than, that I was in my consulting-room when, at the
 appointed hour, the page showed in the patient.

 He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and common-place--by no means
 the conception one forms of a Russian nobleman. I was much more
 struck by the appearance of his companion. This was a tall young man,
 surprisingly handsome, with a dark, fierce face, and the limbs and
 chest of a Hercules. He had his hand under the other's arm as they
 entered, and helped him to a chair with a tenderness which one would
 hardly have expected from his appearance.

 "'You will excuse my coming in, doctor,' said he to me, speaking
 English with a slight lisp. 'This is my father, and his health is a
 matter of the most overwhelming importance to me.'

 "I was touched by this filial anxiety. 'You would, perhaps, care to
 remain during the consultation?' said I.

 "'Not for the world,' he cried with a gesture of horror. 'It is more
 painful to me than I can express. If I were to see my father in one
 of these dreadful seizures I am convinced that I should never survive
 it. My own nervous system is an exceptionally sensitive one. With
 your permission, I will remain in the waiting-room while you go into
 my father's case.'

 "To this, of course, I assented, and the young man withdrew. The
 patient and I then plunged into a discussion of his case, of which I
 took exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable for intelligence, and
 his answers were frequently obscure, which I attributed to his
 limited acquaintance with our language. Suddenly, however, as I sat
 writing, he ceased to give any answer at all to my inquiries, and on
 my turning towards him I was shocked to see that he was sitting bolt
 upright in his chair, staring at me with a perfectly blank and rigid
 face. He was again in the grip of his mysterious malady.

 "My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of pity and horror.
 My second, I fear, was rather one of professional satisfaction. I
 made notes of my patient's pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity
 of his muscles, and examined his reflexes. There was nothing markedly
 abnormal in any of these conditions, which harmonized with my former
 experiences. I had obtained good results in such cases by the
 inhalation of nitrite of amyl, and the present seemed an admirable
 opportunity of testing its virtues. The bottle was downstairs in my
 laboratory, so leaving my patient seated in his chair, I ran down to
 get it. There was some little delay in finding it--five minutes, let
 us say--and then I returned. Imagine my amazement to find the room
 empty and the patient gone.

 "Of course, my first act was to run into the waiting-room. The son
 had gone also. The hall door had been closed, but not shut. My page
 who admits patients is a new boy and by no means quick. He waits
 downstairs, and runs up to show patients out when I ring the
 consulting-room bell. He had heard nothing, and the affair remained a
 complete mystery. Mr. Blessington came in from his walk shortly
 afterwards, but I did not say anything to him upon the subject, for,
 to tell the truth, I have got in the way of late of holding as little
 communication with him as possible.

 "Well, I never thought that I should see anything more of the Russian
 and his son, so you can imagine my amazement when, at the very same
 hour this evening, they both came marching into my consulting-room,
 just as they had done before.

 "'I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my abrupt
 departure yesterday, doctor,' said my patient.

 "'I confess that I was very much surprised at it,' said I.

 "'Well, the fact is,' he remarked, 'that when I recover from these
 attacks my mind is always very clouded as to all that has gone
 before. I woke up in a strange room, as it seemed to me, and made my
 way out into the street in a sort of dazed way when you were absent.'

 "'And I,' said the son, 'seeing my father pass the door of the
 waiting-room, naturally thought that the consultation had come to an
 end. It was not until we had reached home that I began to realize the
 true state of affairs.'

 "'Well,' said I, laughing, 'there is no harm done except that you
 puzzled me terribly; so if you, sir, would kindly step into the
 waiting-room I shall be happy to continue our consultation which was
 brought to so abrupt an ending.'

 "For half an hour or so I discussed that old gentleman's symptoms
 with him, and then, having prescribed for him, I saw him go off upon
 the arm of his son.

 "I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose this hour of
 the day for his exercise. He came in shortly afterwards and passed
 upstairs. An instant later I heard him running down, and he burst
 into my consulting-room like a man who is mad with panic.

 "'Who has been in my room?' he cried.

 "'No one,' said I.

 "'It's a lie!' He yelled. 'Come up and look!'

 "I passed over the grossness of his language, as he seemed half out
 of his mind with fear. When I went upstairs with him he pointed to
 several footprints upon the light carpet.

 "'D'you mean to say those are mine?' he cried.

 "They were certainly very much larger than any which he could have
 made, and were evidently quite fresh. It rained hard this afternoon,
 as you know, and my patients were the only people who called. It must
 have been the case, then, that the man in the waiting-room had, for
 some unknown reason, while I was busy with the other, ascended to the
 room of my resident patient. Nothing has been touched or taken, but
 there were the footprints to prove that the intrusion was an
 undoubted fact.

 "Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter than I should
 have thought possible, though of course it was enough to disturb
 anybody's peace of mind. He actually sat crying in an arm-chair, and
 I could hardly get him to speak coherently. It was his suggestion
 that I should come round to you, and of course I at once saw the
 propriety of it, for certainly the incident is a very singular one,
 though he appears to completely overrate its importance. If you would
 only come back with me in my brougham, you would at least be able to
 soothe him, though I can hardly hope that you will be able to explain
 this remarkable occurrence."

 Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative with an
 intentness which showed me that his interest was keenly aroused. His
 face was as impassive as ever, but his lids had drooped more heavily
 over his eyes, and his smoke had curled up more thickly from his pipe
 to emphasize each curious episode in the doctor's tale. As our
 visitor concluded, Holmes sprang up without a word, handed me my hat,
 picked his own from the table, and followed Dr. Trevelyan to the
 door. Within a quarter of an hour we had been dropped at the door of
 the physician's residence in Brook Street, one of those sombre,
 flat-faced houses which one associates with a West-End practice. A
 small page admitted us, and we began at once to ascend the broad,
 well-carpeted stair.

 But a singular interruption brought us to a standstill. The light at
 the top was suddenly whisked out, and from the darkness came a reedy,
 quivering voice.

 "I have a pistol," it cried. "I give you my word that I'll fire if
 you come any nearer."

 "This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington," cried Dr. Trevelyan.

 "Oh, then it is you, doctor," said the voice, with a great heave of
 relief. "But those other gentlemen, are they what they pretend to
 be?"

 We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the darkness.

 "Yes, yes, it's all right," said the voice at last. "You can come up,
 and I am sorry if my precautions have annoyed you."

 He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw before us a
 singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well as his voice,
 testified to his jangled nerves. He was very fat, but had apparently
 at some time been much fatter, so that the skin hung about his face
 in loose pouches, like the cheeks of a blood-hound. He was of a
 sickly color, and his thin, sandy hair seemed to bristle up with the
 intensity of his emotion. In his hand he held a pistol, but he thrust
 it into his pocket as we advanced.

 "Good-evening, Mr. Holmes," said he. "I am sure I am very much
 obliged to you for coming round. No one ever needed your advice more
 than I do. I suppose that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this most
 unwarrantable intrusion into my rooms."

 "Quite so," said Holmes. "Who are these two men Mr. Blessington, and
 why do they wish to molest you?"

 "Well, well," said the resident patient, in a nervous fashion, "of
 course it is hard to say that. You can hardly expect me to answer
 that, Mr. Holmes."

 "Do you mean that you don't know?"

 "Come in here, if you please. Just have the kindness to step in
 here."

 He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably
 furnished.

 "You see that," said he, pointing to a big black box at the end of
 his bed. "I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes--never made
 but one investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell you. But I
 don't believe in bankers. I would never trust a banker, Mr. Holmes.
 Between ourselves, what little I have is in that box, so you can
 understand what it means to me when unknown people force themselves
 into my rooms."

 Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way and shook his
 head.

 "I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive me," said he.

 "But I have told you everything."

 Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust. "Good-night, Dr.
 Trevelyan," said he.

 "And no advice for me?" cried Blessington, in a breaking voice.

 "My advice to your, sir, is to speak the truth."

 A minute later we were in the street and walking for home. We had
 crossed Oxford Street and were half way down Harley Street before I
 could get a word from my companion.

 "Sorry to bring you out on such a fool's errand, Watson," he said at
 last. "It is an interesting case, too, at the bottom of it."

 "I can make little of it," I confessed.

 "Well, it is quite evident that there are two men--more, perhaps, but
 at least two--who are determined for some reason to get at this
 fellow Blessington. I have no doubt in my mind that both on the first
 and on the second occasion that young man penetrated to Blessington's
 room, while his confederate, by an ingenious device, kept the doctor
 from interfering."

 "And the catalepsy?"

 "A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should hardly dare to hint
 as much to our specialist. It is a very easy complaint to imitate. I
 have done it myself."

 "And then?"

 "By the purest chance Blessington was out on each occasion. Their
 reason for choosing so unusual an hour for a consultation was
 obviously to insure that there should be no other patient in the
 waiting-room. It just happened, however, that this hour coincided
 with Blessington's constitutional, which seems to show that they were
 not very well acquainted with his daily routine. Of course, if they
 had been merely after plunder they would at least have made some
 attempt to search for it. Besides, I can read in a man's eye when it
 is his own skin that he is frightened for. It is inconceivable that
 this fellow could have made two such vindictive enemies as these
 appear to be without knowing of it. I hold it, therefore, to be
 certain that he does know who these men are, and that for reasons of
 his own he suppresses it. It is just possible that to-morrow may find
 him in a more communicative mood."

 "Is there not one alternative," I suggested, "grotesquely improbably,
 no doubt, but still just conceivable? Might the whole story of the
 cataleptic Russian and his son be a concoction of Dr. Trevelyan's,
 who has, for his own purposes, been in Blessington's rooms?"

 I saw in the gaslight that Holmes wore an amused smile at this
 brilliant departure of mine.

 "My dear fellow," said he, "it was one of the first solutions which
 occurred to me, but I was soon able to corroborate the doctor's tale.
 This young man has left prints upon the stair-carpet which made it
 quite superfluous for me to ask to see those which he had made in the
 room. When I tell you that his shoes were square-toed instead of
 being pointed like Blessington's, and were quite an inch and a third
 longer than the doctor's, you will acknowledge that there can be no
 doubt as to his individuality. But we may sleep on it now, for I
 shall be surprised if we do not hear something further from Brook
 Street in the morning."

 Sherlock Holmes's prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in a dramatic
 fashion. At half-past seven next morning, in the first glimmer of
 daylight, I found him standing by my bedside in his dressing-gown.

 "There's a brougham waiting for us, Watson," said he.

 "What's the matter, then?"

 "The Brook Street business."

 "Any fresh news?"

 "Tragic, but ambiguous," said he, pulling up the blind.  "Look at
 this--a sheet from a note-book, with 'For God's sake come at once--P.
 T.,' scrawled upon it in pencil. Our friend, the doctor, was hard put
 to it when he wrote this. Come along, my dear fellow, for it's an
 urgent call."

 In a quarter of an hour or so we were back at the physician's house. 
 He came running out to meet us with a face of horror.

 "Oh, such a business!" he cried, with his hands to his temples.

 "What then?"

 "Blessington has committed suicide!"

 Holmes whistled.

 "Yes, he hanged himself during the night."

 We had entered, and the doctor had preceded us into what was
 evidently his waiting-room.

 "I really hardly know what I am doing," he cried. "The police are
 already upstairs. It has shaken me most dreadfully."

 "When did you find it out?"

 "He has a cup of tea taken in to him early every morning. When the
 maid entered, about seven, there the unfortunate fellow was hanging
 in the middle of the room. He had tied his cord to the hook on which
 the heavy lamp used to hang, and he had jumped off from the top of
 the very box that he showed us yesterday."

 Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought.

 "With your permission," said he at last, "I should like to go
 upstairs and look into the matter."

 We both ascended, followed by the doctor.

 It was a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the bedroom door.
 I have spoken of the impression of flabbiness which this man
 Blessington conveyed. As he dangled from the hook it was exaggerated
 and intensified until he was scarce human in his appearance. The neck
 was drawn out like a plucked chicken's, making the rest of him seem
 the more obese and unnatural by the contrast. He was clad only in his
 long night-dress, and his swollen ankles and ungainly feet protruded
 starkly from beneath it. Beside him stood a smart-looking
 police-inspector, who was taking notes in a pocket-book.

 "Ah, Mr. Holmes," said he, heartily, as my friend entered, "I am
 delighted to see you."

 "Good-morning, Lanner," answered Holmes; "you won't think me an
 intruder, I am sure. Have you heard of the events which led up to
 this affair?"

 "Yes, I heard something of them."

 "Have you formed any opinion?"

 "As far as I can see, the man has been driven out of his senses by
 fright. The bed has been well slept in, you see. There's his
 impression deep enough. It's about five in the morning, you know,
 that suicides are most common. That would be about his time for
 hanging himself. It seems to have been a very deliberate affair."

 "I should say that he has been dead about three hours, judging by the
 rigidity of the muscles," said I.

 "Noticed anything peculiar about the room?" asked Holmes.

 "Found a screw-driver and some screws on the wash-hand stand. Seems
 to have smoked heavily during the night, too. Here are four
 cigar-ends that I picked out of the fireplace."

 "Hum!" said Holmes, "have you got his cigar-holder?"

 "No, I have seen none."

 "His cigar-case, then?"

 "Yes, it was in his coat-pocket."

 Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it contained.

 "Oh, this is an Havana, and these others are cigars of the peculiar
 sort which are imported by the Dutch from their East Indian colonies.
 They are usually wrapped in straw, you know, and are thinner for
 their length than any other brand." He picked up the four ends and
 examined them with his pocket-lens.

 "Two of these have been smoked from a holder and two without," said
 he. "Two have been cut by a not very sharp knife, and two have had
 the ends bitten off by a set of excellent teeth. This is no suicide,
 Mr. Lanner. It is a very deeply planned and cold-blooded murder."

 "Impossible!" cried the inspector.

 "And why?"

 "Why should any one murder a man in so clumsy a fashion as by hanging
 him?"

 "That is what we have to find out."

 "How could they get in?"

 "Through the front door."

 "It was barred in the morning."

 "Then it was barred after them."

 "How do you know?"

 "I saw their traces. Excuse me a moment, and I may be able to give
 you some further information about it."

 He went over to the door, and turning the lock he examined it in his
 methodical way. Then he took out the key, which was on the inside,
 and inspected that also. The bed, the carpet, the chairs the
 mantelpiece, the dead body, and the rope were each in turn examined,
 until at last he professed himself satisfied, and with my aid and
 that of the inspector cut down the wretched object and laid it
 reverently under a sheet.

 "How about this rope?" he asked.

 "It is cut off this," said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a large coil from
 under the bed. "He was morbidly nervous of fire, and always kept this
 beside him, so that he might escape by the window in case the stairs
 were burning."

 "That must have saved them trouble," said Holmes, thoughtfully. "Yes,
 the actual facts are very plain, and I shall be surprised if by the
 afternoon I cannot give you the reasons for them as well. I will take
 this photograph of Blessington, which I see upon the mantelpiece, as
 it may help me in my inquiries."

 "But you have told us nothing!" cried the doctor.

 "Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of events," said
 Holmes. "There were three of them in it: the young man, the old man,
 and a third, to whose identity I have no clue. The first two, I need
 hardly remark, are the same who masqueraded as the Russian count and
 his son, so we can give a very full description of them. They were
 admitted by a confederate inside the house. If I might offer you a
 word of advice, Inspector, it would be to arrest the page, who, as I
 understand, has only recently come into your service, Doctor."

 "The young imp cannot be found," said Dr. Trevelyan; "the maid and
 the cook have just been searching for him."

 Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

 "He has played a not unimportant part in this drama," said he. "The
 three men having ascended the stairs, which they did on tiptoe, the
 elder man first, the younger man second, and the unknown man in the
 rear--"

 "My dear Holmes!" I ejaculated.

 "Oh, there could be no question as to the superimposing of the
 footmarks. I had the advantage of learning which was which last
 night. They ascended, then, to Mr. Blessington's room, the door of
 which they found to be locked. With the help of a wire, however, they
 forced round the key. Even without the lens you will perceive, by the
 scratches on this ward, where the pressure was applied.

 "On entering the room their first proceeding must have been to gag
 Mr. Blessington. He may have been asleep, or he may have been so
 paralyzed with terror as to have been unable to cry out. These walls
 are thick, and it is conceivable that his shriek, if he had time to
 utter one, was unheard.

 "Having secured him, it is evident to me that a consultation of some
 sort was held. Probably it was something in the nature of a judicial
 proceeding. It must have lasted for some time, for it was then that
 these cigars were smoked. The older man sat in that wicker chair; it
 was he who used the cigar-holder. The younger man sat over yonder; he
 knocked his ash off against the chest of drawers. The third fellow
 paced up and down. Blessington, I think, sat upright in the bed, but
 of that I cannot be absolutely certain.

 "Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and hanging him. The
 matter was so prearranged that it is my belief that they brought with
 them some sort of block or pulley which might serve as a gallows.
 That screw-driver and those screws were, as I conceive, for fixing it
 up. Seeing the hook, however they naturally saved themselves the
 trouble. Having finished their work they made off, and the door was
 barred behind them by their confederate."

 We had all listened with the deepest interest to this sketch of the
 night's doings, which Holmes had deduced from signs so subtle and
 minute that, even when he had pointed them out to us, we could
 scarcely follow him in his reasoning. The inspector hurried away on
 the instant to make inquiries about the page, while Holmes and I
 returned to Baker Street for breakfast.

 "I'll be back by three," said he, when we had finished our meal.
 "Both the inspector and the doctor will meet me here at that hour,
 and I hope by that time to have cleared up any little obscurity which
 the case may still present."

 Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was a quarter to
 four before my friend put in an appearance. From his expression as he
 entered, however, I could see that all had gone well with him.

 "Any news, Inspector?"

 "We have got the boy, sir."

 "Excellent, and I have got the men."

 "You have got them!" we cried, all three.

 "Well, at least I have got their identity. This so-called Blessington
 is, as I expected, well known at headquarters, and so are his
 assailants. Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat."

 "The Worthingdon bank gang," cried the inspector.

 "Precisely," said Holmes.

 "Then Blessington must have been Sutton."

 "Exactly," said Holmes.

 "Why, that makes it as clear as crystal," said the inspector.

 But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in bewilderment.

 "You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank business," said
 Holmes. "Five men were in it--these four and a fifth called
 Cartwright. Tobin, the care-taker, was murdered, and the thieves got
 away with seven thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They were all five
 arrested, but the evidence against them was by no means conclusive.
 This Blessington or Sutton, who was the worst of the gang, turned
 informer. On his evidence Cartwright was hanged and the other three
 got fifteen years apiece. When they got out the other day, which was
 some years before their full term, they set themselves, as you
 perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to avenge the death of their
 comrade upon him. Twice they tried to get at him and failed; a third
 time, you see, it came off. Is there anything further which I can
 explain, Dr. Trevelyan?"

 "I think you have made it all remarkable clear," said the doctor. "No
 doubt the day on which he was perturbed was the day when he had seen
 of their release in the newspapers."

 "Quite so. His talk about a burglary was the merest blind."

 "But why could he not tell you this?"

 "Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character of his old
 associates, he was trying to hide his own identity from everybody as
 long as he could. His secret was a shameful one, and he could not
 bring himself to divulge it. However, wretch as he was, he was still
 living under the shield of British law, and I have no doubt,
 Inspector, that you will see that, though that shield may fail to
 guard, the sword of justice is still there to avenge."

 Such were the singular circumstances in connection with the Resident
 Patient and the Brook Street Doctor. From that night nothing has been
 seen of the three murderers by the police, and it is surmised at
 Scotland Yard that they were among the passengers of the ill-fated
 steamer Norah Creina, which was lost some years ago with all hands
 upon the Portuguese coast, some leagues to the north of Oporto. The
 proceedings against the page broke down for want of evidence, and the
 Brook Street Mystery, as it was called, has never until now been
 fully dealt with in any public print.






                          THE GREEK INTERPRETER

 During my long and intimate acquaintance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes I
 had never heard him refer to his relations, and hardly ever to his
 own early life.  This reticence upon his part had increased the
 somewhat inhuman effect which he produced upon me, until sometimes I
 found myself regarding him as an isolated phenomenon, a brain without
 a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was pre-eminent in
 intelligence.  His aversion to women and his disinclination to form
 new friendships were both typical of his unemotional character, but
 not more so than his complete suppression of every reference to his
 own people.  I had come to believe that he was an orphan with no
 relatives living, but one day, to my very great surprise, he began to
 talk to me about his brother.

 It was after tea on a summer evening, and the conversation, which had
 roamed in a desultory, spasmodic fashion from golf clubs to the
 causes of the change in the obliquity of the ecliptic, came round at
 last to the question of atavism and hereditary aptitudes.  The point
 under discussion was, how far any singular gift in an individual was
 due to his ancestry and how far to his own early training.

 "In your own case," said I, "from all that you have told me, it seems
 obvious that your faculty of observation and your peculiar facility
 for deduction are due to your own systematic training."

 "To some extent," he answered, thoughtfully.  "My ancestors were
 country squires, who appear to have led much the same life as is
 natural to their class.  But, none the less, my turn that way is in
 my veins, and may have come with my grandmother, who was the sister
 of Vernet, the French artist.  Art in the blood is liable to take the
 strangest forms."

 "But how do you know that it is hereditary?"

 "Because my brother Mycroft possesses it in a larger degree than I
 do."

 This was news to me indeed.  If there were another man with such
 singular powers in England, how was it that neither police nor public
 had heard of him?  I put the question, with a hint that it was my
 companion's modesty which made him acknowledge his brother as his
 superior.  Holmes laughed at my suggestion.

 "My dear Watson," said he, "I cannot agree with those who rank
 modesty among the virtues.  To the logician all things should be seen
 exactly as they are, and to underestimate one's self is as much a
 departure from truth as to exaggerate one's own powers.  When I say,
 therefore, that Mycroft has better powers of observation than I, you
 may take it that I am speaking the exact and literal truth."

 "Is he your junior?"

 "Seven years my senior."

 "How comes it that he is unknown?"

 "Oh, he is very well known in his own circle."

 "Where, then?"

 "Well, in the Diogenes Club, for example."

 I had never heard of the institution, and my face must have
 proclaimed as much, for Sherlock Holmes pulled out his watch.

 "The Diogenes Club is the queerest club in London, and Mycroft one of
 the queerest men.  He's always there from quarter to five to twenty
 to eight.  It's six now, so if you care for a stroll this beautiful
 evening I shall be very happy to introduce you to two curiosities."

 Five minutes later we were in the street, walking towards Regent's
 Circus.

 "You wonder," said my companion, "why it is that Mycroft does not use
 his powers for detective work.  He is incapable of it."

 "But I thought you said--"

 "I said that he was my superior in observation and deduction.  If the
 art of the detective began and ended in reasoning from an arm-chair,
 my brother would be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived.  But
 he has no ambition and no energy.  He will not even go out of his way
 to verify his own solution, and would rather be considered wrong than
 take the trouble to prove himself right.  Again and again I have
 taken a problem to him, and have received an explanation which has
 afterwards proved to be the correct one.  And yet he was absolutely
 incapable of working out the practical points which must be gone into
 before a case could be laid before a judge or jury."

 "It is not his profession, then?"

 "By no means.  What is to me a means of livelihood is to him the
 merest hobby of a dilettante.  He has an extraordinary faculty for
 figures, and audits the books in some of the government departments. 
 Mycroft lodges in Pall Mall, and he walks round the corner into
 Whitehall every morning and back every evening.  From year's end to
 year's end he takes no other exercise, and is seen nowhere else,
 except only in the Diogenes Club, which is just opposite his rooms."

 "I cannot recall the name."

 "Very likely not.  There are many men in London, you know, who, some
 from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the company of
 their fellows.  Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the
 latest periodicals.  It is for the convenience of these that the
 Diogenes Club was started, and it now contains the most unsociable
 and unclubable men in town.  No member is permitted to take the least
 notice of any other one.  Save in the Stranger's Room, no talking is,
 under any circumstances, allowed, and three offences, if brought to
 the notice of the committee, render the talker liable to expulsion. 
 My brother was one of the founders, and I have myself found it a very
 soothing atmosphere."

 We had reached Pall Mall as we talked, and were walking down it from
 the St. James's end.  Sherlock Holmes stopped at a door some little
 distance from the Carlton, and, cautioning me not to speak, he led
 the way into the hall.  Through the glass paneling I caught a glimpse
 of a large and luxurious room, in which a considerable number of men
 were sitting about and reading papers, each in his own little nook. 
 Holmes showed me into a small chamber which looked out into Pall
 Mall, and then, leaving me for a minute, he came back with a
 companion whom I knew could only be his brother.

 Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock.  His
 body was absolutely corpulent, but his face, though massive, had
 preserved something of the sharpness of expression which was so
 remarkable in that of his brother.  His eyes, which were of a
 peculiarly light, watery gray, seemed to always retain that far-away,
 introspective look which I had only observed in Sherlock's when he
 was exerting his full powers.

 "I am glad to meet you, sir," said he, putting out a broad, fat hand
 like the flipper of a seal.  "I hear of Sherlock everywhere since you
 became his chronicler.  By the way, Sherlock, I expected to see you
 round last week, to consult me over that Manor House case.  I thought
 you might be a little out of your depth."

 "No, I solved it," said my friend, smiling.

 "It was Adams, of course."

 "Yes, it was Adams."

 "I was sure of it from the first."  The two sat down together in the
 bow-window of the club.  "To any one who wishes to study mankind this
 is the spot," said Mycroft.  "Look at the magnificent types!  Look at
 these two men who are coming towards us, for example."

 "The billiard-marker and the other?"

 "Precisely.  What do you make of the other?"

 The two men had stopped opposite the window.  Some chalk marks over
 the waistcoat pocket were the only signs of billiards which I could
 see in one of them.  The other was a very small, dark fellow, with
 his hat pushed back and several packages under his arm.

 "An old soldier, I perceive," said Sherlock.

 "And very recently discharged," remarked the brother.

 "Served in India, I see."

 "And a non-commissioned officer."

 "Royal Artillery, I fancy," said Sherlock.

 "And a widower."

 "But with a child."

 "Children, my dear boy, children."

 "Come," said I, laughing, "this is a little too much."

 "Surely," answered Holmes, "it is not hard to say that a man with
 that bearing, expression of authority, and sunbaked skin, is a
 soldier, is more than a private, and is not long from India."

 "That he has not left the service long is shown by his still wearing
 his 'ammunition boots', as they are called," observed Mycroft.

 "He had not the cavalry stride, yet he wore his hat on one side, as
 is shown by the lighter skin of that side of his brow.  His weight is
 against his being a sapper.  He is in the artillery."

 "Then, of course, his complete mourning shows that he has lost some
 one very dear.  The fact that he is doing his own shopping looks as
 though it were his wife.  He has been buying things for children, you
 perceive.  There is a rattle, which shows that one of them is very
 young.  The wife probably died in childbed.  The fact that he has a
 picture-book under his arm shows that there is another child to be
 thought of."

 I began to understand what my friend meant when he said that his
 brother possessed even keener faculties that he did himself.  He
 glanced across at me and smiled.  Mycroft took snuff from a
 tortoise-shell box, and brushed away the wandering grains from his
 coat front with a large, red silk handkerchief.

 "By the way, Sherlock," said he, "I have had something quite after
 your own heart--a most singular problem--submitted to my judgment.  I
 really had not the energy to follow it up save in a very incomplete
 fashion, but it gave me a basis for some pleasing speculation.  If
 you would care to hear the facts--"

 "My dear Mycroft, I should be delighted."

 The brother scribbled a note upon a leaf of his pocket-book, and,
 ringing the bell, he handed it to the waiter.

 "I have asked Mr. Melas to step across," said he.  "He lodges on the
 floor above me, and I have some slight acquaintance with him, which
 led him to come to me in his perplexity.  Mr. Melas is a Greek by
 extraction, as I understand, and he is a remarkable linguist.  He
 earns his living partly as interpreter in the law courts and partly
 by acting as guide to any wealthy Orientals who may visit the
 Northumberland Avenue hotels.  I think I will leave him to tell his
 very remarkable experience in his own fashion."

 A few minutes later we were joined by a short, stout man whose olive
 face and coal-black hair proclaimed his Southern origin, though his
 speech was that of an educated Englishman.  He shook hands eagerly
 with Sherlock Holmes, and his dark eyes sparkled with pleasure when
 he understood that the specialist was anxious to hear his story.

 "I do not believe that the police credit me--on my word, I do not,"
 said he in a wailing voice.  "Just because they have never heard of
 it before, they think that such a thing cannot be.  But I know that I
 shall never be easy in my mind until I know what has become of my
 poor man with the sticking-plaster upon his face."

 "I am all attention," said Sherlock Holmes.

 "This is Wednesday evening," said Mr. Melas.  "Well then, it was
 Monday night--only two days ago, you understand--that all this
 happened.  I am an interpreter, as perhaps my neighbor there has told
 you.  I interpret all languages--or nearly all--but as I am a Greek
 by birth and with a Grecian name, it is with that particular tongue
 that I am principally associated.  For many years I have been the
 chief Greek interpreter in London, and my name is very well known in
 the hotels.

 It happens not unfrequently that I am sent for at strange hours by
 foreigners who get into difficulties, or by travelers who arrive late
 and wish my services.  I was not surprised, therefore, on Monday
 night when a Mr. Latimer, a very fashionably dressed young man, came
 up to my rooms and asked me to accompany him in a cab which was
 waiting at the door.  A Greek friend had come to see him upon
 business, he said, and as he could speak nothing but his own tongue,
 the services of an interpreter were indispensable.  He gave me to
 understand that his house was some little distance off, in
 Kensington, and he seemed to be in a great hurry, bustling me rapidly
 into the cab when we had descended to the street.

 "I say into the cab, but I soon became doubtful as to whether it was
 not a carriage in which I found myself.  It was certainly more roomy
 than the ordinary four-wheeled disgrace to London, and the fittings,
 though frayed, were of rich quality.  Mr. Latimer seated himself
 opposite to me and we started off through Charing Cross and up the
 Shaftesbury Avenue.  We had come out upon Oxford Street and I had
 ventured some remark as to this being a roundabout way to Kensington,
 when my words were arrested by the extraordinary conduct of my
 companion.

 "He began by drawing a most formidable-looking bludgeon loaded with
 lead from his pocket, and switching it backward and forward several
 times, as if to test its weight and strength.  Then he placed it
 without a word upon the seat beside him.  Having done this, he drew
 up the windows on each side, and I found to my astonishment that they
 were covered with paper so as to prevent my seeing through them.

 "'I am sorry to cut off your view, Mr. Melas,' said he.  'The fact is
 that I have no intention that you should see what the place is to
 which we are driving.  It might possibly be inconvenient to me if you
 could find your way there again.'

 "As you can imagine, I was utterly taken aback by such an address. 
 My companion was a powerful, broad-shouldered young fellow, and,
 apart from the weapon, I should not have had the slightest chance in
 a struggle with him.

 "'This is very extraordinary conduct, Mr. Latimer,' I stammered. 
 'You must be aware that what you are doing is quite illegal.'

 "'It is somewhat of a liberty, no doubt,' said he, 'but we'll make it
 up to you.  I must warn you, however, Mr. Melas, that if at any time
 to-night you attempt to raise an alarm or do anything which is
 against my interests, you will find it a very serious thing.  I beg
 you to remember that no one knows where you are, and that, whether
 you are in this carriage or in my house, you are equally in my
 power.'

 "His words were quiet, but he had a rasping way of saying them which
 was very menacing.  I sat in silence wondering what on earth could be
 his reason for kidnapping me in this extraordinary fashion.  Whatever
 it might be, it was perfectly clear that there was no possible use in
 my resisting, and that I could only wait to see what might befall.

 "For nearly two hours we drove without my having the least clue as to
 where we were going.  Sometimes the rattle of the stones told of a
 paved causeway, and at others our smooth, silent course suggested
 asphalt; but, save by this variation in sound, there was nothing at
 all which could in the remotest way help me to form a guess as to
 where we were.  The paper over each window was impenetrable to light,
 and a blue curtain was drawn across the glass work in front.  It was
 a quarter-past seven when we left Pall Mall, and my watch showed me
 that it was ten minutes to nine when we at last came to a standstill.
  My companion let down the window, and I caught a glimpse of a low,
 arched doorway with a lamp burning above it.  As I was hurried from
 the carriage it swung open, and I found myself inside the house, with
 a vague impression of a lawn and trees on each side of me as I
 entered.  Whether these were private grounds, however, or bona-fide
 country was more than I could possibly venture to say.

 "There was a colored gas-lamp inside which was turned so low that I
 could see little save that the hall was of some size and hung with
 pictures.  In the dim light I could make out that the person who had
 opened the door was a small, mean-looking, middle-aged man with
 rounded shoulders.  As he turned towards us the glint of the light
 showed me that he was wearing glasses.

 "'Is this Mr. Melas, Harold?' said he.

 "'Yes.'

 "'Well done, well done!  No ill-will, Mr. Melas, I hope, but we could
 not get on without you.  If you deal fair with us you'll not regret
 it, but if you try any tricks, God help you!'  He spoke in a nervous,
 jerky fashion, and with little giggling laughs in between, but
 somehow he impressed me with fear more than the other.

 "'What do you want with me?' I asked.

 "'Only to ask a few questions of a Greek gentleman who is visiting
 us, and to let us have the answers.  But say no more than you are
 told to say, or--' here came the nervous giggle again--'you had
 better never have been born.'

 "As he spoke he opened a door and showed the way into a room which
 appeared to be very richly furnished, but again the only light was
 afforded by a single lamp half-turned down.  The chamber was
 certainly large, and the way in which my feet sank into the carpet as
 I stepped across it told me of its richness.  I caught glimpses of
 velvet chairs, a high white marble mantel-piece, and what seemed to
 be a suit of Japanese armor at one side of it.  There was a chair
 just under the lamp, and the elderly man motioned that I should sit
 in it.  The younger had left us, but he suddenly returned through
 another door, leading with him a gentleman clad in some sort of loose
 dressing-gown who moved slowly towards us.  As he came into the
 circle of dim light which enabled me to see him more clearly I was
 thrilled with horror at his appearance.  He was deadly pale and
 terribly emaciated, with the protruding, brilliant eyes of a man
 whose spirit was greater than his strength.  But what shocked me more
 than any signs of physical weakness was that his face was grotesquely
 criss-crossed with sticking-plaster, and that one large pad of it was
 fastened over his mouth.

 "'Have you the slate, Harold?' cried the older man, as this strange
 being fell rather than sat down into a chair.  'Are his hands loose? 
 Now, then, give him the pencil.  You are to ask the questions, Mr.
 Melas, and he will write the answers.  Ask him first of all whether
 he is prepared to sign the papers?'

 "The man's eyes flashed fire.

 "'Never!' he wrote in Greek upon the slate.

 "'On no condition?' I asked, at the bidding of our tyrant.

 "'Only if I see her married in my presence by a Greek priest whom I
 know.'

 "The man giggled in his venomous way.

 "'You know what awaits you, then?'

 "'I care nothing for myself.'

 "These are samples of the questions and answers which made up our
 strange half-spoken, half-written conversation.  Again and again I
 had to ask him whether he would give in and sign the documents. 
 Again and again I had the same indignant reply.  But soon a happy
 thought came to me.  I took to adding on little sentences of my own
 to each question, innocent ones at first, to test whether either of
 our companions knew anything of the matter, and then, as I found that
 they showed no signs I played a more dangerous game.  Our
 conversation ran something like this:

 "'You can do no good by this obstinacy. Who are you?'

 "'I care not. I am a stranger in London.'

 "'Your fate will be upon your own head. How long have you been here?'

 "'Let it be so. Three weeks.'

 "'The property can never be yours. What ails you?'

 "'It shall not go to villains. They are starving me.'

 "'You shall go free if you sign. What house is this?'

 "'I will never sign. I do not know.'

 "'You are not doing her any service. What is your name?'

 "'Let me hear her say so. Kratides.'

 "'You shall see her if you sign. Where are you from?'

 "'Then I shall never see her. Athens.'

 "Another five minutes, Mr. Holmes, and I should have wormed out the
 whole story under their very noses.  My very next question might have
 cleared the matter up, but at that instant the door opened and a
 woman stepped into the room.  I could not see her clearly enough to
 know more than that she was tall and graceful, with black hair, and
 clad in some sort of loose white gown.

 "'Harold,' said she, speaking English with a broken accent.  'I could
 not stay away longer.  It is so lonely up there with only--Oh, my
 God, it is Paul!'

 "These last words were in Greek, and at the same instant the man with
 a convulsive effort tore the plaster from his lips, and screaming out
 'Sophy!  Sophy!' rushed into the woman's arms.  Their embrace was but
 for an instant, however, for the younger man seized the woman and
 pushed her out of the room, while the elder easily overpowered his
 emaciated victim, and dragged him away through the other door.  For a
 moment I was left alone in the room, and I sprang to my feet with
 some vague idea that I might in some way get a clue to what this
 house was in which I found myself.  Fortunately, however, I took no
 steps, for looking up I saw that the older man was standing in the
 door-way with his eyes fixed upon me.

 "'That will do, Mr. Melas,' said he.  'You perceive that we have
 taken you into our confidence over some very private business.  We
 should not have troubled you, only that our friend who speaks Greek
 and who began these negotiations has been forced to return to the
 East.  It was quite necessary for us to find some one to take his
 place, and we were fortunate in hearing of your powers.'

 "I bowed.

 "'There are five sovereigns here,' said he, walking up to me, 'which
 will, I hope, be a sufficient fee.  But remember,' he added, tapping
 me lightly on the chest and giggling, 'if you speak to a human soul
 about this--one human soul, mind--well, may God have mercy upon your
 soul!'

 "I cannot tell you the loathing and horror with which this
 insignificant-looking man inspired me.  I could see him better now as
 the lamp-light shone upon him.  His features were peaky and sallow,
 and his little pointed beard was thready and ill-nourished.  He
 pushed his face forward as he spoke and his lips and eyelids were
 continually twitching like a man with St. Vitus's dance.  I could not
 help thinking that his strange, catchy little laugh was also a
 symptom of some nervous malady.  The terror of his face lay in his
 eyes, however, steel gray, and glistening coldly with a malignant,
 inexorable cruelty in their depths.

 "'We shall know if you speak of this,' said he.  'We have our own
 means of information.  Now you will find the carriage waiting, and my
 friend will see you on your way.'

 "I was hurried through the hall and into the vehicle, again obtaining
 that momentary glimpse of trees and a garden.  Mr. Latimer followed
 closely at my heels, and took his place opposite to me without a
 word.  In silence we again drove for an interminable distance with
 the windows raised, until at last, just after midnight, the carriage
 pulled up.

 "'You will get down here, Mr. Melas,' said my companion.  'I am sorry
 to leave you so far from your house, but there is no alternative. 
 Any attempt upon your part to follow the carriage can only end in
 injury to yourself.'

 "He opened the door as he spoke, and I had hardly time to spring out
 when the coachman lashed the horse and the carriage rattled away.  I
 looked around me in astonishment.  I was on some sort of a heathy
 common mottled over with dark clumps of furze-bushes.  Far away
 stretched a line of houses, with a light here and there in the upper
 windows.  On the other side I saw the red signal-lamps of a railway.

 "The carriage which had brought me was already out of sight.  I stood
 gazing round and wondering where on earth I might be, when I saw some
 one coming towards me in the darkness.  As he came up to me I made
 out that he was a railway porter.

 "'Can you tell me what place this is?' I asked.

 "'Wandsworth Common,' said he.

 "'Can I get a train into town?'

 "'If you walk on a mile or so to Clapham Junction,' said he, 'you'll
 just be in time for the last to Victoria.'

 "So that was the end of my adventure, Mr. Holmes.  I do not know
 where I was, nor whom I spoke with, nor anything save what I have
 told you.  But I know that there is foul play going on, and I want to
 help that unhappy man if I can.  I told the whole story to Mr.
 Mycroft Holmes next morning, and subsequently to the police."

 We all sat in silence for some little time after listening to this
 extraordinary narrative.  Then Sherlock looked across at his brother.

 "Any steps?" he asked.

 Mycroft picked up the Daily News, which was lying on the side-table.

 "Anybody supplying any information as to the whereabouts of a Greek
 gentleman named Paul Kratides, from Athens, who is unable to speak
 English, will be rewarded.  A similar reward paid to any one giving
 information about a Greek lady whose first name is Sophy. X 2473.

 "That was in all the dailies.  No answer."

 "How about the Greek Legation?"

 "I have inquired.  They know nothing."

 "A wire to the head of the Athens police, then?"

 "Sherlock has all the energy of the family," said Mycroft, turning to
 me.  "Well, you take the case up by all means, and let me know if you
 do any good."

 "Certainly," answered my friend, rising from his chair.  "I'll let
 you know, and Mr. Melas also.  In the meantime, Mr. Melas, I should
 certainly be on my guard, if I were you, for of course they must know
 through these advertisements that you have betrayed them."

 As we walked home together, Holmes stopped at a telegraph office and
 sent off several wires.

 "You see, Watson," he remarked, "our evening has been by no means
 wasted.  Some of my most interesting cases have come to me in this
 way through Mycroft.  The problem which we have just listened to,
 although it can admit of but one explanation, has still some
 distinguishing features."

 "You have hopes of solving it?"

 "Well, knowing as much as we do, it will be singular indeed if we
 fail to discover the rest.  You must yourself have formed some theory
 which will explain the facts to which we have listened."

 "In a vague way, yes."

 "What was your idea, then?"

 "It seemed to me to be obvious that this Greek girl had been carried
 off by the young Englishman named Harold Latimer."

 "Carried off from where?"

 "Athens, perhaps."

 Sherlock Holmes shook his head.  "This young man could not talk a
 word of Greek.  The lady could talk English fairly well. 
 Inference--that she had been in England some little time, but he had
 not been in Greece."

 "Well, then, we will presume that she had come on a visit to England,
 and that this Harold had persuaded her to fly with him."

 "That is more probable."

 "Then the brother--for that, I fancy, must be the relationship--comes
 over from Greece to interfere.  He imprudently puts himself into the
 power of the young man and his older associate.  They seize him and
 use violence towards him in order to make him sign some papers to
 make over the girl's fortune--of which he may be trustee--to them. 
 This he refuses to do.  In order to negotiate with him they have to
 get an interpreter, and they pitch upon this Mr. Melas, having used
 some other one before.  The girl is not told of the arrival of her
 brother, and finds it out by the merest accident."

 "Excellent, Watson!" cried Holmes.  "I really fancy that you are not
 far from the truth.  You see that we hold all the cards, and we have
 only to fear some sudden act of violence on their part.  If they give
 us time we must have them."

 "But how can we find where this house lies?"

 "Well, if our conjecture is correct and the girl's name is or was
 Sophy Kratides, we should have no difficulty in tracing her.  That
 must be our main hope, for the brother is, of course, a complete
 stranger.  It is clear that some time has elapsed since this Harold
 established these relations with the girl--some weeks, at any
 rate--since the brother in Greece has had time to hear of it and come
 across.  If they have been living in the same place during this time,
 it is probable that we shall have some answer to Mycroft's
 advertisement."

 We had reached our house in Baker Street while we had been talking. 
 Holmes ascended the stair first, and as he opened the door of our
 room he gave a start of surprise.  Looking over his shoulder, I was
 equally astonished.  His brother Mycroft was sitting smoking in the
 arm-chair.

 "Come in, Sherlock!  Come in, sir," said he blandly, smiling at our
 surprised faces.  "You don't expect such energy from me, do you,
 Sherlock?  But somehow this case attracts me."

 "How did you get here?"

 "I passed you in a hansom."

 "There has been some new development?"

 "I had an answer to my advertisement."

 "Ah!"

 "Yes, it came within a few minutes of your leaving."

 "And to what effect?"

 Mycroft Holmes took out a sheet of paper.

 "Here it is," said he, "written with a J pen on royal cream paper by
 a middle-aged man with a weak constitution.

 "Sir [he says]:
 "In answer to your advertisement of to-day's date, I beg to inform
 you that I know the young lady in question very well.  If you should
 care to call upon me I could give you some particulars as to her
 painful history.  She is living at present at The Myrtles, Beckenham.
 "Yours faithfully,
 "J. Davenport.

 "He writes from Lower Brixton," said Mycroft Holmes.  "Do you not
 think that we might drive to him now, Sherlock, and learn these
 particulars?"

 "My dear Mycroft, the brother's life is more valuable than the
 sister's story.  I think we should call at Scotland Yard for
 Inspector Gregson, and go straight out to Beckenham.  We know that a
 man is being done to death, and every hour may be vital."

 "Better pick up Mr. Melas on our way," I suggested.  "We may need an
 interpreter."

 "Excellent," said Sherlock Holmes.  "Send the boy for a four-wheeler,
 and we shall be off at once."  He opened the table-drawer as he
 spoke, and I noticed that he slipped his revolver into his pocket. 
 "Yes," said he, in answer to my glance; "I should say from what we
 have heard, that we are dealing with a particularly dangerous gang."

 It was almost dark before we found ourselves in Pall Mall, at the
 rooms of Mr. Melas.  A gentleman had just called for him, and he was
 gone.

 "Can you tell me where?" asked Mycroft Holmes.

 "I don't know, sir," answered the woman who had opened the door; "I
 only know that he drove away with the gentleman in a carriage."

 "Did the gentleman give a name?"

 "No, sir."

 "He wasn't a tall, handsome, dark young man?"

 "Oh, no, sir.  He was a little gentleman, with glasses, thin in the
 face, but very pleasant in his ways, for he was laughing all the time
 that he was talking."

 "Come along!" cried Sherlock Holmes, abruptly.  "This grows serious,"
 he observed, as we drove to Scotland Yard.  "These men have got hold
 of Melas again.  He is a man of no physical courage, as they are well
 aware from their experience the other night.  This villain was able
 to terrorize him the instant that he got into his presence.  No doubt
 they want his professional services, but, having used him, they may
 be inclined to punish him for what they will regard as his
 treachery."

 Our hope was that, by taking train, we might get to Beckenham as soon
 or sooner than the carriage.  On reaching Scotland Yard, however, it
 was more than an hour before we could get Inspector Gregson and
 comply with the legal formalities which would enable us to enter the
 house.  It was a quarter to ten before we reached London Bridge, and
 half past before the four of us alighted on the Beckenham platform. 
 A drive of half a mile brought us to The Myrtles--a large, dark house
 standing back from the road in its own grounds.  Here we dismissed
 our cab, and made our way up the drive together.

 "The windows are all dark," remarked the inspector.  "The house seems
 deserted."

 "Our birds are flown and the nest empty," said Holmes.

 "Why do you say so?"

 "A carriage heavily loaded with luggage has passed out during the
 last hour."

 The inspector laughed.  "I saw the wheel-tracks in the light of the
 gate-lamp, but where does the luggage come in?"

 "You may have observed the same wheel-tracks going the other way. 
 But the outward-bound ones were very much deeper--so much so that we
 can say for a certainty that there was a very considerable weight on
 the carriage."

 "You get a trifle beyond me there," said the inspector, shrugging his
 shoulder.  "It will not be an easy door to force, but we will try if
 we cannot make some one hear us."

 He hammered loudly at the knocker and pulled at the bell, but without
 any success.  Holmes had slipped away, but he came back in a few
 minutes.

 "I have a window open," said he.

 "It is a mercy that you are on the side of the force, and not against
 it, Mr. Holmes," remarked the inspector, as he noted the clever way
 in which my friend had forced back the catch.  "Well, I think that
 under the circumstances we may enter without an invitation."

 One after the other we made our way into a large apartment, which was
 evidently that in which Mr. Melas had found himself.  The inspector
 had lit his lantern, and by its light we could see the two doors, the
 curtain, the lamp, and the suit of Japanese mail as he had described
 them.  On the table lay two glasses, and empty brandy-bottle, and the
 remains of a meal.

 "What is that?" asked Holmes, suddenly.

 We all stood still and listened.  A low moaning sound was coming from
 somewhere over our heads.  Holmes rushed to the door and out into the
 hall.  The dismal noise came from upstairs.  He dashed up, the
 inspector and I at his heels, while his brother Mycroft followed as
 quickly as his great bulk would permit.

 Three doors faced up upon the second floor, and it was from the
 central of these that the sinister sounds were issuing, sinking
 sometimes into a dull mumble and rising again into a shrill whine. 
 It was locked, but the key had been left on the outside.  Holmes
 flung open the door and rushed in, but he was out again in an
 instant, with his hand to his throat.

 "It's charcoal," he cried.  "Give it time.  It will clear."

 Peering in, we could see that the only light in the room came from a
 dull blue flame which flickered from a small brass tripod in the
 centre.  It threw a livid, unnatural circle upon the floor, while in
 the shadows beyond we saw the vague loom of two figures which
 crouched against the wall.  From the open door there reeked a
 horrible poisonous exhalation which set us gasping and coughing. 
 Holmes rushed to the top of the stairs to draw in the fresh air, and
 then, dashing into the room, he threw up the window and hurled the
 brazen tripod out into the garden.

 "We can enter in a minute," he gasped, darting out again.  "Where is
 a candle?  I doubt if we could strike a match in that atmosphere. 
 Hold the light at the door and we shall get them out, Mycroft. Now!"

 With a rush we got to the poisoned men and dragged them out into the
 well-lit hall.  Both of them were blue-lipped and insensible, with
 swollen, congested faces and protruding eyes.  Indeed, so distorted
 were their features that, save for his black beard and stout figure,
 we might have failed to recognize in one of them the Greek
 interpreter who had parted from us only a few hours before at the
 Diogenes Club.  His hands and feet were securely strapped together,
 and he bore over one eye the marks of a violent blow.  The other, who
 was secured in a similar fashion, was a tall man in the last stage of
 emaciation, with several strips of sticking-plaster arranged in a
 grotesque pattern over his face.  He had ceased to moan as we laid
 him down, and a glance showed me that for him at least our aid had
 come too late.  Mr. Melas, however, still lived, and in less than an
 hour, with the aid of ammonia and brandy I had the satisfaction of
 seeing him open his eyes, and of knowing that my hand had drawn him
 back from that dark valley in which all paths meet.

 It was a simple story which he had to tell, and one which did but
 confirm our own deductions.  His visitor, on entering his rooms, had
 drawn a life-preserver from his sleeve, and had so impressed him with
 the fear of instant and inevitable death that he had kidnapped him
 for the second time.  Indeed, it was almost mesmeric, the effect
 which this giggling ruffian had produced upon the unfortunate
 linguist, for he could not speak of him save with trembling hands and
 a blanched cheek.  He had been taken swiftly to Beckenham, and had
 acted as interpreter in a second interview, even more dramatic than
 the first, in which the two Englishmen had menaced their prisoner
 with instant death if he did not comply with their demands.  Finally,
 finding him proof against every threat, they had hurled him back into
 his prison, and after reproaching Melas with his treachery, which
 appeared from the newspaper advertisement, they had stunned him with
 a blow from a stick, and he remembered nothing more until he found us
 bending over him.

 And this was the singular case of the Grecian Interpreter, the
 explanation of which is still involved in some mystery.  We were able
 to find out, by communicating with the gentleman who had answered the
 advertisement, that the unfortunate young lady came of a wealthy
 Grecian family, and that she had been on a visit to some friends in
 England.  While there she had met a young man named Harold Latimer,
 who had acquired an ascendancy over her and had eventually persuaded
 her to fly with him.  Her friends, shocked at the event, had
 contented themselves with informing her brother at Athens, and had
 then washed their hands of the matter.  The brother, on his arrival
 in England, had imprudently placed himself in the power of Latimer
 and of his associate, whose name was Wilson Kemp--a man of the
 foulest antecedents. These two, finding that  through his ignorance
 of the language he was helpless in their hands, had kept him a
 prisoner, and had endeavored by cruelty and starvation to make him
 sign away his own and his sister's property.  They had kept him in
 the house without the girl's knowledge, and the plaster over the face
 had been for the purpose of making recognition difficult in case she
 should ever catch a glimpse of him.  Her feminine perception,
 however, had instantly seen through the disguise when, on the
 occasion of the interpreter's visit, she had seen him for the first
 time.  The poor girl, however, was herself a prisoner, for there was
 no one about the house except the man who acted as coachman, and his
 wife, both of whom were tools of the conspirators.  Finding that
 their secret was out, and that their prisoner was not to be coerced,
 the two villains with the girl had fled away at a few hours' notice
 from the furnished house which they had hired, having first, as they
 thought, taken vengeance both upon the man who had defied and the one
 who had betrayed them.

 Months afterwards a curious newspaper cutting reached us from
 Buda-Pesth.  It told how two Englishmen who had been traveling with a
 woman had met with a tragic end.  They had each been stabbed, it
 seems, and the Hungarian police were of opinion that they had
 quarreled and had inflicted mortal injuries upon each other.  Holmes,
 however, is, I fancy, of a different way of thinking, and holds to
 this day that, if one could find the Grecian girl, one might learn
 how the wrongs of herself and her brother came to be avenged.






                            THE NAVAL TREATY

 The July which immediately succeeded my marriage was made memorable
 by three cases of interest, in which I had the privilege of being
 associated with Sherlock Holmes and of studying his methods. I find
 them recorded in my notes under the headings of "The Adventure of the
 Second Stain," "The Adventure of the Naval Treaty," and "The
 Adventure of the Tired Captain." The first of these, however, deals
 with interest of such importance and implicates so many of the first
 families in the kingdom that for many years it will be impossible to
 make it public. No case, however, in which Holmes was engaged has
 ever illustrated the value of his analytical methods so clearly or
 has impressed those who were associated with him so deeply. I still
 retain an almost verbatim report of the interview in which he
 demonstrated the true facts of the case to Monsieur Dubugue of the
 Paris police, and Fritz von Waldbaum, the well-known specialist of
 Dantzig, both of whom had wasted their energies upon what proved to
 be side-issues. The new century will have come, however, before the
 story can be safely told. Meanwhile I pass on to the second on my
 list, which promised also at one time to be of national importance,
 and was marked by several incidents which give it a quite unique
 character.

 During my school-days I had been intimately associated with a lad
 named Percy Phelps, who was of much the same age as myself, though he
 was two classes ahead of me. He was a very brilliant boy, and carried
 away every prize which the school had to offer, finishing his
 exploits by winning a scholarship which sent him on to continue his
 triumphant career at Cambridge. He was, I remember, extremely well
 connected, and even when we were all little boys together we knew
 that his mother's brother was Lord Holdhurst, the great conservative
 politician. This gaudy relationship did him little good at school. On
 the contrary, it seemed rather a piquant thing to us to chevy him
 about the playground and hit him over the shins with a wicket. But it
 was another thing when he came out into the world. I heard vaguely
 that his abilities and the influences which he commanded had won him
 a good position at the Foreign Office, and then he passed completely
 out of my mind until the following letter recalled his existence:

 Briarbrae, Woking.
 My dear Watson:
 I have no doubt that you can remember "Tadpole" Phelps, who was in
 the fifth form when you were in the third. It is possible even that
 you may have heard that through my uncle's influence I obtained a
 good appointment at the Foreign Office, and that I was in a situation
 of trust and honor until a horrible misfortune came suddenly to blast
 my career.
 There is no use writing of the details of that dreadful event. In the
 event of your acceding to my request it is probable that I shall have
 to narrate them to you. I have only just recovered from nine weeks of
 brain-fever, and am still exceedingly weak. Do you think that you
 could bring your friend Mr. Holmes down to see me? I should like to
 have his opinion of the case, though the authorities assure me that
 nothing more can be done. Do try to bring him down, and as soon as
 possible. Every minute seems an hour while I live in this state of
 horrible suspense. Assure him that if I have not asked his advice
 sooner it was not because I did not appreciate his talents, but
 because I have been off my head ever since the blow fell. Now I am
 clear again, though I dare not think of it too much for fear of a
 relapse. I am still so weak that I have to write, as you see, by
 dictating. Do try to bring him.
 Your old school-fellow,
 Percy Phelps.

 There was something that touched me as I read this letter, something
 pitiable in the reiterated appeals to bring Holmes. So moved was I
 that even had it been a difficult matter I should have tried it, but
 of course I knew well that Holmes loved his art, so that he was ever
 as ready to bring his aid as his client could be to receive it. My
 wife agreed with me that not a moment should be lost in laying the
 matter before him, and so within an hour of breakfast-time I found
 myself back once more in the old rooms in Baker Street.

 Holmes was seated at his side-table clad in his dressing-gown, and
 working hard over a chemical investigation. A large curved retort was
 boiling furiously in the bluish flame of a Bunsen burner, and the
 distilled drops were condensing into a two-litre measure. My friend
 hardly glanced up as I entered, and I, seeing that his investigation
 must be of importance, seated myself in an arm-chair and waited. He
 dipped into this bottle or that, drawing out a few drops of each with
 his glass pipette, and finally brought a test-tube containing a
 solution over to the table. In his right hand he held a slip of
 litmus-paper.

 "You come at a crisis, Watson," said he. "If this paper remains blue,
 all is well. If it turns red, it means a man's life." He dipped it
 into the test-tube and it flushed at once into a dull, dirty crimson.
 "Hum! I thought as much!" he cried. "I will be at your service in an
 instant, Watson. You will find tobacco in the Persian slipper." He
 turned to his desk and scribbled off several telegrams, which were
 handed over to the page-boy. Then he threw himself down into the
 chair opposite, and drew up his knees until his fingers clasped round
 his long, thin shins.

 "A very commonplace little murder," said he. "You've got something
 better, I fancy. You are the stormy petrel of crime, Watson. What is
 it?"

 I handed him the letter, which he read with the most concentrated
 attention.

 "It does not tell us very much, does it?" he remarked, as he handed
 it back to me.

 "Hardly anything."

 "And yet the writing is of interest."

 "But the writing is not his own."

 "Precisely. It is a woman's."

 "A man's surely," I cried.

 "No, a woman's, and a woman of rare character. You see, at the
 commencement of an investigation it is something to know that your
 client is in close contact with some one who, for good or evil, has
 an exceptional nature. My interest is already awakened in the case.
 If you are ready we will start at once for Woking, and see this
 diplomatist who is in such evil case, and the lady to whom he
 dictates his letters."

 We were fortunate enough to catch an early train at Waterloo, and in
 a little under an hour we found ourselves among the fir-woods and the
 heather of Woking. Briarbrae proved to be a large detached house
 standing in extensive grounds within a few minutes' walk of the
 station. On sending in our cards we were shown into an elegantly
 appointed drawing-room, where we were joined in a few minutes by a
 rather stout man who received us with much hospitality. His age may
 have been nearer forty than thirty, but his cheeks were so ruddy and
 his eyes so merry that he still conveyed the impression of a plump
 and mischievous boy.

 "I am so glad that you have come," said he, shaking our hands with
 effusion. "Percy has been inquiring for you all morning. Ah, poor old
 chap, he clings to any straw! His father and his mother asked me to
 see you, for the mere mention of the subject is very painful to
 them."

 "We have had no details yet," observed Holmes. "I perceive that you
 are not yourself a member of the family."

 Our acquaintance looked surprised, and then, glancing down, he began
 to laugh.

 "Of course you saw the J H monogram on my locket," said he. "For a
 moment I thought you had done something clever. Joseph Harrison is my
 name, and as Percy is to marry my sister Annie I shall at least be a
 relation by marriage. You will find my sister in his room, for she
 has nursed him hand-and-foot this two months back. Perhaps we'd
 better go in at once, for I know how impatient he is."

 The chamber in which we were shown was on the same floor as the
 drawing-room. It was furnished partly as a sitting and partly as a
 bedroom, with flowers arranged daintily in every nook and corner. A
 young man, very pale and worn, was lying upon a sofa near the open
 window, through which came the rich scent of the garden and the balmy
 summer air. A woman was sitting beside him, who rose as we entered.

 "Shall I leave, Percy?" she asked.

 He clutched her hand to detain her. "How are you, Watson?" said he,
 cordially. "I should never have known you under that moustache, and I
 dare say you would not be prepared to swear to me. This I presume is
 your celebrated friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

 I introduced him in a few words, and we both sat down. The stout
 young man had left us, but his sister still remained with her hand in
 that of the invalid. She was a striking-looking woman, a little short
 and thick for symmetry, but with a beautiful olive complexion, large,
 dark, Italian eyes, and a wealth of deep black hair. Her rich tints
 made the white face of her companion the more worn and haggard by the
 contrast.

 "I won't waste your time," said he, raising himself upon the sofa.
 "I'll plunge into the matter without further preamble. I was a happy
 and successful man, Mr. Holmes, and on the eve of being married, when
 a sudden and dreadful misfortune wrecked all my prospects in life.

 "I was, as Watson may have told you, in the Foreign Office, and
 through the influences of my uncle, Lord Holdhurst, I rose rapidly to
 a responsible position. When my uncle became foreign minister in this
 administration he gave me several missions of trust, and as I always
 brought them to a successful conclusion, he came at last to have the
 utmost confidence in my ability and tact.

 "Nearly ten weeks ago--to be more accurate, on the twenty-third of
 May--he called me into his private room, and, after complimenting me
 on the good work which I had done, he informed me that he had a new
 commission of trust for me to execute.

 "'This,' said he, taking a gray roll of paper from his bureau, 'is
 the original of that secret treaty between England and Italy of
 which, I regret to say, some rumors have already got into the public
 press. It is of enormous importance that nothing further should leak
 out. The French or the Russian embassy would pay an immense sum to
 learn the contents of these papers. They should not leave my bureau
 were it not that it is absolutely necessary to have them copied. You
 have a desk in your office?'

 "'Yes, sir.'

 "'Then take the treaty and lock it up there. I shall give directions
 that you may remain behind when the others go, so that you may copy
 it at your leisure without fear of being overlooked. When you have
 finished, relock both the original and the draft in the desk, and
 hand them over to me personally to-morrow morning.'

 "I took the papers and--"

 "Excuse me an instant," said Holmes. "Were you alone during this
 conversation?"

 "Absolutely."

 "In a large room?"

 "Thirty feet each way."

 "In the centre?"

 "Yes, about it."

 "And speaking low?"

 "My uncle's voice is always remarkably low. I hardly spoke at all."

 "Thank you," said Holmes, shutting his eyes; "pray go on."

 "I did exactly what he indicated, and waited until the other clerks
 had departed. One of them in my room, Charles Gorot, had some arrears
 of work to make up, so I left him there and went out to dine. When I
 returned he was gone. I was anxious to hurry my work, for I knew that
 Joseph--the Mr. Harrison whom you saw just now--was in town, and that
 he would travel down to Woking by the eleven-o'clock train, and I
 wanted if possible to catch it.

 "When I came to examine the treaty I saw at once that it was of such
 importance that my uncle had been guilty of no exaggeration in what
 he had said. Without going into details, I may say that it defined
 the position of Great Britain towards the Triple Alliance, and
 fore-shadowed the policy which this country would pursue in the event
 of the French fleet gaining a complete ascendancy over that of Italy
 in the Mediterranean. The questions treated in it were purely naval.
 At the end were the signatures of the high dignitaries who had signed
 it. I glanced my eyes over it, and then settled down to my task of
 copying.

 "It was a long document, written in the French language, and
 containing twenty-six separate articles. I copied as quickly as I
 could, but at nine o'clock I had only done nine articles, and it
 seemed hopeless for me to attempt to catch my train. I was feeling
 drowsy and stupid, partly from my dinner and also from the effects of
 a long day's work. A cup of coffee would clear my brain. A
 commissionaire remains all night in a little lodge at the foot of the
 stairs, and is in the habit of making coffee at his spirit-lamp for
 any of the officials who may be working over time. I rang the bell,
 therefore, to summon him.

 "To my surprise, it was a woman who answered the summons, a large,
 coarse-faced, elderly woman, in an apron. She explained that she was
 the commissionaire's wife, who did the charing, and I gave her the
 order for the coffee.

 "I wrote two more articles and then, feeling more drowsy than ever, I
 rose and walked up and down the room to stretch my legs. My coffee
 had not yet come, and I wondered what was the cause of the delay
 could be. Opening the door, I started down the corridor to find out.
 There was a straight passage, dimly lighted, which led from the room
 in which I had been working, and was the only exit from it. It ended
 in a curving staircase, with the commissionaire's lodge in the
 passage at the bottom. Half way down this staircase is a small
 landing, with another passage running into it at right angles. This
 second one leads by means of a second small stair to a side door,
 used by servants, and also as a short cut by clerks when coming from
 Charles Street. Here is a rough chart of the place."

 "Thank you. I think that I quite follow you," said Sherlock Holmes.

 "It is of the utmost importance that you should notice this point. I
 went down the stairs and into the hall, where I found the
 commissionaire fast asleep in his box, with the kettle boiling
 furiously upon the spirit-lamp. I took off the kettle and blew out
 the lamp, for the water was spurting over the floor. Then I put out
 my hand and was about to shake the man, who was still sleeping
 soundly, when a bell over his head rang loudly, and he woke with a
 start.

 "'Mr. Phelps, sir!' said he, looking at me in bewilderment.

 "'I came down to see if my coffee was ready.'

 "'I was boiling the kettle when I fell asleep, sir.' He looked at me
 and then up at the still quivering bell with an ever-growing
 astonishment upon his face.

 "'If you was here, sir, then who rang the bell?' he asked.

 "'The bell!' I cried. 'What bell is it?'

 "'It's the bell of the room you were working in.'

 "A cold hand seemed to close round my heart. Some one, then, was in
 that room where my precious treaty lay upon the table. I ran
 frantically up the stair and along the passage. There was no one in
 the corridors, Mr. Holmes. There was no one in the room. All was
 exactly as I left it, save only that the papers which had been
 committed to my care had been taken from the desk on which they lay.
 The copy was there, and the original was gone."

 Holmes sat up in his chair and rubbed his hands. I could see that the
 problem was entirely to his heart. "Pray, what did you do then?" he
 murmured.

 "I recognized in an instant that the thief must have come up the
 stairs from the side door. Of course I must have met him if he had
 come the other way."

 "You were satisfied that he could not have been concealed in the room
 all the time, or in the corridor which you have just described as
 dimly lighted?"

 "It is absolutely impossible. A rat could not conceal himself either
 in the room or the corridor. There is no cover at all."

 "Thank you. Pray proceed."

 "The commissionaire, seeing by my pale face that something was to be
 feared, had followed me upstairs. Now we both rushed along the
 corridor and down the steep steps which led to Charles Street. The
 door at the bottom was closed, but unlocked. We flung it open and
 rushed out. I can distinctly remember that as we did so there came
 three chimes from a neighboring clock. It was quarter to ten."

 "That is of enormous importance," said Holmes, making a note upon his
 shirt-cuff.

 "The night was very dark, and a thin, warm rain was falling. There
 was no one in Charles Street, but a great traffic was going on, as
 usual, in Whitehall, at the extremity. We rushed along the pavement,
 bare-headed as we were, and at the far corner we found a policeman
 standing.

 "'A robbery has been committed,' I gasped. 'A document of immense
 value has been stolen from the Foreign Office. Has any one passed
 this way?'

 "'I have been standing here for a quarter of an hour, sir,' said he;
 'only one person has passed during that time--a woman, tall and
 elderly, with a Paisley shawl.'

 "'Ah, that is only my wife,' cried the commissionaire; 'has no one
 else passed?'

 "'No one.'

 "'Then it must be the other way that the thief took,' cried the
 fellow, tugging at my sleeve.

 "But I was not satisfied, and the attempts which he made to draw me
 away increased my suspicions.

 "'Which way did the woman go?' I cried.

 "'I don't know, sir. I noticed her pass, but I had no special reason
 for watching her. She seemed to be in a hurry.'

 "'How long ago was it?'

 "'Oh, not very many minutes.'

 "'Within the last five?'

 "'Well, it could not be more than five.'

 "'You're only wasting your time, sir, and every minute now is of
 importance,' cried the commissionaire; 'take my word for it that my
 old woman has nothing to do with it, and come down to the other end
 of the street. Well, if you won't, I will.' And with that he rushed
 off in the other direction.

 "But I was after him in an instant and caught him by the sleeve.

 "'Where do you live?' said I.

 "'16 Ivy Lane, Brixton,' he answered. 'But don't let yourself be
 drawn away upon a false scent, Mr. Phelps. Come to the other end of
 the street and let us see if we can hear of anything.'

 "Nothing was to be lost by following his advice. With the policeman
 we both hurried down, but only to find the street full of traffic,
 many people coming and going, but all only too eager to get to a
 place of safety upon so wet a night. There was no lounger who could
 tell us who had passed.

 "Then we returned to the office, and searched the stairs and the
 passage without result. The corridor which led to the room was laid
 down with a kind of creamy linoleum which shows an impression very
 easily. We examined it very carefully, but found no outline of any
 footmark."

 "Had it been raining all evening?"

 "Since about seven."

 "How is it, then, that the woman who came into the room about nine
 left no traces with her muddy boots?"

 "I am glad you raised the point. It occurred to me at the time. The
 charwomen are in the habit of taking off their boots at the
 commissionaire's office, and putting on list slippers."

 "That is very clear. There were no marks, then, though the night was
 a wet one? The chain of events is certainly one of extraordinary
 interest. What did you do next?"

 "We examined the room also. There is no possibility of a secret door,
 and the windows are quite thirty feet from the ground. Both of them
 were fastened on the inside. The carpet prevents any possibility of a
 trap-door, and the ceiling is of the ordinary whitewashed kind. I
 will pledge my life that whoever stole my papers could only have come
 through the door."

 "How about the fireplace?"

 "They use none. There is a stove. The bell-rope hangs from the wire
 just to the right of my desk. Whoever rang it must have come right up
 to the desk to do it. But why should any criminal wish to ring the
 bell? It is a most insoluble mystery."

 "Certainly the incident was unusual. What were your next steps? You
 examined the room, I presume, to see if the intruder had left any
 traces--any cigar-end or dropped glove or hairpin or other trifle?"

 "There was nothing of the sort."

 "No smell?"

 "Well, we never thought of that."

 "Ah, a scent of tobacco would have been worth a great deal to us in
 such an investigation."

 "I never smoke myself, so I think I should have observed it if there
 had been any smell of tobacco. There was absolutely no clue of any
 kind. The only tangible fact was that the commissionaire's wife--Mrs.
 Tangey was the name--had hurried out of the place. He could give no
 explanation save that it was about the time when the woman always
 went home. The policeman and I agreed that our best plan would be to
 seize the woman before she could get rid of the papers, presuming
 that she had them.

 "The alarm had reached Scotland Yard by this time, and Mr. Forbes,
 the detective, came round at once and took up the case with a great
 deal of energy. We hired a hansom, and in half an hour we were at the
 address which had been given to us. A young woman opened the door,
 who proved to be Mrs. Tangey's eldest daughter. Her mother had not
 come back yet, and we were shown into the front room to wait.

 "About ten minutes later a knock came at the door, and here we made
 the one serious mistake for which I blame myself. Instead of opening
 the door ourselves, we allowed the girl to do so. We heard her say,
 'Mother, there are two men in the house waiting to see you,' and an
 instant afterwards we heard the patter of feet rushing down the
 passage. Forbes flung open the door, and we both ran into the back
 room or kitchen, but the woman had got there before us. She stared at
 us with defiant eyes, and then, suddenly recognizing me, an
 expression of absolute astonishment came over her face.

 "'Why, if it isn't Mr. Phelps, of the office!' she cried.

 "'Come, come, who did you think we were when you ran away from us?'
 asked my companion.

 "'I thought you were the brokers,' said she, 'we have had some
 trouble with a tradesman.'

 "'That's not quite good enough,' answered Forbes. 'We have reason to
 believe that you have taken a paper of importance from the Foreign
 Office, and that you ran in here to dispose of it. You must come back
 with us to Scotland Yard to be searched.'

 "It was in vain that she protested and resisted. A four-wheeler was
 brought, and we all three drove back in it. We had first made an
 examination of the kitchen, and especially of the kitchen fire, to
 see whether she might have made away with the papers during the
 instant that she was alone. There were no signs, however, of any
 ashes or scraps. When we reached Scotland Yard she was handed over at
 once to the female searcher. I waited in an agony of suspense until
 she came back with her report. There were no signs of the papers.

 "Then for the first time the horror of my situation came in its full
 force. Hitherto I had been acting, and action had numbed thought. I
 had been so confident of regaining the treaty at once that I had not
 dared to think of what would be the consequence if I failed to do so.
 But now there was nothing more to be done, and I had leisure to
 realize my position. It was horrible. Watson there would tell you
 that I was a nervous, sensitive boy at school. It is my nature. I
 thought of my uncle and of his colleagues in the Cabinet, of the
 shame which I had brought upon him, upon myself, upon every one
 connected with me. What though I was the victim of an extraordinary
 accident? No allowance is made for accidents where diplomatic
 interests are at stake. I was ruined, shamefully, hopelessly ruined.
 I don't know what I did. I fancy I must have made a scene. I have a
 dim recollection of a group of officials who crowded round me,
 endeavoring to soothe me. One of them drove down with me to Waterloo,
 and saw me into the Woking train. I believe that he would have come
 all the way had it not been that Dr. Ferrier, who lives near me, was
 going down by that very train. The doctor most kindly took charge of
 me, and it was well he did so, for I had a fit in the station, and
 before we reached home I was practically a raving maniac.

 "You can imagine the state of things here when they were roused from
 their beds by the doctor's ringing and found me in this condition.
 Poor Annie here and my mother were broken-hearted. Dr. Ferrier had
 just heard enough from the detective at the station to be able to
 give an idea of what had happened, and his story did not mend
 matters. It was evident to all that I was in for a long illness, so
 Joseph was bundled out of this cheery bedroom, and it was turned into
 a sick-room for me. Here I have lain, Mr. Holmes, for over nine
 weeks, unconscious, and raving with brain-fever. If it had not been
 for Miss Harrison here and for the doctor's care I should not be
 speaking to you now. She has nursed me by day and a hired nurse has
 looked after me by night, for in my mad fits I was capable of
 anything. Slowly my reason has cleared, but it is only during the
 last three days that my memory has quite returned. Sometimes I wish
 that it never had. The first thing that I did was to wire to Mr.
 Forbes, who had the case in hand. He came out, and assures me that,
 though everything has been done, no trace of a clue has been
 discovered. The commissionaire and his wife have been examined in
 every way without any light being thrown upon the matter. The
 suspicions of the police then rested upon young Gorot, who, as you
 may remember, stayed over time in the office that night. His
 remaining behind and his French name were really the only two points
 which could suggest suspicion; but, as a matter of fact, I did not
 begin work until he had gone, and his people are of Huguenot
 extraction, but as English in sympathy and tradition as you and I
 are. Nothing was found to implicate him in any way, and there the
 matter dropped. I turn to you, Mr. Holmes, as absolutely my last
 hope. If you fail me, then my honor as well as my position are
 forever forfeited."

 The invalid sank back upon his cushions, tired out by this long
 recital, while his nurse poured him out a glass of some stimulating
 medicine. Holmes sat silently, with his head thrown back and his eyes
 closed, in an attitude which might seem listless to a stranger, but
 which I knew betokened the most intense self-absorption.

 "You statement has been so explicit," said he at last, "that you have
 really left me very few questions to ask. There is one of the very
 utmost importance, however. Did you tell any one that you had this
 special task to perform?"

 "No one."

 "Not Miss Harrison here, for example?"

 "No. I had not been back to Woking between getting the order and
 executing the commission."

 "And none of your people had by chance been to see you?"

 "None."

 "Did any of them know their way about in the office?"

 "Oh, yes, all of them had been shown over it."

 "Still, of course, if you said nothing to any one about the treaty
 these inquiries are irrelevant."

 "I said nothing."

 "Do you know anything of the commissionaire?"

 "Nothing except that he is an old soldier."

 "What regiment?"

 "Oh, I have heard--Coldstream Guards."

 "Thank you. I have no doubt I can get details from Forbes. The
 authorities are excellent at amassing facts, though they do not
 always use them to advantage. What a lovely thing a rose is!"

 He walked past the couch to the open window, and held up the drooping
 stalk of a moss-rose, looking down at the dainty blend of crimson and
 green. It was a new phase of his character to me, for I had never
 before seen him show any keen interest in natural objects.

 "There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as in religion,"
 said he, leaning with his back against the shutters. "It can be built
 up as an exact science by the reasoner. Our highest assurance of the
 goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other
 things, our powers our desires, our food, are all really necessary
 for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra.
 Its smell and its color are an embellishment of life, not a condition
 of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again
 that we have much to hope from the flowers."

 Percy Phelps and his nurse looked at Holmes during this demonstration
 with surprise and a good deal of disappointment written upon their
 faces. He had fallen into a reverie, with the moss-rose between his
 fingers. It had lasted some minutes before the young lady broke in
 upon it.

 "Do you see any prospect of solving this mystery, Mr. Holmes?" she
 asked, with a touch of asperity in her voice.

 "Oh, the mystery!" he answered, coming back with a start to the
 realities of life. "Well, it would be absurd to deny that the case is
 a very abstruse and complicated one, but I can promise you that I
 will look into the matter and let you know any points which may
 strike me."

 "Do you see any clue?"

 "You have furnished me with seven, but, of course, I must test them
 before I can pronounce upon their value."

 "You suspect some one?"

 "I suspect myself."

 "What!"

 "Of coming to conclusions too rapidly."

 "Then go to London and test your conclusions."

 "Your advice is very excellent, Miss Harrison," said Holmes, rising.
 "I think, Watson, we cannot do better. Do not allow yourself to
 indulge in false hopes, Mr. Phelps. The affair is a very tangled
 one."

 "I shall be in a fever until I see you again," cried the diplomatist.

 "Well, I'll come out by the same train to-morrow, though it's more
 than likely that my report will be a negative one."

 "God bless you for promising to come," cried our client. "It gives me
 fresh life to know that something is being done. By the way, I have
 had a letter from Lord Holdhurst."

 "Ha! What did he say?"

 "He was cold, but not harsh. I dare say my severe illness prevented
 him from being that. He repeated that the matter was of the utmost
 importance, and added that no steps would be taken about my
 future--by which he means, of course, my dismissal--until my health
 was restored and I had an opportunity of repairing my misfortune."

 "Well, that was reasonable and considerate," said Holmes. "Come,
 Watson, for we have a good day's work before us in town."

 Mr. Joseph Harrison drove us down to the station, and we were soon
 whirling up in a Portsmouth train. Holmes was sunk in profound
 thought, and hardly opened his mouth until we had passed Clapham
 Junction.

 "It's a very cheery thing to come into London by any of these lines
 which run high, and allow you to look down upon the houses like
 this."

 I thought he was joking, for the view was sordid enough, but he soon
 explained himself.

 "Look at those big, isolated clumps of building rising up above the
 slates, like brick islands in a lead-colored sea."

 "The board-schools."

 "Light-houses, my boy! Beacons of the future! Capsules with hundreds
 of bright little seeds in each, out of which will spring the wise,
 better England of the future. I suppose that man Phelps does not
 drink?"

 "I should not think so."

 "Nor should I, but we are bound to take every possibility into
 account. The poor devil has certainly got himself into very deep
 water, and it's a question whether we shall ever be able to get him
 ashore. What did you think of Miss Harrison?"

 "A girl of strong character."

 "Yes, but she is a good sort, or I am mistaken. She and her brother
 are the only children of an iron-master somewhere up Northumberland
 way. He got engaged to her when traveling last winter, and she came
 down to be introduced to his people, with her brother as escort. Then
 came the smash, and she stayed on to nurse her lover, while brother
 Joseph, finding himself pretty snug, stayed on too. I've been making
 a few independent inquiries, you see. But to-day must be a day of
 inquiries."

 "My practice--" I began.

 "Oh, if you find your own cases more interesting than mine--" said
 Holmes, with some asperity.

 "I was going to say that my practice could get along very well for a
 day or two, since it is the slackest time in the year."

 "Excellent," said he, recovering his good-humor. "Then we'll look
 into this matter together. I think that we should begin by seeing
 Forbes. He can probably tell us all the details we want until we know
 from what side the case is to be approached."

 "You said you had a clue?"

 "Well, we have several, but we can only test their value by further
 inquiry. The most difficult crime to track is the one which is
 purposeless. Now this is not purposeless. Who is it who profits by
 it? There is the French ambassador, there is the Russian, there is
 who-ever might sell it to either of these, and there is Lord
 Holdhurst."

 "Lord Holdhurst!"

 "Well, it is just conceivable that a statesman might find himself in
 a position where he was not sorry to have such a document
 accidentally destroyed."

 "Not a statesman with the honorable record of Lord Holdhurst?"

 "It is a possibility and we cannot afford to disregard it. We shall
 see the noble lord to-day and find out if he can tell us anything.
 Meanwhile I have already set inquiries on foot."

 "Already?"

 "Yes, I sent wires from Woking station to every evening paper in
 London. This advertisement will appear in each of them."

 He handed over a sheet torn from a note-book. On it was scribbled in
 pencil:

 "Â£10 reward. The number of the cab which dropped a fare at or about
 the door of the Foreign Office in Charles Street at quarter to ten in
 the evening of May 23d. Apply 221b, Baker Street."

 "You are confident that the thief came in a cab?"

 "If not, there is no harm done. But if Mr. Phelps is correct in
 stating that there is no hiding-place either in the room or the
 corridors, then the person must have come from outside. If he came
 from outside on so wet a night, and yet left no trace of damp upon
 the linoleum, which was examined within a few minutes of his passing,
 then it is exceeding probably that he came in a cab. Yes, I think
 that we may safely deduce a cab."

 "It sounds plausible."

 "That is one of the clues of which I spoke. It may lead us to
 something. And then, of course, there is the bell--which is the most
 distinctive feature of the case. Why should the bell ring? Was it the
 thief who did it out of bravado? Or was it some one who was with the
 thief who did it in order to prevent the crime? Or was it an
 accident? Or was it--?" He sank back into the state of intense and
 silent thought from which he had emerged; but it seemed to me,
 accustomed as I was to his every mood, that some new possibility had
 dawned suddenly upon him.

 It was twenty past three when we reached our terminus, and after a
 hasty luncheon at the buffet we pushed on at once to Scotland Yard.
 Holmes had already wired to Forbes, and we found him waiting to
 receive us--a small, foxy man with a sharp but by no means amiable
 expression. He was decidedly frigid in his manner to us, especially
 when he heard the errand upon which we had come.

 "I've heard of your methods before now, Mr. Holmes," said he, tartly.
 "You are ready enough to use all the information that the police can
 lay at your disposal, and then you try to finish the case yourself
 and bring discredit on them."

 "On the contrary," said Holmes, "out of my last fifty-three cases my
 name has only appeared in four, and the police have had all the
 credit in forty-nine. I don't blame you for not knowing this, for you
 are young and inexperienced, but if you wish to get on in your new
 duties you will work with me and not against me."

 "I'd be very glad of a hint or two," said the detective, changing his
 manner. "I've certainly had no credit from the case so far."

 "What steps have you taken?"

 "Tangey, the commissionaire, has been shadowed. He left the Guards
 with a good character and we can find nothing against him. His wife
 is a bad lot, though. I fancy she knows more about this than
 appears."

 "Have you shadowed her?"

 "We have set one of our women on to her. Mrs. Tangey drinks, and our
 woman has been with her twice when she was well on, but she could get
 nothing out of her."

 "I understand that they have had brokers in the house?"

 "Yes, but they were paid off."

 "Where did the money come from?"

 "That was all right. His pension was due. They have not shown any
 sign of being in funds."

 "What explanation did she give of having answered the bell when Mr.
 Phelps rang for the coffee?"

 "She said that he husband was very tired and she wished to relieve
 him."

 "Well, certainly that would agree with his being found a little later
 asleep in his chair. There is nothing against them then but the
 woman's character. Did you ask her why she hurried away that night?
 Her haste attracted the attention of the police constable."

 "She was later than usual and wanted to get home."

 "Did you point out to her that you and Mr. Phelps, who started at
 least twenty minutes after he, got home before her?"

 "She explains that by the difference between a 'bus and a hansom."

 "Did she make it clear why, on reaching her house, she ran into the
 back kitchen?"

 "Because she had the money there with which to pay off the brokers."

 "She has at least an answer for everything. Did you ask her whether
 in leaving she met any one or saw any one loitering about Charles
 Street?"

 "She saw no one but the constable."

 "Well, you seem to have cross-examined her pretty thoroughly. What
 else have you done?"

 "The clerk Gorot has been shadowed all these nine weeks, but without
 result. We can show nothing against him."

 "Anything else?"

 "Well, we have nothing else to go upon--no evidence of any kind."

 "Have you formed a theory about how that bell rang?"

 "Well, I must confess that it beats me. It was a cool hand, whoever
 it was, to go and give the alarm like that."

 "Yes, it was a queer thing to do. Many thanks to you for what you
 have told me. If I can put the man into your hands you shall hear
 from me. Come along, Watson."

 "Where are we going to now?" I asked, as we left the office.

 "We are now going to interview Lord Holdhurst, the cabinet minister
 and future premier of England."

 We were fortunate in finding that Lord Holdhurst was still in his
 chambers in Downing Street, and on Holmes sending in his card we were
 instantly shown up. The statesman received us with that old-fashioned
 courtesy for which he is remarkable, and seated us on the two
 luxuriant lounges on either side of the fireplace. Standing on the
 rug between us, with his slight, tall figure, his sharp features,
 thoughtful face, and curling hair prematurely tinged with gray, he
 seemed to represent that not too common type, a nobleman who is in
 truth noble.

 "Your name is very familiar to me, Mr. Holmes," said he, smiling.
 "And, of course, I cannot pretend to be ignorant of the object of
 your visit. There has only been one occurrence in these offices which
 could call for your attention. In whose interest are you acting, may
 I ask?"

 "In that of Mr. Percy Phelps," answered Holmes.

 "Ah, my unfortunate nephew! You can understand that our kinship makes
 it the more impossible for me to screen him in any way. I fear that
 the incident must have a very prejudicial effect upon his career."

 "But if the document is found?"

 "Ah, that, of course, would be different."

 "I had one or two questions which I wished to ask you, Lord
 Holdhurst."

 "I shall be happy to give you any information in my power."

 "Was it in this room that you gave your instructions as to the
 copying of the document?"

 "It was."

 "Then you could hardly have been overheard?"

 "It is out of the question."

 "Did you ever mention to any one that it was your intention to give
 any one the treaty to be copied?"

 "Never."

 "You are certain of that?"

 "Absolutely."

 "Well, since you never said so, and Mr. Phelps never said so, and
 nobody else knew anything of the matter, then the thief's presence in
 the room was purely accidental. He saw his chance and he took it."

 The statesman smiled. "You take me out of my province there," said
 he.

 Holmes considered for a moment. "There is another very important
 point which I wish to discuss with you," said he. "You feared, as I
 understand, that very grave results might follow from the details of
 this treaty becoming known."

 A shadow passed over the expressive face of the statesman. "Very
 grave results indeed."

 "And have they occurred?"

 "Not yet."

 "If the treaty had reached, let us say, the French or Russian Foreign
 Office, you would expect to hear of it?"

 "I should," said Lord Holdhurst, with a wry face.

 "Since nearly ten weeks have elapsed, then, and nothing has been
 heard, it is not unfair to suppose that for some reason the treaty
 has not reached them."

 Lord Holdhurst shrugged his shoulders.

 "We can hardly suppose, Mr. Holmes, that the thief took the treaty in
 order to frame it and hang it up."

 "Perhaps he is waiting for a better price."

 "If he waits a little longer he will get no price at all. The treaty
 will cease to be secret in a few months."

 "That is most important," said Holmes. "Of course, it is a possible
 supposition that the thief has had a sudden illness--"

 "An attack of brain-fever, for example?" asked the statesman,
 flashing a swift glance at him.

 "I did not say so," said Holmes, imperturbably. "And now, Lord
 Holdhurst, we have already taken up too much of your valuable time,
 and we shall wish you good-day."

 "Every success to your investigation, be the criminal who it may,"
 answered the nobleman, as he bowed us out the door.

 "He's a fine fellow," said Holmes, as we came out into Whitehall.
 "But he has a struggle to keep up his position. He is far from rich
 and has many calls. You noticed, of course, that his boots had been
 re-soled? Now, Watson, I won't detain you from your legitimate work
 any longer. I shall do nothing more to-day, unless I have an answer
 to my cab advertisement. But I should be extremely obliged to you if
 you would come down with me to Woking to-morrow, by the same train
 which we took yesterday."

 I met him accordingly next morning and we traveled down to Woking
 together. He had had no answer to his advertisement, he said, and no
 fresh light had been thrown upon the case. He had, when he so willed
 it, the utter immobility of countenance of a red Indian, and I could
 not gather from his appearance whether he was satisfied or not with
 the position of the case. His conversation, I remember, was about the
 Bertillon system of measurements, and he expressed his enthusiastic
 admiration of the French savant.

 We found our client still under the charge of his devoted nurse, but
 looking considerably better than before. He rose from the sofa and
 greeted us without difficulty when we entered.

 "Any news?" he asked, eagerly.

 "My report, as I expected, is a negative one," said Holmes. "I have
 seen Forbes, and I have seen your uncle, and I have set one or two
 trains of inquiry upon foot which may lead to something."

 "You have not lost heart, then?"

 "By no means."

 "God bless you for saying that!" cried Miss Harrison. "If we keep our
 courage and our patience the truth must come out."

 "We have more to tell you than you have for us," said Phelps,
 reseating himself upon the couch.

 "I hoped you might have something."

 "Yes, we have had an adventure during the night, and one which might
 have proved to be a serious one." His expression grew very grave as
 he spoke, and a look of something akin to fear sprang up in his eyes.
 "Do you know," said he, "that I begin to believe that I am the
 unconscious centre of some monstrous conspiracy, and that my life is
 aimed at as well as my honor?"

 "Ah!" cried Holmes.

 "It sounds incredible, for I have not, as far as I know, an enemy in
 the world. Yet from last night's experience I can come to no other
 conclusion."

 "Pray let me hear it."

 "You must know that last night was the very first night that I have
 ever slept without a nurse in the room. I was so much better that I
 thought I could dispense with one. I had a night-light burning,
 however. Well, about two in the morning I had sunk into a light sleep
 when I was suddenly aroused by a slight noise. It was like the sound
 which a mouse makes when it is gnawing a plank, and I lay listening
 to it for some time under the impression that it must come from that
 cause. Then it grew louder, and suddenly there came from the window a
 sharp metallic snick. I sat up in amazement. There could be no doubt
 what the sounds were now. The first ones had been caused by some one
 forcing an instrument through the slit between the sashes, and the
 second by the catch being pressed back.

 "There was a pause then for about ten minutes, as if the person were
 waiting to see whether the noise had awakened me. Then I heard a
 gentle creaking as the window was very slowly opened. I could stand
 it no longer, for my nerves are not what they used to be. I sprang
 out of bed and flung open the shutters. A man was crouching at the
 window. I could see little of him, for he was gone like a flash. He
 was wrapped in some sort of cloak which came across the lower part of
 his face. One thing only I am sure of, and that is that he had some
 weapon in his hand. It looked to me like a long knife. I distinctly
 saw the gleam of it as he turned to run."

 "This is most interesting," said Holmes. "Pray what did you do then?"

 "I should have followed him through the open window if I had been
 stronger. As it was, I rang the bell and roused the house. It took me
 some little time, for the bell rings in the kitchen and the servants
 all sleep upstairs. I shouted, however, and that brought Joseph down,
 and he roused the others. Joseph and the groom found marks on the bed
 outside the window, but the weather has been so dry lately that they
 found it hopeless to follow the trail across the grass. There's a
 place, however, on the wooden fence which skirts the road which shows
 signs, they tell me, as if some one had got over, and had snapped the
 top of the rail in doing so. I have said nothing to the local police
 yet, for I thought I had best have your opinion first."

 This tale of our client's appeared to have an extraordinary effect
 upon Sherlock Holmes. He rose from his chair and paced about the room
 in uncontrollable excitement.

 "Misfortunes never come single," said Phelps, smiling, though it was
 evident that his adventure had somewhat shaken him.

 "You have certainly had your share," said Holmes. "Do you think you
 could walk round the house with me?"

 "Oh, yes, I should like a little sunshine. Joseph will come, too."

 "And I also," said Miss Harrison.

 "I am afraid not," said Holmes, shaking his head. "I think I must ask
 you to remain sitting exactly where you are."

 The young lady resumed her seat with an air of displeasure. Her
 brother, however, had joined us and we set off all four together. We
 passed round the lawn to the outside of the young diplomatist's
 window. There were, as he had said, marks upon the bed, but they were
 hopelessly blurred and vague. Holmes stopped over them for an
 instant, and then rose shrugging his shoulders.

 "I don't think any one could make much of this," said he. "Let us go
 round the house and see why this particular room was chose by the
 burglar. I should have thought those larger windows of the
 drawing-room and dining-room would have had more attractions for
 him."

 "They are more visible from the road," suggested Mr. Joseph Harrison.

 "Ah, yes, of course. There is a door here which he might have
 attempted. What is it for?"

 "It is the side entrance for trades-people. Of course it is locked at
 night."

 "Have you ever had an alarm like this before?"

 "Never," said our client.

 "Do you keep plate in the house, or anything to attract burglars?"

 "Nothing of value."

 Holmes strolled round the house with his hands in his pockets and a
 negligent air which was unusual with him.

 "By the way," said he to Joseph Harrison, "you found some place, I
 understand, where the fellow scaled the fence. Let us have a look at
 that!"

 The plump young man led us to a spot where the top of one of the
 wooden rails had been cracked. A small fragment of the wood was
 hanging down. Holmes pulled it off and examined it critically.

 "Do you think that was done last night? It looks rather old, does it
 not?"

 "Well, possibly so."

 "There are no marks of any one jumping down upon the other side. No,
 I fancy we shall get no help here. Let us go back to the bedroom and
 talk the matter over."

 Percy Phelps was walking very slowly, leaning upon the arm of his
 future brother-in-law. Holmes walked swiftly across the lawn, and we
 were at the open window of the bedroom long before the others came
 up.

 "Miss Harrison," said Holmes, speaking with the utmost intensity of
 manner, "you must stay where you are all day. Let nothing prevent you
 from staying where you are all day. It is of the utmost importance."

 "Certainly, if you wish it, Mr. Holmes," said the girl in
 astonishment.

 "When you go to bed lock the door of this room on the outside and
 keep the key. Promise to do this."

 "But Percy?"

 "He will come to London with us."

 "And am I to remain here?"

 "It is for his sake. You can serve him. Quick! Promise!"

 She gave a quick nod of assent just as the other two came up.

 "Why do you sit moping there, Annie?" cried her brother. "Come out
 into the sunshine!"

 "No, thank you, Joseph. I have a slight headache and this room is
 deliciously cool and soothing."

 "What do you propose now, Mr. Holmes?" asked our client.

 "Well, in investigating this minor affair we must not lose sight of
 our main inquiry. It would be a very great help to me if you would
 come up to London with us."

 "At once?"

 "Well, as soon as you conveniently can. Say in an hour."

 "I feel quite strong enough, if I can really be of any help."

 "The greatest possible."

 "Perhaps you would like me to stay there to-night?"

 "I was just going to propose it."

 "Then, if my friend of the night comes to revisit me, he will find
 the bird flown. We are all in your hands, Mr. Holmes, and you must
 tell us exactly what you would like done. Perhaps you would prefer
 that Joseph came with us so as to look after me?"

 "Oh, no; my friend Watson is a medical man, you know, and he'll look
 after you. We'll have our lunch here, if you will permit us, and then
 we shall all three set off for town together."

 It was arranged as he suggested, though Miss Harrison excused herself
 from leaving the bedroom, in accordance with Holmes's suggestion.
 What the object of my friend's manoeuvres was I could not conceive,
 unless it were to keep the lady away from Phelps, who, rejoiced by
 his returning health and by the prospect of action, lunched with us
 in the dining-room. Holmes had still more startling surprise for us,
 however, for, after accompanying us down to the station and seeing us
 into our carriage, he calmly announced that he had no intention of
 leaving Woking.

 "There are one or two small points which I should desire to clear up
 before I go," said he. "Your absence, Mr. Phelps, will in some ways
 rather assist me. Watson, when you reach London you would oblige me
 by driving at once to Baker Street with our friend here, and
 remaining with him until I see you again. It is fortunate that you
 are old school-fellows, as you must have much to talk over. Mr.
 Phelps can have the spare bedroom to-night, and I will be with you in
 time for breakfast, for there is a train which will take me into
 Waterloo at eight."

 "But how about our investigation in London?" asked Phelps, ruefully.

 "We can do that to-morrow. I think that just at present I can be of
 more immediate use here."

 "You might tell them at Briarbrae that I hope to be back to-morrow
 night," cried Phelps, as we began to move from the platform.

 "I hardly expect to go back to Briarbrae," answered Holmes, and waved
 his hand to us cheerily as we shot out from the station.

 Phelps and I talked it over on our journey, but neither of us could
 devise a satisfactory reason for this new development.

 "I suppose he wants to find out some clue as to the burglary last
 night, if a burglar it was. For myself, I don't believe it was an
 ordinary thief."

 "What is your own idea, then?"

 "Upon my word, you may put it down to my weak nerves or not, but I
 believe there is some deep political intrigue going on around me, and
 that for some reason that passes my understanding my life is aimed at
 by the conspirators. It sounds high-flown and absurd, but consider
 the facts! Why should a thief try to break in at a bedroom window,
 where there could be no hope of any plunder, and why should he come
 with a long knife in his hand?"

 "You are sure it was not a house-breaker's jimmy?"

 "Oh, no, it was a knife. I saw the flash of the blade quite
 distinctly."

 "But why on earth should you be pursued with such animosity?"

 "Ah, that is the question."

 "Well, if Holmes takes the same view, that would account for his
 action, would it not? Presuming that your theory is correct, if he
 can lay his hands upon the man who threatened you last night he will
 have gone a long way towards finding who took the naval treaty. It is
 absurd to suppose that you have two enemies, one of whom robs you,
 while the other threatens your life."

 "But Holmes said that he was not going to Briarbrae."

 "I have known him for some time," said I, "but I never knew him do
 anything yet without a very good reason," and with that our
 conversation drifted off on to other topics.

 But it was a weary day for me. Phelps was still weak after his long
 illness, and his misfortune made him querulous and nervous. In vain I
 endeavored to interest him in Afghanistan, in India, in social
 questions, in anything which might take his mind out of the groove.
 He would always come back to his lost treaty, wondering, guessing,
 speculating, as to what Holmes was doing, what steps Lord Holdhurst
 was taking, what news we should have in the morning. As the evening
 wore on his excitement became quite painful.

 "You have implicit faith in Holmes?" he asked.

 "I have seen him do some remarkable things."

 "But he never brought light into anything quite so dark as this?"

 "Oh, yes, I have known him solve questions which presented fewer
 clues than yours."

 "But not where such large interests are at stake?"

 "I don't know that. To my certain knowledge he has acted on behalf of
 three of the reigning houses of Europe in very vital matters."

 "But you know him well, Watson. He is such an inscrutable fellow that
 I never quite know what to make of him. Do you think he is hopeful?
 Do you think he expects to make a success of it?"

 "He has said nothing."

 "That is a bad sign."

 "On the contrary, I have noticed that when he is off the trail he
 generally says so. It is when he is on a scent and is not quite
 absolutely sure yet that it is the right one that he is most
 taciturn. Now, my dear fellow, we can't help matters by making
 ourselves nervous about them, so let me implore you to go to bed and
 so be fresh for whatever may await us to-morrow."

 I was able at last to persuade my companion to take my advice, though
 I knew from his excited manner that there was not much hope of sleep
 for him. Indeed, his mood was infectious, for I lay tossing half the
 night myself, brooding over this strange problem, and inventing a
 hundred theories, each of which was more impossible than the last.
 Why had Holmes remained at Woking? Why had he asked Miss Harrison to
 remain in the sick-room all day? Why had he been so careful not to
 inform the people at Briarbrae that he intended to remain near them?
 I cudgelled my brains until I fell asleep in the endeavor to find
 some explanation which would cover all these facts.

 It was seven o'clock when I awoke, and I set off at once for Phelps's
 room, to find him haggard and spent after a sleepless night. His
 first question was whether Holmes had arrived yet.

 "He'll be here when he promised," said I, "and not an instant sooner
 or later."

 And my words were true, for shortly after eight a hansom dashed up to
 the door and our friend got out of it. Standing in the window we saw
 that his left hand was swathed in a bandage and that his face was
 very grim and pale. He entered the house, but it was some little time
 before he came upstairs.

 "He looks like a beaten man," cried Phelps.

 I was forced to confess that he was right. "After all," said I, "the
 clue of the matter lies probably here in town."

 Phelps gave a groan.

 "I don't know how it is," said he, "but I had hoped for so much from
 his return. But surely his hand was not tied up like that yesterday.
 What can be the matter?"

 "You are not wounded, Holmes?" I asked, as my friend entered the
 room.

 "Tut, it is only a scratch through my own clumsiness," he answered,
 nodding his good-mornings to us. "This case of yours, Mr. Phelps, is
 certainly one of the darkest which I have ever investigated."

 "I feared that you would find it beyond you."

 "It has been a most remarkable experience."

 "That bandage tells of adventures," said I. "Won't you tell us what
 has happened?"

 "After breakfast, my dear Watson. Remember that I have breathed
 thirty miles of Surrey air this morning. I suppose that there has
 been no answer from my cabman advertisement? Well, well, we cannot
 expect to score every time."

 The table was all laid, and just as I was about to ring Mrs. Hudson
 entered with the tea and coffee. A few minutes later she brought in
 three covers, and we all drew up to the table, Holmes ravenous, I
 curious, and Phelps in the gloomiest state of depression.

 "Mrs. Hudson has risen to the occasion," said Holmes, uncovering a
 dish of curried chicken. "Her cuisine is a little limited, but she
 has as good an idea of breakfast as a Scotch-woman. What have you
 here, Watson?"

 "Ham and eggs," I answered.

 "Good! What are you going to take, Mr. Phelps--curried fowl or eggs,
 or will you help yourself?"

 "Thank you. I can eat nothing," said Phelps.

 "Oh, come! Try the dish before you."

 "Thank you, I would really rather not."

 "Well, then," said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle, "I suppose
 that you have no objection to helping me?"

 Phelps raised the cover, and as he did so he uttered a scream, and
 sat there staring with a face as white as the plate upon which he
 looked. Across the centre of it was lying a little cylinder of
 blue-gray paper. He caught it up, devoured it with his eyes, and then
 danced madly about the room, passing it to his bosom and shrieking
 out in his delight. Then he fell back into an arm-chair so limp and
 exhausted with his own emotions that we had to pour brandy down his
 throat to keep him from fainting.

 "There! there!" said Holmes, soothing, patting him upon the shoulder.
 "It was too bad to spring it on you like this, but Watson here will
 tell you that I never can resist a touch of the dramatic."

 Phelps seized his hand and kissed it. "God bless you!" he cried. "You
 have saved my honor."

 "Well, my own was at stake, you know," said Holmes. "I assure you it
 is just as hateful to me to fail in a case as it can be to you to
 blunder over a commission."

 Phelps thrust away the precious document into the innermost pocket of
 his coat.

 "I have not the heart to interrupt your breakfast any further, and
 yet I am dying to know how you got it and where it was."

 Sherlock Holmes swallowed a cup of coffee, and turned his attention
 to the ham and eggs. Then he rose, lit his pipe, and settled himself
 down into his chair.

 "I'll tell you what I did first, and how I came to do it afterwards,"
 said he. "After leaving you at the station I went for a charming walk
 through some admirable Surrey scenery to a pretty little village
 called Ripley, where I had my tea at an inn, and took the precaution
 of filling my flask and of putting a paper of sandwiches in my
 pocket. There I remained until evening, when I set off for Woking
 again, and found myself in the high-road outside Briarbrae just after
 sunset.

 "Well, I waited until the road was clear--it is never a very
 frequented one at any time, I fancy--and then I clambered over the
 fence into the grounds."

 "Surely the gate was open!" ejaculated Phelps.

 "Yes, but I have a peculiar taste in these matters. I chose the place
 where the three fir-trees stand, and behind their screen I got over
 without the least chance of any one in the house being able to see
 me. I crouched down among the bushes on the other side, and crawled
 from one to the other--witness the disreputable state of my trouser
 knees--until I had reached the clump of rhododendrons just opposite
 to your bedroom window. There I squatted down and awaited
 developments.

 "The blind was not down in your room, and I could see Miss Harrison
 sitting there reading by the table. It was quarter-past ten when she
 closed her book, fastened the shutters, and retired.

 "I heard her shut the door, and felt quite sure that she had turned
 the key in the lock."

 "The key!" ejaculated Phelps.

 "Yes, I had given Miss Harrison instructions to lock the door on the
 outside and take the key with her when she went to bed. She carried
 out every one of my injunctions to the letter, and certainly without
 her cooperation you would not have that paper in you coat-pocket. She
 departed then and the lights went out, and I was left squatting in
 the rhododendron-bush.

 "The night was fine, but still it was a very weary vigil. Of course
 it has the sort of excitement about it that the sportsman feels when
 he lies beside the water-course and waits for the big game. It was
 very long, though--almost as long, Watson, as when you and I waited
 in that deadly room when we looked into the little problem of the
 Speckled Band. There was a church-clock down at Woking which struck
 the quarters, and I thought more than once that it had stopped. At
 last however about two in the morning, I suddenly heard the gentle
 sound of a bolt being pushed back and the creaking of a key. A moment
 later the servant's door was opened, and Mr. Joseph Harrison stepped
 out into the moonlight."

 "Joseph!" ejaculated Phelps.

 "He was bare-headed, but he had a black coat thrown over his shoulder
 so that he could conceal his face in an instant if there were any
 alarm. He walked on tiptoe under the shadow of the wall, and when he
 reached the window he worked a long-bladed knife through the sash and
 pushed back the catch. Then he flung open the window, and putting his
 knife through the crack in the shutters, he thrust the bar up and
 swung them open.

 "From where I lay I had a perfect view of the inside of the room and
 of every one of his movements. He lit the two candles which stood
 upon the mantelpiece, and then he proceeded to turn back the corner
 of the carpet in the neighborhood of the door. Presently he stopped
 and picked out a square piece of board, such as is usually left to
 enable plumbers to get at the joints of the gas-pipes. This one
 covered, as a matter of fact, the T joint which gives off the pipe
 which supplies the kitchen underneath. Out of this hiding-place he
 drew that little cylinder of paper, pushed down the board, rearranged
 the carpet, blew out the candles, and walked straight into my arms as
 I stood waiting for him outside the window.

 "Well, he has rather more viciousness than I gave him credit for, has
 Master Joseph. He flew at me with his knife, and I had to grasp him
 twice, and got a cut over the knuckles, before I had the upper hand
 of him. He looked murder out of the only eye he could see with when
 we had finished, but he listened to reason and gave up the papers.
 Having got them I let my man go, but I wired full particulars to
 Forbes this morning. If he is quick enough to catch his bird, well
 and good. But if, as I shrewdly suspect, he finds the nest empty
 before he gets there, why, all the better for the government. I fancy
 that Lord Holdhurst for one, and Mr. Percy Phelps for another, would
 very much rather that the affair never got as far as a police-court.

 "My God!" gasped our client. "Do you tell me that during these long
 ten weeks of agony the stolen papers were within the very room with
 me all the time?"

 "So it was."

 "And Joseph! Joseph a villain and a thief!"

 "Hum! I am afraid Joseph's character is a rather deeper and more
 dangerous one than one might judge from his appearance. From what I
 have heard from him this morning, I gather that he has lost heavily
 in dabbling with stocks, and that he is ready to do anything on earth
 to better his fortunes. Being an absolutely selfish man, when a
 chance presented itself he did not allow either his sister's
 happiness or your reputation to hold his hand."

 Percy Phelps sank back in his chair. "My head whirls," said he. "Your
 words have dazed me."

 "The principal difficulty in your case," remarked Holmes, in his
 didactic fashion, "lay in the fact of there being too much evidence.
 What was vital was overlaid and hidden by what was irrelevant. Of all
 the facts which were presented to us we had to pick just those which
 we deemed to be essential, and then piece them together in their
 order, so as to reconstruct this very remarkable chain of events. I
 had already begun to suspect Joseph, from the fact that you had
 intended to travel home with him that night, and that therefore it
 was a likely enough thing that he should call for you, knowing the
 Foreign Office well, upon his way. When I heard that some one had
 been so anxious to get into the bedroom, in which no one but Joseph
 could have concealed anything--you told us in your narrative how you
 had turned Joseph out when you arrived with the doctor--my suspicions
 all changed to certainties, especially as the attempt was made on the
 first night upon which the nurse was absent, showing that the
 intruder was well acquainted with the ways of the house."

 "How blind I have been!"

 "The facts of the case, as far as I have worked them out, are these:
 this Joseph Harrison entered the office through the Charles Street
 door, and knowing his way he walked straight into your room the
 instant after you left it. Finding no one there he promptly rang the
 bell, and at the instant that he did so his eyes caught the paper
 upon the table. A glance showed him that chance had put in his way a
 State document of immense value, and in an instant he had thrust it
 into his pocket and was gone. A few minutes elapsed, as you remember,
 before the sleepy commissionaire drew your attention to the bell, and
 those were just enough to give the thief time to make his escape.

 "He made his way to Woking by the first train, and having examined
 his booty and assured himself that it really was of immense value, he
 had concealed it in what he thought was a very safe place, with the
 intention of taking it out again in a day or two, and carrying it to
 the French embassy, or wherever he thought that a long price was to
 be had. Then came your sudden return. He, without a moment's warning,
 was bundled out of his room, and from that time onward there were
 always at least two of you there to prevent him from regaining his
 treasure. The situation to him must have been a maddening one. But at
 last he thought he saw his chance. He tried to steal in, but was
 baffled by your wakefulness. You remember that you did not take your
 usual draught that night."

 "I remember."

 "I fancy that he had taken steps to make that draught efficacious,
 and that he quite relied upon your being unconscious. Of course, I
 understood that he would repeat the attempt whenever it could be done
 with safety. Your leaving the room gave him the chance he wanted. I
 kept Miss Harrison in it all day so that he might not anticipate us.
 Then, having given him the idea that the coast was clear, I kept
 guard as I have described. I already knew that the papers were
 probably in the room, but I had no desire to rip up all the planking
 and skirting in search of them. I let him take them, therefore, from
 the hiding-place, and so saved myself an infinity of trouble. Is
 there any other point which I can make clear?"

 "Why did he try the window on the first occasion," I asked, "when he
 might have entered by the door?"

 "In reaching the door he would have to pass seven bedrooms. On the
 other hand, he could get out on to the lawn with ease. Anything
 else?"

 "You do not think," asked Phelps, "that he had any murderous
 intention? The knife was only meant as a tool."

 "It may be so," answered Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "I can only
 say for certain that Mr. Joseph Harrison is a gentleman to whose
 mercy I should be extremely unwilling to trust."






                            THE FINAL PROBLEM

 It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the
 last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which
 my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was distinguished.  In an incoherent
 and, as I deeply feel, an entirely inadequate fashion, I have
 endeavored to give some account of my strange experiences in his
 company from the chance which first brought us together at the period
 of the "Study in Scarlet," up to the time of his interference in the
 matter of the "Naval Treaty"--an interference which had the
 unquestionable effect of preventing a serious international
 complication.  It was my intention to have stopped there, and to have
 said nothing of that event which has created a void in my life which
 the lapse of two years has done little to fill.  My hand has been
 forced, however, by the recent letters in which Colonel James
 Moriarty defends the memory of his brother, and I have no choice but
 to lay the facts before the public exactly as they occurred.  I alone
 know the absolute truth of the matter, and I am satisfied that the
 time has come when no good purpose is to be served by its
 suppression.  As far as I know, there have been only three accounts
 in the public press:  that in the Journal de GenÃ¨ve on May 6th, 1891,
 the Reuter's despatch in the English papers on May 7th, and finally
 the recent letters to which I have alluded.  Of these the first and
 second were extremely condensed, while the last is, as I shall now
 show, an absolute perversion of the facts.  It lies with me to tell
 for the first time what really took place between Professor Moriarty
 and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

 It may be remembered that after my marriage, and my subsequent start
 in private practice, the very intimate relations which had existed
 between Holmes and myself became to some extent modified.  He still
 came to me from time to time when he desired a companion in his
 investigation, but these occasions grew more and more seldom, until I
 find that in the year 1890 there were only three cases of which I
 retain any record.  During the winter of that year and the early
 spring of 1891, I saw in the papers that he had been engaged by the
 French government upon a matter of supreme importance, and I received
 two notes from Holmes, dated from Narbonne and from Nimes, from which
 I gathered that his stay in France was likely to be a long one.  It
 was with some surprise, therefore, that I saw him walk into my
 consulting-room upon the evening of April 24th.  It struck me that he
 was looking even paler and thinner than usual.

 "Yes, I have been using myself up rather too freely," he remarked, in
 answer to my look rather than to my words; "I have been a little
 pressed of late.  Have you any objection to my closing your
 shutters?"

 The only light in the room came from the lamp upon the table at which
 I had been reading.  Holmes edged his way round the wall and flinging
 the shutters together, he bolted them securely.

 "You are afraid of something?" I asked.

 "Well, I am."

 "Of what?"

 "Of air-guns."

 "My dear Holmes, what do you mean?"

 "I think that you know me well enough, Watson, to understand that I
 am by no means a nervous man.  At the same time, it is stupidity
 rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close
 upon you.  Might I trouble you for a match?"  He drew in the smoke of
 his cigarette as if the soothing influence was grateful to him.

 "I must apologize for calling so late," said he, "and I must further
 beg you to be so unconventional as to allow me to leave your house
 presently by scrambling over your back garden wall."

 "But what does it all mean?" I asked.

 He held out his hand, and I saw in the light of the lamp that two of
 his knuckles were burst and bleeding.

 "It is not an airy nothing, you see," said he, smiling.  "On the
 contrary, it is solid enough for a man to break his hand over.  Is
 Mrs. Watson in?"

 "She is away upon a visit."

 "Indeed!  You are alone?"

 "Quite."

 "Then it makes it the easier for me to propose that you should come
 away with me for a week to the Continent."

 "Where?"

 "Oh, anywhere.  It's all the same to me."

 There was something very strange in all this.  It was not Holmes's
 nature to take an aimless holiday, and something about his pale, worn
 face told me that his nerves were at their highest tension.  He saw
 the question in my eyes, and, putting his finger-tips together and
 his elbows upon his knees, he explained the situation.

 "You have probably never heard of Professor Moriarty?" said he.

 "Never."

 "Aye, there's the genius and the wonder of the thing!" he cried. 
 "The man pervades London, and no one has heard of him.  That's what
 puts him on a pinnacle in the records of crime.  I tell you, Watson,
 in all seriousness, that if I could beat that man, if I could free
 society of him, I should feel that my own career had reached its
 summit, and I should be prepared to turn to some more placid line in
 life.  Between ourselves, the recent cases in which I have been of
 assistance to the royal family of Scandinavia, and to the French
 republic, have left me in such a position that I could continue to
 live in the quiet fashion which is most congenial to me, and to
 concentrate my attention upon my chemical researches.  But I could
 not rest, Watson, I could not sit quiet in my chair, if I thought
 that such a man as Professor Moriarty were walking the streets of
 London unchallenged."

 "What has he done, then?"

 "His career has been an extraordinary one.  He is a man of good birth
 and excellent education, endowed by nature with a phenomenal
 mathematical faculty.  At the age of twenty-one he wrote a treatise
 upon the Binomial Theorem, which has had a European vogue.  On the
 strength of it he won the Mathematical Chair at one of our smaller
 universities, and had, to all appearance, a most brilliant career
 before him.  But the man had hereditary tendencies of the most
 diabolical kind.  A criminal strain ran in his blood, which, instead
 of being modified, was increased and rendered infinitely more
 dangerous by his extraordinary mental powers.  Dark rumors gathered
 round him in the university town, and eventually he was compelled to
 resign his chair and to come down to London, where he set up as an
 army coach.  So much is known to the world, but what I am telling you
 now is what I have myself discovered.

 "As you are aware, Watson, there is no one who knows the higher
 criminal world of London so well as I do.  For years past I have
 continually been conscious of some power behind the malefactor, some
 deep organizing power which forever stands in the way of the law, and
 throws its shield over the wrong-doer.  Again and again in cases of
 the most varying sorts--forgery cases, robberies, murders--I have
 felt the presence of this force, and I have deduced its action in
 many of those undiscovered crimes in which I have not been personally
 consulted.  For years I have endeavored to break through the veil
 which shrouded it, and at last the time came when I seized my thread
 and followed it, until it led me, after a thousand cunning windings,
 to ex-Professor Moriarty of mathematical celebrity.

 "He is the Napoleon of crime, Watson.  He is the organizer of half
 that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city.
  He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker.  He has a brain
 of the first order.  He sits motionless, like a spider in the center
 of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well
 every quiver of each of them.  He does little himself.  He only
 plans.  But his agents are numerous and splendidly organized.  Is
 there a crime to be done, a paper to be abstracted, we will say, a
 house to be rifled, a man to be removed--the word is passed to the
 Professor, the matter is organized and carried out.  The agent may be
 caught.  In that case money is found for his bail or his defence. 
 But the central power which uses the agent is never caught--never so
 much as suspected.  This was the organization which I deduced,
 Watson, and which I devoted my whole energy to exposing and breaking
 up.

 "But the Professor was fenced round with safeguards so cunningly
 devised that, do what I would, it seemed impossible to get evidence
 which would convict in a court of law.  You know my powers, my dear
 Watson, and yet at the end of three months I was forced to confess
 that I had at last met an antagonist who was my intellectual equal. 
 My horror at his crimes was lost in my admiration at his skill.  But
 at last he made a trip--only a little, little trip--but it was more
 than he could afford when I was so close upon him.  I had my chance,
 and, starting from that point, I have woven my net round him until
 now it is all ready to close.  In three days--that is to say, on
 Monday next--matters will be ripe, and the Professor, with all the
 principal members of his gang, will be in the hands of the police. 
 Then will come the greatest criminal trial of the century, the
 clearing up of over forty mysteries, and the rope for all of them;
 but if we move at all prematurely, you understand, they may slip out
 of our hands even at the last moment.

 "Now, if I could have done this without the knowledge of Professor
 Moriarty, all would have been well.  But he was too wily for that. 
 He saw every step which I took to draw my toils round him.  Again and
 again he strove to break away, but I as often headed him off.  I tell
 you, my friend, that if a detailed account of that silent contest
 could be written, it would take its place as the most brilliant bit
 of thrust-and-parry work in the history of detection.  Never have I
 risen to such a height, and never have I been so hard pressed by an
 opponent.  He cut deep, and yet I just undercut him.  This morning
 the last steps were taken, and three days only were wanted to
 complete the business.  I was sitting in my room thinking the matter
 over, when the door opened and Professor Moriarty stood before me.

 "My nerves are fairly proof, Watson, but I must confess to a start
 when I saw the very man who had been so much in my thoughts standing
 there on my threshold.  His appearance was quite familiar to me.  He
 is extremely tall and thin, his forehead domes out in a white curve,
 and his two eyes are deeply sunken in his head.  He is clean-shaven,
 pale, and ascetic-looking, retaining something of the professor in
 his features.  His shoulders are rounded from much study, and his
 face protrudes forward, and is forever slowly oscillating from side
 to side in a curiously reptilian fashion.  He peered at me with great
 curiosity in his puckered eyes.

 "'You have less frontal development that I should have expected,'
 said he, at last.  'It is a dangerous habit to finger loaded firearms
 in the pocket of one's dressing-gown.'

 "The fact is that upon his entrance I had instantly recognized the
 extreme personal danger in which I lay.  The only conceivable escape
 for him lay in silencing my tongue.  In an instant I had slipped the
 revolver from the drawer into my pocket, and was covering him through
 the cloth.  At his remark I drew the weapon out and laid it cocked
 upon the table.  He still smiled and blinked, but there was something
 about his eyes which made me feel very glad that I had it there.

 "'You evidently don't know me,' said he.

 "'On the contrary,' I answered, 'I think it is fairly evident that I
 do.  Pray take a chair.  I can spare you five minutes if you have
 anything to say.'

 "'All that I have to say has already crossed your mind,' said he.

 "'Then possibly my answer has crossed yours,' I replied.

 "'You stand fast?'

 "'Absolutely.'

 "He clapped his hand into his pocket, and I raised the pistol from
 the table.  But he merely drew out a memorandum-book in which he had
 scribbled some dates.

 "'You crossed my path on the 4th of January,' said he.  'On the 23d
 you incommoded me; by the middle of February I was seriously
 inconvenienced by you; at the end of March I was absolutely hampered
 in my plans; and now, at the close of April, I find myself placed in
 such a position through your continual persecution that I am in
 positive danger of losing my liberty.  The situation is becoming an
 impossible one.'

 "'Have you any suggestion to make?' I asked.

 "'You must drop it, Mr. Holmes,' said he, swaying his face about. 
 'You really must, you know.'

 "'After Monday,' said I.

 "'Tut, tut,' said he.  'I am quite sure that a man of your
 intelligence will see that there can be but one outcome to this
 affair.  It is necessary that you should withdraw.  You have worked
 things in such a fashion that we have only one resource left.  It has
 been an intellectual treat to me to see the way in which you have
 grappled with this affair, and I say, unaffectedly, that it would be
 a grief to me to be forced to take any extreme measure.  You smile,
 sir, but I assure you that it really would.'

 "'Danger is part of my trade,' I remarked.

 "'That is not danger,' said he.  'It is inevitable destruction.  You
 stand in the way not merely of an individual, but of a mighty
 organization, the full extent of which you, with all your cleverness,
 have been unable to realize.  You must stand clear, Mr. Holmes, or be
 trodden under foot.'

 "'I am afraid,' said I, rising, 'that in the pleasure of this
 conversation I am neglecting business of importance which awaits me
 elsewhere.'

 "He rose also and looked at me in silence, shaking his head sadly.

 "'Well, well,' said he, at last.  'It seems a pity, but I have done
 what I could.  I know every move of your game.  You can do nothing
 before Monday.  It has been a duel between you and me, Mr. Holmes. 
 You hope to place me in the dock.  I tell you that I will never stand
 in the dock.  You hope to beat me.  I tell you that you will never
 beat me.  If you are clever enough to bring destruction upon me, rest
 assured that I shall do as much to you.'

 "'You have paid me several compliments, Mr. Moriarty,' said I.  'Let
 me pay you one in return when I say that if I were assured of the
 former eventuality I would, in the interests of the public,
 cheerfully accept the latter.'

 "'I can promise you the one, but not the other,' he snarled, and so
 turned his rounded back upon me, and went peering and blinking out of
 the room.

 "That was my singular interview with Professor Moriarty.  I confess
 that it left an unpleasant effect upon my mind.  His soft, precise
 fashion of speech leaves a conviction of sincerity which a mere bully
 could not produce.  Of course, you will say:  'Why not take police
 precautions against him?'  the reason is that I am well convinced
 that it is from his agents the blow would fall.  I have the best
 proofs that it would be so."

 "You have already been assaulted?"

 "My dear Watson, Professor Moriarty is not a man who lets the grass
 grow under his feet.  I went out about mid-day to transact some
 business in Oxford Street.  As I passed the corner which leads from
 Bentinck Street on to the Welbeck Street crossing a two-horse van
 furiously driven whizzed round and was on me like a flash.  I sprang
 for the foot-path and saved myself by the fraction of a second.  The
 van dashed round by Marylebone Lane and was gone in an instant.  I
 kept to the pavement after that, Watson, but as I walked down Vere
 Street a brick came down from the roof of one of the houses, and was
 shattered to fragments at my feet.  I called the police and had the
 place examined.  There were slates and bricks piled up on the roof
 preparatory to some repairs, and they would have me believe that the
 wind had toppled over one of these.  Of course I knew better, but I
 could prove nothing.  I took a cab after that and reached my
 brother's rooms in Pall Mall, where I spent the day.  Now I have come
 round to you, and on my way I was attacked by a rough with a
 bludgeon.  I knocked him down, and the police have him in custody;
 but I can tell you with the most absolute confidence that no possible
 connection will ever be traced between the gentleman upon whose front
 teeth I have barked my knuckles and the retiring mathematical coach,
 who is, I dare say, working out problems upon a black-board ten miles
 away.  You will not wonder, Watson, that my first act on entering
 your rooms was to close your shutters, and that I have been compelled
 to ask your permission to leave the house by some less conspicuous
 exit than the front door."

 I had often admired my friend's courage, but never more than now, as
 he sat quietly checking off a series of incidents which must have
 combined to make up a day of horror.

 "You will spend the night here?" I said.

 "No, my friend, you might find me a dangerous guest.  I have my plans
 laid, and all will be well.  Matters have gone so far now that they
 can move without my help as far as the arrest goes, though my
 presence is necessary for a conviction.  It is obvious, therefore,
 that I cannot do better than get away for the few days which remain
 before the police are at liberty to act.  It would be a great
 pleasure to me, therefore, if you could come on to the Continent with
 me."

 "The practice is quiet," said I, "and I have an accommodating
 neighbor.  I should be glad to come."

 "And to start to-morrow morning?"

 "If necessary."

 "Oh yes, it is most necessary.  Then these are your instructions, and
 I beg, my dear Watson, that you will obey them to the letter, for you
 are now playing a double-handed game with me against the cleverest
 rogue and the most powerful syndicate of criminals in Europe.  Now
 listen!  You will dispatch whatever luggage you intend to take by a
 trusty messenger unaddressed to Victoria to-night.  In the morning
 you will send for a hansom, desiring your man to take neither the
 first nor the second which may present itself.  Into this hansom you
 will jump, and you will drive to the Strand end of the Lowther
 Arcade, handing the address to the cabman upon a slip of paper, with
 a request that he will not throw it away.  Have your fare ready, and
 the instant that your cab stops, dash through the Arcade, timing
 yourself to reach the other side at a quarter-past nine.  You will
 find a small brougham waiting close to the curb, driven by a fellow
 with a heavy black cloak tipped at the collar with red.  Into this
 you will step, and you will reach Victoria in time for the
 Continental express."

 "Where shall I meet you?"

 "At the station.  The second first-class carriage from the front will
 be reserved for us."

 "The carriage is our rendezvous, then?"

 "Yes."

 It was in vain that I asked Holmes to remain for the evening.  It was
 evident to me that he thought he might bring trouble to the roof he
 was under, and that that was the motive which impelled him to go. 
 With a few hurried words as to our plans for the morrow he rose and
 came out with me into the garden, clambering over the wall which
 leads into Mortimer Street, and immediately whistling for a hansom,
 in which I heard him drive away.

 In the morning I obeyed Holmes's injunctions to the letter.  A hansom
 was procured with such precaution as would prevent its being one
 which was placed ready for us, and I drove immediately after
 breakfast to the Lowther Arcade, through which I hurried at the top
 of my speed.  A brougham was waiting with a very massive driver
 wrapped in a dark cloak, who, the instant that I had stepped in,
 whipped up the horse and rattled off to Victoria Station.  On my
 alighting there he turned the carriage, and dashed away again without
 so much as a look in my direction.

 So far all had gone admirably.  My luggage was waiting for me, and I
 had no difficulty in finding the carriage which Holmes had indicated,
 the less so as it was the only one in the train which was marked
 "Engaged."  My only source of anxiety now was the non-appearance of
 Holmes.  The station clock marked only seven minutes from the time
 when we were due to start.  In vain I searched among the groups of
 travellers and leave-takers for the lithe figure of my friend.  There
 was no sign of him.  I spent a few minutes in assisting a venerable
 Italian priest, who was endeavoring to make a porter understand, in
 his broken English, that his luggage was to be booked through to
 Paris.  Then, having taken another look round, I returned to my
 carriage, where I found that the porter, in spite of the ticket, had
 given me my decrepit Italian friend as a traveling companion.  It was
 useless for me to explain to him that his presence was an intrusion,
 for my Italian was even more limited than his English, so I shrugged
 my shoulders resignedly, and continued to look out anxiously for my
 friend.  A chill of fear had come over me, as I thought that his
 absence might mean that some blow had fallen during the night. 
 Already the doors had all been shut and the whistle blown, when--

 "My dear Watson," said a voice, "you have not even condescended to
 say good-morning."

 I turned in uncontrollable astonishment.  The aged ecclesiastic had
 turned his face towards me.  For an instant the wrinkles were
 smoothed away, the nose drew away from the chin, the lower lip ceased
 to protrude and the mouth to mumble, the dull eyes regained their
 fire, the drooping figure expanded.  The next the whole frame
 collapsed again, and Holmes had gone as quickly as he had come.

 "Good heavens!" I cried; "how you startled me!"

 "Every precaution is still necessary," he whispered.  "I have reason
 to think that they are hot upon our trail.  Ah, there is Moriarty
 himself."

 The train had already begun to move as Holmes spoke.  Glancing back,
 I saw a tall man pushing his way furiously through the crowd, and
 waving his hand as if he desired to have the train stopped.  It was
 too late, however, for we were rapidly gathering momentum, and an
 instant later had shot clear of the station.

 "With all our precautions, you see that we have cut it rather fine,"
 said Holmes, laughing.  He rose, and throwing off the black cassock
 and hat which had formed his disguise, he packed them away in a
 hand-bag.

 "Have you seen the morning paper, Watson?"

 "No."

 "You haven't seen about Baker Street, then?"

 "Baker Street?"

 "They set fire to our rooms last night.  No great harm was done."

 "Good heavens, Holmes, this is intolerable!"

 "They must have lost my track completely after their bludgeon-man was
 arrested.  Otherwise they could not have imagined that I had returned
 to my rooms.  They have evidently taken the precaution of watching
 you, however, and that is what has brought Moriarty to Victoria.  You
 could not have made any slip in coming?"

 "I did exactly what you advised."

 "Did you find your brougham?"

 "Yes, it was waiting."

 "Did you recognize your coachman?"

 "No."

 "It was my brother Mycroft.  It is an advantage to get about in such
 a case without taking a mercenary into your confidence.  But we must
 plan what we are to do about Moriarty now."

 "As this is an express, and as the boat runs in connection with it, I
 should think we have shaken him off very effectively."

 "My dear Watson, you evidently did not realize my meaning when I said
 that this man may be taken as being quite on the same intellectual
 plane as myself.  You do not imagine that if I were the pursuer I
 should allow myself to be baffled by so slight an obstacle.  Why,
 then, should you think so meanly of him?"

 "What will he do?"

 "What I should do."

 "What would you do, then?"

 "Engage a special."

 "But it must be late."

 "By no means.  This train stops at Canterbury; and there is always at
 least a quarter of an hour's delay at the boat.  He will catch us
 there."

 "One would think that we were the criminals.  Let us have him
 arrested on his arrival."

 "It would be to ruin the work of three months.  We should get the big
 fish, but the smaller would dart right and left out of the net.  On
 Monday we should have them all.  No, an arrest is inadmissible."

 "What then?"

 "We shall get out at Canterbury."

 "And then?"

 "Well, then we must make a cross-country journey to Newhaven, and so
 over to Dieppe.  Moriarty will again do what I should do.  He will
 get on to Paris, mark down our luggage, and wait for two days at the
 depot.  In the meantime we shall treat ourselves to a couple of
 carpet-bags, encourage the manufactures of the countries through
 which we travel, and make our way at our leisure into Switzerland,
 via Luxembourg and Basle."

 At Canterbury, therefore, we alighted, only to find that we should
 have to wait an hour before we could get a train to Newhaven.

 I was still looking rather ruefully after the rapidly disappearing
 luggage-van which contained my wardrobe, when Holmes pulled my sleeve
 and pointed up the line.

 "Already, you see," said he.

 Far away, from among the Kentish woods there rose a thin spray of
 smoke.  A minute later a carriage and engine could be seen flying
 along the open curve which leads to the station.  We had hardly time
 to take our place behind a pile of luggage when it passed with a
 rattle and a roar, beating a blast of hot air into our faces.

 "There he goes," said Holmes, as we watched the carriage swing and
 rock over the point. "There are limits, you see, to our friend's
 intelligence.  It would have been a coup-de-maÃ®tre had he deduced
 what I would deduce and acted accordingly."

 "And what would he have done had he overtaken us?"

 "There cannot be the least doubt that he would have made a murderous
 attack upon me.  It is, however, a game at which two may play.  The
 question now is whether we should take a premature lunch here, or run
 our chance of starving before we reach the buffet at Newhaven."

 We made our way to Brussels that night and spent two days there,
 moving on upon the third day as far as Strasburg.  On the Monday
 morning Holmes had telegraphed to the London police, and in the
 evening we found a reply waiting for us at our hotel.  Holmes tore it
 open, and then with a bitter curse hurled it into the grate.

 "I might have known it!" he groaned.  "He has escaped!"

 "Moriarty?"

 "They have secured the whole gang with the exception of him.  He has
 given them the slip.  Of course, when I had left the country there
 was no one to cope with him.  But I did think that I had put the game
 in their hands.  I think that you had better return to England,
 Watson."

 "Why?"

 "Because you will find me a dangerous companion now.  This man's
 occupation is gone.  He is lost if he returns to London.  If I read
 his character right he will devote his whole energies to revenging
 himself upon me.  He said as much in our short interview, and I fancy
 that he meant it.  I should certainly recommend you to return to your
 practice."

 It was hardly an appeal to be successful with one who was an old
 campaigner as well as an old friend.  We sat in the Strasbourg
 salle-Ã -manger arguing the question for half an hour, but the same
 night we had resumed our journey and were well on our way to Geneva.

 For a charming week we wandered up the Valley of the Rhone, and then,
 branching off at Leuk, we made our way over the Gemmi Pass, still
 deep in snow, and so, by way of Interlaken, to Meiringen.  It was a
 lovely trip, the dainty green of the spring below, the virgin white
 of the winter above; but it was clear to me that never for one
 instant did Holmes forget the shadow which lay across him.  In the
 homely Alpine villages or in the lonely mountain passes, I could tell
 by his quick glancing eyes and his sharp scrutiny of every face that
 passed us, that he was well convinced that, walk where we would, we
 could not walk ourselves clear of the danger which was dogging our
 footsteps.

 Once, I remember, as we passed over the Gemmi, and walked along the
 border of the melancholy Daubensee, a large rock which had been
 dislodged from the ridge upon our right clattered down and roared
 into the lake behind us.  In an instant Holmes had raced up on to the
 ridge, and, standing upon a lofty pinnacle, craned his neck in every
 direction.  It was in vain that our guide assured him that a fall of
 stones was a common chance in the spring-time at that spot.  He said
 nothing, but he smiled at me with the air of a man who sees the
 fulfillment of that which he had expected.

 And yet for all his watchfulness he was never depressed.  On the
 contrary, I can never recollect having seen him in such exuberant
 spirits.  Again and again he recurred to the fact that if he could be
 assured that society was freed from Professor Moriarty he would
 cheerfully bring his own career to a conclusion.

 "I think that I may go so far as to say, Watson, that I have not
 lived wholly in vain," he remarked.  "If my record were closed
 to-night I could still survey it with equanimity.  The air of London
 is the sweeter for my presence.  In over a thousand cases I am not
 aware that I have ever used my powers upon the wrong side.  Of late I
 have been tempted to look into the problems furnished by nature
 rather than those more superficial ones for which our artificial
 state of society is responsible.  Your memoirs will draw to an end,
 Watson, upon the day that I crown my career by the capture or
 extinction of the most dangerous and capable criminal in Europe."

 I shall be brief, and yet exact, in the little which remains for me
 to tell.  It is not a subject on which I would willingly dwell, and
 yet I am conscious that a duty devolves upon me to omit no detail.

 It was on the third of May that we reached the little village of
 Meiringen, where we put up at the Englischer Hof, then kept by Peter
 Steiler the elder.  Our landlord was an intelligent  man, and spoke
 excellent English, having served for three years as waiter at the
 Grosvenor Hotel in London.  At his advice, on the afternoon of the
 fourth we set off together, with the intention of crossing the hills
 and spending the night at the hamlet of Rosenlaui.  We had strict
 injunctions, however, on no account to pass the falls of Reichenbach,
 which are about half-way up the hill, without making a small detour
 to see them.

 It is, indeed, a fearful place.  The torrent, swollen by the melting
 snow, plunges into a tremendous abyss, from which the spray rolls up
 like the smoke from a burning house.  The shaft into which the river
 hurls itself is an immense chasm, lined by glistening coal-black
 rock, and narrowing into a creaming, boiling pit of incalculable
 depth, which brims over and shoots the stream onward over its jagged
 lip.  The long sweep of green water roaring forever down, and the
 thick flickering curtain of spray hissing forever upward, turn a man
 giddy with their constant whirl and clamor.  We stood near the edge
 peering down at the gleam of the breaking water far below us against
 the black rocks, and listening to the half-human shout which came
 booming up with the spray out of the abyss.

 The path has been cut half-way round the fall to afford a complete
 view, but it ends abruptly, and the traveler has to return as he
 came.  We had turned to do so, when we saw a Swiss lad come running
 along it with a letter in his hand.  It bore the mark of the hotel
 which we had just left, and was addressed to me by the landlord.  It
 appeared that within a very few minutes of our leaving, an English
 lady had arrived who was in the last stage of consumption.  She had
 wintered at Davos Platz, and was journeying now to join her friends
 at Lucerne, when a sudden hemorrhage had overtaken her.  It was
 thought that she could hardly live a few hours, but it would be a
 great consolation to her to see an English doctor, and, if I would
 only return, etc.  The good Steiler assured me in a postscript that
 he would himself look upon my compliance as a very great favor, since
 the lady absolutely refused to see a Swiss physician, and he could
 not but feel that he was incurring a great responsibility.

 The appeal was one which could not be ignored.  It was impossible to
 refuse the request of a fellow-countrywoman dying in a strange land. 
 Yet I had my scruples about leaving Holmes.  It was finally agreed,
 however, that he should retain the young Swiss messenger with him as
 guide and companion while I returned to Meiringen.  My friend would
 stay some little time at the fall, he said, and would then walk
 slowly over the hill to Rosenlaui, where I was to rejoin him in the
 evening.  As I turned away I saw Holmes, with his back against a rock
 and his arms folded, gazing down at the rush of the waters.  It was
 the last that I was ever destined to see of him in this world.

 When I was near the bottom of the descent I looked back.  It was
 impossible, from that position, to see the fall, but I could see the
 curving path which winds over the shoulder of the hill and leads to
 it.  Along this a man was, I remember, walking very rapidly.

 I could see his black figure clearly outlined against the green
 behind him.  I noted him, and the energy with which he walked but he
 passed from my mind again as I hurried on upon my errand.

 It may have been a little over an hour before I reached Meiringen. 
 Old Steiler was standing at the porch of his hotel.

 "Well," said I, as I came hurrying up, "I trust that she is no
 worse?"

 A look of surprise passed over his face, and at the first quiver of
 his eyebrows my heart turned to lead in my breast.

 "You did not write this?" I said, pulling the letter from my pocket. 
 "There is no sick Englishwoman in the hotel?"

 "Certainly not!" he cried.  "But it has the hotel mark upon it!  Ha,
 it must have been written by that tall Englishman who came in after
 you had gone.  He said--"

 But I waited for none of the landlord's explanations.  In a tingle of
 fear I was already running down the village street, and making for
 the path which I had so lately descended.  It had taken me an hour to
 come down.  For all my efforts two more had passed before I found
 myself at the fall of Reichenbach once more.  There was Holmes's
 Alpine-stock still leaning against the rock by which I had left him. 
 But there was no sign of him, and it was in vain that I shouted.  My
 only answer was my own voice reverberating in a rolling echo from the
 cliffs around me.

 It was the sight of that Alpine-stock which turned me cold and sick. 
 He had not gone to Rosenlaui, then.  He had remained on that
 three-foot path, with sheer wall on one side and sheer drop on the
 other, until his enemy had overtaken him.  The young Swiss had gone
 too.  He had probably been in the pay of Moriarty, and had left the
 two men together.  And then what had happened?  Who was to tell us
 what had happened then?

 I stood for a minute or two to collect myself, for I was dazed with
 the horror of the thing.  Then I began to think of Holmes's own
 methods and to try to practise them in reading this tragedy.  It was,
 alas, only too easy to do.  During our conversation we had not gone
 to the end of the path, and the Alpine-stock marked the place where
 we had stood.  The blackish soil is kept forever soft by the
 incessant drift of spray, and a bird would leave its tread upon it. 
 Two lines of footmarks were clearly marked along the farther end of
 the path, both leading away from me.  There were none returning.  A
 few yards from the end the soil was all ploughed up into a patch of
 mud, and the branches and ferns which fringed the chasm were torn and
 bedraggled.  I lay upon my face and peered over with the spray
 spouting up all around me.  It had darkened since I left, and now I
 could only see here and there the glistening of moisture upon the
 black walls, and far away down at the end of the shaft the gleam of
 the broken water.  I shouted; but only the same half-human cry of the
 fall was borne back to my ears.

 But it was destined that I should after all have a last word of
 greeting from my friend and comrade.  I have said that his
 Alpine-stock had been left leaning against a rock which jutted on to
 the path.  From the top of this boulder the gleam of something bright
 caught my eye, and, raising my hand, I found that it came from the
 silver cigarette-case which he used to carry.  As I took it up a
 small square of paper upon which it had lain fluttered down on to the
 ground.  Unfolding it, I found that it consisted of three pages torn
 from his note-book and addressed to me.  It was characteristic of the
 man that the direction was as precise, and the writing as firm and
 clear, as though it had been written in his study.

 My dear Watson [it said]:
 I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who
 awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions
 which lie between us.  He has been giving me a sketch of the methods
 by which he avoided the English police and kept himself informed of
 our movements.  They certainly confirm the very high opinion which I
 had formed of his abilities.  I am pleased to think that I shall be
 able to free society from any further effects of his presence, though
 I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and
 especially, my dear Watson, to you.  I have already explained to you,
 however, that my career had in any case reached its crisis, and that
 no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this.
  Indeed, if I may make a full confession to you, I was quite
 convinced that the letter from Meiringen was a hoax, and I allowed
 you to depart on that errand under the persuasion that some
 development of this sort would follow.  Tell Inspector Patterson that
 the papers which he needs to convict the gang are in pigeonhole M.,
 done up in a blue envelope and inscribed "Moriarty."  I made every
 disposition of my property before leaving England, and handed it to
 my brother Mycroft.  Pray give my greetings to Mrs. Watson, and
 believe me to be, my dear fellow,
 Very sincerely yours,
 Sherlock Holmes

 A few words may suffice to tell the little that remains.  An
 examination by experts leaves little doubt that a personal contest
 between the two men ended, as it could hardly fail to end in such a
 situation, in their reeling over, locked in each other's arms.  Any
 attempt at recovering the bodies was absolutely hopeless, and there,
 deep down in that dreadful cauldron of swirling water and seething
 foam, will lie for all time the most dangerous criminal and the
 foremost champion of the law of their generation.  The Swiss youth
 was never found again, and there can be no doubt that he was one of
 the numerous agents whom Moriarty kept in his employ.  As to the
 gang, it will be within the memory of the public how completely the
 evidence which Holmes had accumulated exposed their organization, and
 how heavily the hand of the dead man weighed upon them.  Of their
 terrible chief few details came out during the proceedings, and if I
 have now been compelled to make a clear statement of his career it is
 due to those injudicious champions who have endeavored to clear his
 memory by attacks upon him whom I shall ever regard as the best and
 the wisest man whom I have ever known.






                      THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES





                    THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE

 It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was interested,
 and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of the Honourable
 Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable circumstances. The
 public has already learned those particulars of the crime which came
 out in the police investigation; but a good deal was suppressed upon
 that occasion, since the case for the prosecution was so
 overwhelmingly strong that it was not necessary to bring forward all
 the facts. Only now, at the end of nearly ten years, am I allowed to
 supply those missing links which make up the whole of that remarkable
 chain. The crime was of interest in itself, but that interest was as
 nothing to me compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me
 the greatest shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life.
 Even now, after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as I
 think of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy,
 amazement, and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind. Let me
 say to that public which has shown some interest in those glimpses
 which I have occasionally given them of the thoughts and actions of a
 very remarkable man that they are not to blame me if I have not
 shared my knowledge with them, for I should have considered it my
 first duty to have done so had I not been barred by a positive
 prohibition from his own lips, which was only withdrawn upon the
 third of last month.

 It can be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock Holmes had
 interested me deeply in crime, and that after his disappearance I
 never failed to read with care the various problems which came before
 the public, and I even attempted more than once for my own private
 satisfaction to employ his methods in their solution, though with
 indifferent success. There was none, however, which appealed to me
 like this tragedy of Ronald Adair. As I read the evidence at the
 inquest, which led up to a verdict of wilful murder against some
 person or persons unknown, I realized more clearly than I had ever
 done the loss which the community had sustained by the death of
 Sherlock Holmes. There were points about this strange business which
 would, I was sure, have specially appealed to him, and the efforts of
 the police would have been supplemented, or more probably
 anticipated, by the trained observation and the alert mind of the
 first criminal agent in Europe. All day as I drove upon my round I
 turned over the case in my mind, and found no explanation which
 appeared to me to be adequate. At the risk of telling a twice-told
 tale I will recapitulate the facts as they were known to the public
 at the conclusion of the inquest.

 The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl of
 Maynooth, at that time Governor of one of the Australian Colonies.
 Adair's mother had returned from Australia to undergo the operation
 for cataract, and she, her son Ronald, and her daughter Hilda were
 living together at 427, Park Lane. The youth moved in the best
 society, had, so far as was known, no enemies, and no particular
 vices. He had been engaged to Miss Edith Woodley, of Carstairs, but
 the engagement had been broken off by mutual consent some months
 before, and there was no sign that it had left any very profound
 feeling behind it. For the rest the man's life moved in a narrow and
 conventional circle, for his habits were quiet and his nature
 unemotional. Yet it was upon this easy-going young aristocrat that
 death came in most strange and unexpected form between the hours of
 ten and eleven-twenty on the night of March 30, 1894.

 Ronald Adair was fond of cards, playing continually, but never for
 such stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of the Baldwin, the
 Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was shown that after
 dinner on the day of his death he had played a rubber of whist at the
 latter club. He had also played there in the afternoon. The evidence
 of those who had played with him--Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and
 Colonel Moran--showed that the game was whist, and that there was a
 fairly equal fall of the cards. Adair might have lost five pounds,
 but not more. His fortune was a considerable one, and such a loss
 could not in any way affect him. He had played nearly every day at
 one club or other, but he was a cautious player, and usually rose a
 winner. It came out in evidence that in partnership with Colonel
 Moran he had actually won as much as four hundred and twenty pounds
 in a sitting some weeks before from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral.
 So much for his recent history, as it came out at the inquest.

 On the evening of the crime he returned from the club exactly at ten.
 His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a relation.
 The servant deposed that she heard him enter the front room on the
 second floor, generally used as his sitting-room. She had lit a fire
 there, and as it smoked she had opened the window. No sound was heard
 from the room until eleven-twenty, the hour of the return of Lady
 Maynooth and her daughter. Desiring to say good-night, she had
 attempted to enter her son's room. The door was locked on the inside,
 and no answer could be got to their cries and knocking. Help was
 obtained and the door forced. The unfortunate young man was found
 lying near the table. His head had been horribly mutilated by an
 expanding revolver bullet, but no weapon of any sort was to be found
 in the room. On the table lay two bank-notes for ten pounds each and
 seventeen pounds ten in silver and gold, the money arranged in little
 piles of varying amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet of
 paper with the names of some club friends opposite to them, from
 which it was conjectured that before his death he was endeavouring to
 make out his losses or winnings at cards.

 A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make the
 case more complex. In the first place, no reason could be given why
 the young man should have fastened the door upon the inside. There
 was the possibility that the murderer had done this and had
 afterwards escaped by the window. The drop was at least twenty feet,
 however, and a bed of crocuses in full bloom lay beneath. Neither the
 flowers nor the earth showed any sign of having been disturbed, nor
 were there any marks upon the narrow strip of grass which separated
 the house from the road. Apparently, therefore, it was the young man
 himself who had fastened the door. But how did he come by his death?
 No one could have climbed up to the window without leaving traces.
 Suppose a man had fired through the window, it would indeed be a
 remarkable shot who could with a revolver inflict so deadly a wound.
 Again, Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare, and there is a
 cab-stand within a hundred yards of the house. No one had heard a
 shot. And yet there was the dead man, and there the revolver bullet,
 which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will, and so
 inflicted a wound which must have caused instantaneous death. Such
 were the circumstances of the Park Lane Mystery, which were further
 complicated by entire absence of motive, since, as I have said, young
 Adair was not known to have any enemy, and no attempt had been made
 to remove the money or valuables in the room.

 All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to hit
 upon some theory which could reconcile them all, and to find that
 line of least resistance which my poor friend had declared to be the
 starting-point of every investigation. I confess that I made little
 progress. In the evening I strolled across the Park, and found myself
 about six o'clock at the Oxford Street end of Park Lane. A group of
 loafers upon the pavements, all staring up at a particular window,
 directed me to the house which I had come to see. A tall, thin man
 with coloured glasses, whom I strongly suspected of being a
 plain-clothes detective, was pointing out some theory of his own,
 while the others crowded round to listen to what he said. I got as
 near him as I could, but his observations seemed to me to be absurd,
 so I withdrew again in some disgust. As I did so I struck against an
 elderly deformed man, who had been behind me, and I knocked down
 several books which he was carrying. I remember that as I picked them
 up I observed the title of one of them, The Origin of Tree Worship,
 and it struck me that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile who,
 either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure volumes.
 I endeavoured to apologize for the accident, but it was evident that
 these books which I had so unfortunately maltreated were very
 precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a snarl of contempt
 he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved back and white
 side-whiskers disappear among the throng.

 My observations of No. 427, Park Lane did little to clear up the
 problem in which I was interested. The house was separated from the
 street by a low wall and railing, the whole not more than five feet
 high. It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to get into the
 garden, but the window was entirely inaccessible, since there was no
 water-pipe or anything which could help the most active man to climb
 it. More puzzled than ever I retraced my steps to Kensington. I had
 not been in my study five minutes when the maid entered to say that a
 person desired to see me. To my astonishment it was none other than
 my strange old book-collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out
 from a frame of white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them
 at least, wedged under his right arm.

 "You're surprised to see me, sir," said he, in a strange, croaking
 voice.

 I acknowledged that I was.

 "Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into
 this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I'll
 just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was
 a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am
 much obliged to him for picking up my books."

 "You make too much of a trifle," said I. "May I ask how you knew who
 I was?"

 "Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of
 yours, for you'll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church
 Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect
 yourself, sir; here's British Birds, and Catullus, and The Holy
 War--a bargain every one of them. With five volumes you could just
 fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not,
 sir?"

 I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again
 Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I
 rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement,
 and then it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the
 last time in my life. Certainly a grey mist swirled before my eyes,
 and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling
 after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair,
 his flask in his hand.

 "My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a
 thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."

 I gripped him by the arm.

 "Holmes!" I cried. "Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are
 alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that
 awful abyss?"

 "Wait a moment," said he. "Are you sure that you are really fit to
 discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily
 dramatic reappearance."

 "I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my eyes.
 Good heavens, to think that you--you of all men--should be standing
 in my study!" Again I gripped him by the sleeve and felt the thin,
 sinewy arm beneath it. "Well, you're not a spirit, anyhow," said I.
 "My dear chap, I am overjoyed to see you. Sit down and tell me how
 you came alive out of that dreadful chasm."

 He sat opposite to me and lit a cigarette in his old nonchalant
 manner. He was dressed in the seedy frock-coat of the book merchant,
 but the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white hair and old
 books upon the table. Holmes looked even thinner and keener than of
 old, but there was a dead-white tinge in his aquiline face which told
 me that his life recently had not been a healthy one.

 "I am glad to stretch myself, Watson," said he. "It is no joke when a
 tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several hours on end.
 Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these explanations we have, if
 I may ask for your co-operation, a hard and dangerous night's work in
 front of us. Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account of
 the whole situation when that work is finished."

 "I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear now."

 "You'll come with me to-night?"

 "When you like and where you like."

 "This is indeed like the old days. We shall have time for a mouthful
 of dinner before we need go. Well, then, about that chasm. I had no
 serious difficulty in getting out of it, for the very simple reason
 that I never was in it."

 "You never were in it?"

 "No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely
 genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my career
 when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late Professor
 Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which led to safety. I read
 an inexorable purpose in his grey eyes. I exchanged some remarks with
 him, therefore, and obtained his courteous permission to write the
 short note which you afterwards received. I left it with my
 cigarette-box and my stick and I walked along the pathway, Moriarty
 still at my heels. When I reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no
 weapon, but he rushed at me and threw his long arms around me. He
 knew that his own game was up, and was only anxious to revenge
 himself upon me. We tottered together upon the brink of the fall. I
 have some knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the Japanese system of
 wrestling, which has more than once been very useful to me. I slipped
 through his grip, and he with a horrible scream kicked madly for a
 few seconds and clawed the air with both his hands. But for all his
 efforts he could not get his balance, and over he went. With my face
 over the brink I saw him fall for a long way. Then he struck a rock,
 bounded off, and splashed into the water."

 I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes delivered
 between the puffs of his cigarette.

 "But the tracks!" I cried. "I saw with my own eyes that two went down
 the path and none returned."

 "It came about in this way. The instant that the Professor had
 disappeared it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky chance
 Fate had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not the only man
 who had sworn my death. There were at least three others whose desire
 for vengeance upon me would only be increased by the death of their
 leader. They were all most dangerous men. One or other would
 certainly get me. On the other hand, if all the world was convinced
 that I was dead they would take liberties, these men, they would lay
 themselves open, and sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it
 would be time for me to announce that I was still in the land of the
 living. So rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought
 this all out before Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom of the
 Reichenbach Fall.

 "I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your
 picturesque account of the matter, which I read with great interest
 some months later, you assert that the wall was sheer. This was not
 literally true. A few small footholds presented themselves, and there
 was some indication of a ledge. The cliff is so high that to climb it
 all was an obvious impossibility, and it was equally impossible to
 make my way along the wet path without leaving some tracks. I might,
 it is true, have reversed my boots, as I have done on similar
 occasions, but the sight of three sets of tracks in one direction
 would certainly have suggested a deception. On the whole, then, it
 was best that I should risk the climb. It was not a pleasant
 business, Watson. The fall roared beneath me. I am not a fanciful
 person, but I give you my word that I seemed to hear Moriarty's voice
 screaming at me out of the abyss. A mistake would have been fatal.
 More than once, as tufts of grass came out in my hand or my foot
 slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I thought that I was gone.
 But I struggled upwards, and at last I reached a ledge several feet
 deep and covered with soft green moss, where I could lie unseen in
 the most perfect comfort. There I was stretched when you, my dear
 Watson, and all your following were investigating in the most
 sympathetic and inefficient manner the circumstances of my death.

 "At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally
 erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel and I was left
 alone. I had imagined that I had reached the end of my adventures,
 but a very unexpected occurrence showed me that there were surprises
 still in store for me. A huge rock, falling from above, boomed past
 me, struck the path, and bounded over into the chasm. For an instant
 I thought that it was an accident; but a moment later, looking up, I
 saw a man's head against the darkening sky, and another stone struck
 the very ledge upon which I was stretched, within a foot of my head.
 Of course, the meaning of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been
 alone. A confederate--and even that one glance had told me how
 dangerous a man that confederate was--had kept guard while the
 Professor had attacked me. From a distance, unseen by me, he had been
 a witness of his friend's death and of my escape. He had waited, and
 then, making his way round to the top of the cliff, he had
 endeavoured to succeed where his comrade had failed.

 "I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I saw that grim
 face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the precursor of
 another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I don't think I could
 have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred times more difficult
 than getting up. But I had no time to think of the danger, for
 another stone sang past me as I hung by my hands from the edge of the
 ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but by the blessing of God I landed,
 torn and bleeding, upon the path. I took to my heels, did ten miles
 over the mountains in the darkness, and a week later I found myself
 in Florence with the certainty that no one in the world knew what had
 become of me.

 "I had only one confidant--my brother Mycroft. I owe you many
 apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it should be
 thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you would not have
 written so convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not
 yourself thought that it was true. Several times during the last
 three years I have taken up my pen to write to you, but always I
 feared lest your affectionate regard for me should tempt you to some
 indiscretion which would betray my secret. For that reason I turned
 away from you this evening when you upset my books, for I was in
 danger at the time, and any show of surprise and emotion upon your
 part might have drawn attention to my identity and led to the most
 deplorable and irreparable results. As to Mycroft, I had to confide
 in him in order to obtain the money which I needed. The course of
 events in London did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trial of
 the Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own most
 vindictive enemies, at liberty. I travelled for two years in Tibet,
 therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa and spending some
 days with the head Llama. You may have read of the remarkable
 explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure that it
 never occurred to you that you were receiving news of your friend. I
 then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and paid a short but
 interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum, the results of which I
 have communicated to the Foreign Office. Returning to France I spent
 some months in a research into the coal-tar derivatives, which I
 conducted in a laboratory at Montpelier, in the South of France.
 Having concluded this to my satisfaction, and learning that only one
 of my enemies was now left in London, I was about to return when my
 movements were hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane
 Mystery, which not only appealed to me by its own merits, but which
 seemed to offer some most peculiar personal opportunities. I came
 over at once to London, called in my own person at Baker Street,
 threw Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had
 preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they had always been. So
 it was, my dear Watson, that at two o'clock to-day I found myself in
 my old arm-chair in my own old room, and only wishing that I could
 have seen my old friend Watson in the other chair which he has so
 often adorned."

 Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that April
 evening--a narrative which would have been utterly incredible to me
 had it not been confirmed by the actual sight of the tall, spare
 figure and the keen, eager face, which I had never thought to see
 again. In some manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and
 his sympathy was shown in his manner rather than in his words. "Work
 is the best antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson," said he, "and I have
 a piece of work for us both to-night which, if we can bring it to a
 successful conclusion, will in itself justify a man's life on this
 planet." In vain I begged him to tell me more. "You will hear and see
 enough before morning," he answered. "We have three years of the past
 to discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start upon
 the notable adventure of the empty house."

 It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself
 seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket and the
 thrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern and
 silent. As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere
 features I saw that his brows were drawn down in thought and his thin
 lips compressed. I knew not what wild beast we were about to hunt
 down in the dark jungle of criminal London, but I was well assured
 from the bearing of this master huntsman that the adventure was a
 most grave one, while the sardonic smile which occasionally broke
 through his ascetic gloom boded little good for the object of our
 quest.

 I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmes
 stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed that as
 he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right and left, and
 at every subsequent street corner he took the utmost pains to assure
 that he was not followed. Our route was certainly a singular one.
 Holmes's knowledge of the byways of London was extraordinary, and on
 this occasion he passed rapidly, and with an assured step, through a
 network of mews and stables the very existence of which I had never
 known. We emerged at last into a small road, lined with old, gloomy
 houses, which led us into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford
 Street. Here he turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through
 a wooden gate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the
 back door of a house. We entered together and he closed it behind us.

 The place was pitch-dark, but it was evident to me that it was an
 empty house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare planking,
 and my outstretched hand touched a wall from which the paper was
 hanging in ribbons. Holmes's cold, thin fingers closed round my wrist
 and led me forwards down a long hall, until I dimly saw the murky
 fanlight over the door. Here Holmes turned suddenly to the right, and
 we found ourselves in a large, square, empty room, heavily shadowed
 in the corners, but faintly lit in the centre from the lights of the
 street beyond. There was no lamp near and the window was thick with
 dust, so that we could only just discern each other's figures within.
 My companion put his hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my
 ear.

 "Do you know where we are?" he whispered.

 "Surely that is Baker Street," I answered, staring through the dim
 window.

 "Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to our own
 old quarters."

 "But why are we here?"

 "Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque pile.
 Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little nearer to the
 window, taking every precaution not to show yourself, and then to
 look up at our old rooms--the starting-point of so many of our little
 adventures? We will see if my three years of absence have entirely
 taken away my power to surprise you."

 I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As my eyes
 fell upon it I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The blind was down
 and a strong light was burning in the room. The shadow of a man who
 was seated in a chair within was thrown in hard, black outline upon
 the luminous screen of the window. There was no mistaking the poise
 of the head, the squareness of the shoulders, the sharpness of the
 features. The face was turned half-round, and the effect was that of
 one of those black silhouettes which our grandparents loved to frame.
 It was a perfect reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw
 out my hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside me.
 He was quivering with silent laughter.

 "Well?" said he.

 "Good heavens!" I cried. "It is marvellous."

 "I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite
 variety,'" said he, and I recognised in his voice the joy and pride
 which the artist takes in his own creation. "It really is rather like
 me, is it not?"

 "I should be prepared to swear that it was you."

 "The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier, of
 Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a bust in
 wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker Street this
 afternoon."

 "But why?"

 "Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible reason for
 wishing certain people to think that I was there when I was really
 elsewhere."

 "And you thought the rooms were watched?"

 "I knew that they were watched."

 "By whom?"

 "By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose leader lies
 in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that they knew, and only
 they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or later they believed that
 I should come back to my rooms. They watched them continuously, and
 this morning they saw me arrive."

 "How do you know?"

 "Because I recognised their sentinel when I glanced out of my window.
 He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a garroter by trade,
 and a remarkable performer upon the Jew's harp. I cared nothing for
 him. But I cared a great deal for the much more formidable person who
 was behind him, the bosom friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the
 rocks over the cliff, the most cunning and dangerous criminal in
 London. That is the man who is after me to-night, Watson, and that is
 the man who is quite unaware that we are after him."

 My friend's plans were gradually revealing themselves. From this
 convenient retreat the watchers were being watched and the trackers
 tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait and we were the
 hunters. In silence we stood together in the darkness and watched the
 hurrying figures who passed and repassed in front of us. Holmes was
 silent and motionless; but I could tell that he was keenly alert, and
 that his eyes were fixed intently upon the stream of passers-by. It
 was a bleak and boisterous night, and the wind whistled shrilly down
 the long street. Many people were moving to and fro, most of them
 muffled in their coats and cravats. Once or twice it seemed to me
 that I had seen the same figure before, and I especially noticed two
 men who appeared to be sheltering themselves from the wind in the
 doorway of a house some distance up the street. I tried to draw my
 companion's attention to them, but he gave a little ejaculation of
 impatience and continued to stare into the street. More than once he
 fidgeted with his feet and tapped rapidly with his fingers upon the
 wall. It was evident to me that he was becoming uneasy and that his
 plans were not working out altogether as he had hoped. At last, as
 midnight approached and the street gradually cleared, he paced up and
 down the room in uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make some
 remark to him when I raised my eyes to the lighted window and again
 experienced almost as great a surprise as before. I clutched Holmes's
 arm and pointed upwards.

 "The shadow has moved!" I cried.

 It was, indeed, no longer the profile, but the back, which was turned
 towards us.

 Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his temper
 or his impatience with a less active intelligence than his own.

 "Of course it has moved," said he. "Am I such a farcical bungler,
 Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy and expect that some of
 the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We have been in
 this room two hours, and Mrs. Hudson has made some change in that
 figure eight times, or once in every quarter of an hour. She works it
 from the front so that her shadow may never be seen. Ah!" He drew in
 his breath with a shrill, excited intake. In the dim light I saw his
 head thrown forward, his whole attitude rigid with attention.
 Outside, the street was absolutely deserted. Those two men might
 still be crouching in the doorway, but I could no longer see them.
 All was still and dark, save only that brilliant yellow screen in
 front of us with the black figure outlined upon its centre. Again in
 the utter silence I heard that thin, sibilant note which spoke of
 intense suppressed excitement. An instant later he pulled me back
 into the blackest corner of the room, and I felt his warning hand
 upon my lips. The fingers which clutched me were quivering. Never had
 I known my friend more moved, and yet the dark street still stretched
 lonely and motionless before us.

 But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses had already
 distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not from the
 direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the very house in
 which we lay concealed. A door opened and shut. An instant later
 steps crept down the passage--steps which were meant to be silent,
 but which reverberated harshly through the empty house. Holmes
 crouched back against the wall and I did the same, my hand closing
 upon the handle of my revolver. Peering through the gloom, I saw the
 vague outline of a man, a shade blacker than the blackness of the
 open door. He stood for an instant, and then he crept forward,
 crouching, menacing, into the room. He was within three yards of us,
 this sinister figure, and I had braced myself to meet his spring,
 before I realized that he had no idea of our presence. He passed
 close beside us, stole over to the window, and very softly and
 noiselessly raised it for half a foot. As he sank to the level of
 this opening the light of the street, no longer dimmed by the dusty
 glass, fell full upon his face. The man seemed to be beside himself
 with excitement. His two eyes shone like stars and his features were
 working convulsively. He was an elderly man, with a thin, projecting
 nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache. An
 opera-hat was pushed to the back of his head, and an evening dress
 shirt-front gleamed out through his open overcoat. His face was gaunt
 and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In his hand he carried
 what appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it down upon the floor it
 gave a metallic clang. Then from the pocket of his overcoat he drew a
 bulky object, and he busied himself in some task which ended with a
 loud, sharp click, as if a spring or bolt had fallen into its place.
 Still kneeling upon the floor he bent forward and threw all his
 weight and strength upon some lever, with the result that there came
 a long, whirling, grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful
 click. He straightened himself then, and I saw that what he held in
 his hand was a sort of gun, with a curiously misshapen butt. He
 opened it at the breech, put something in, and snapped the
 breech-block. Then, crouching down, he rested the end of the barrel
 upon the ledge of the open window, and I saw his long moustache droop
 over the stock and his eye gleam as it peered along the sights. I
 heard a little sigh of satisfaction as he cuddled the butt into his
 shoulder, and saw that amazing target, the black man on the yellow
 ground, standing clear at the end of his fore sight. For an instant
 he was rigid and motionless. Then his finger tightened on the
 trigger. There was a strange, loud whiz and a long, silvery tinkle of
 broken glass. At that instant Holmes sprang like a tiger on to the
 marksman's back and hurled him flat upon his face. He was up again in
 a moment, and with convulsive strength he seized Holmes by the
 throat; but I struck him on the head with the butt of my revolver and
 he dropped again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as I held him
 my comrade blew a shrill call upon a whistle. There was the clatter
 of running feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform, with
 one plain-clothes detective, rushed through the front entrance and
 into the room.

 "That you, Lestrade?" said Holmes.

 "Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It's good to see you back in
 London, sir."

 "I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected murders
 in one year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery
 with less than your usual--that's to say, you handled it fairly
 well."

 We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with a
 stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a few loiterers had
 begun to collect in the street. Holmes stepped up to the window,
 closed it, and dropped the blinds. Lestrade had produced two candles
 and the policemen had uncovered their lanterns. I was able at last to
 have a good look at our prisoner.

 It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was turned
 towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the jaw of a
 sensualist below, the man must have started with great capacities for
 good or for evil. But one could not look upon his cruel blue eyes,
 with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the fierce, aggressive
 nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow, without reading Nature's
 plainest danger-signals. He took no heed of any of us, but his eyes
 were fixed upon Holmes's face with an expression in which hatred and
 amazement were equally blended. "You fiend!" he kept on muttering.
 "You clever, clever fiend!"

 "Ah, Colonel!" said Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar; "'journeys
 end in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says. I don't think I have
 had the pleasure of seeing you since you favoured me with those
 attentions as I lay on the ledge above the Reichenbach Fall."

 The Colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a trance. "You
 cunning, cunning fiend!" was all that he could say.

 "I have not introduced you yet," said Holmes. "This, gentlemen, is
 Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty's Indian Army, and the
 best heavy game shot that our Eastern Empire has ever produced. I
 believe I am correct, Colonel, in saying that your bag of tigers
 still remains unrivalled?"

 The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my companion;
 with his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was wonderfully like
 a tiger himself.

 "I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a
 shikari," said Holmes. "It must be very familiar to you. Have you not
 tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and
 waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty house is my
 tree and you are my tiger. You have possibly had other guns in
 reserve in case there should be several tigers, or in the unlikely
 supposition of your own aim failing you. These," he pointed around,
 "are my other guns. The parallel is exact."

 Colonel Moran sprang forward, with a snarl of rage, but the
 constables dragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible to
 look at.

 "I confess that you had one small surprise for me," said Holmes. "I
 did not anticipate that you would yourself make use of this empty
 house and this convenient front window. I had imagined you as
 operating from the street, where my friend Lestrade and his merry men
 were awaiting you. With that exception all has gone as I expected."

 Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

 "You may or may not have just cause for arresting me," said he, "but
 at least there can be no reason why I should submit to the gibes of
 this person. If I am in the hands of the law let things be done in a
 legal way."

 "Well, that's reasonable enough," said Lestrade. "Nothing further you
 have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?"

 Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor and was
 examining its mechanism.

 "An admirable and unique weapon," said he, "noiseless and of
 tremendous power. I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic, who
 constructed it to the order of the late Professor Moriarty. For years
 I have been aware of its existence, though I have never before had
 the opportunity of handling it. I commend it very specially to your
 attention, Lestrade, and also the bullets which fit it."

 "You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, as
 the whole party moved towards the door. "Anything further to say?"

 "Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?"

 "What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of Mr.
 Sherlock Holmes."

 "Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at all.
 To you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the remarkable arrest
 which you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I congratulate you! With your
 usual happy mixture of cunning and audacity you have got him."

 "Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?"

 "The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain--Colonel
 Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an
 expanding bullet from an air-gun through the open window of the
 second-floor front of No. 427, Park Lane, upon the 30th of last
 month. That's the charge, Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you can
 endure the draught from a broken window, I think that half an hour in
 my study over a cigar may afford you some profitable amusement."

 Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision of
 Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As I entered I
 saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the old landmarks were all
 in their place. There were the chemical corner and the acid-stained,
 deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was the row of formidable
 scrap-books and books of reference which many of our fellow-citizens
 would have been so glad to burn. The diagrams, the violin-case, and
 the pipe-rack--even the Persian slipper which contained the
 tobacco--all met my eyes as I glanced round me. There were two
 occupants of the room--one Mrs. Hudson, who beamed upon us both as we
 entered; the other the strange dummy which had played so important a
 part in the evening's adventures. It was a wax-coloured model of my
 friend, so admirably done that it was a perfect facsimile. It stood
 on a small pedestal table with an old dressing-gown of Holmes's so
 draped round it that the illusion from the street was absolutely
 perfect.

 "I hope you preserved all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?" said Holmes.

 "I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me."

 "Excellent. You carried the thing out very well. Did you observe
 where the bullet went?"

 "Yes, sir. I'm afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, for it
 passed right through the head and flattened itself on the wall. I
 picked it up from the carpet. Here it is!"

 Holmes held it out to me. "A soft revolver bullet, as you perceive,
 Watson. There's genius in that, for who would expect to find such a
 thing fired from an air-gun. All right, Mrs. Hudson, I am much
 obliged for your assistance. And now, Watson, let me see you in your
 old seat once more, for there are several points which I should like
 to discuss with you."

 He had thrown off the seedy frock-coat, and now he was the Holmes of
 old in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he took from his
 effigy.

 "The old shikari's nerves have not lost their steadiness nor his eyes
 their keenness," said he, with a laugh, as he inspected the shattered
 forehead of his bust.

 "Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through the
 brain. He was the best shot in India, and I expect that there are few
 better in London. Have you heard the name?"

 "No, I have not."

 "Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember aright, you had
 not heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who had one of the
 great brains of the century. Just give me down my index of
 biographies from the shelf."

 He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair and
 blowing great clouds from his cigar.

 "My collection of M's is a fine one," said he. "Moriarty himself is
 enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the
 poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who knocked
 out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross, and,
 finally, here is our friend of to-night."

 He handed over the book, and I read:

 Moran, Sebastian, Colonel. Unemployed. Formerly 1st Bengalore
 Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augustus Moran, C.B., once
 British Minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford. Served in
 Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab (despatches), Sherpur,
 and Cabul. Author of Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas, 1881; Three
 Months in the Jungle, 1884. Address: Conduit Street. Clubs: The
 Anglo-Indian, the Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club.

 On the margin was written, in Holmes's precise hand:

 The second most dangerous man in London.

 "This is astonishing," said I, as I handed back the volume. "The
 man's career is that of an honourable soldier."

 "It is true," Holmes answered. "Up to a certain point he did well. He
 was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still told in India
 how he crawled down a drain after a wounded man-eating tiger. There
 are some trees, Watson, which grow to a certain height and then
 suddenly develop some unsightly eccentricity. You will see it often
 in humans. I have a theory that the individual represents in his
 development the whole procession of his ancestors, and that such a
 sudden turn to good or evil stands for some strong influence which
 came into the line of his pedigree. The person becomes, as it were,
 the epitome of the history of his own family."

 "It is surely rather fanciful."

 "Well, I don't insist upon it. Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran
 began to go wrong. Without any open scandal he still made India too
 hot to hold him. He retired, came to London, and again acquired an
 evil name. It was at this time that he was sought out by Professor
 Moriarty, to whom for a time he was chief of the staff. Moriarty
 supplied him liberally with money and used him only in one or two
 very high-class jobs which no ordinary criminal could have
 undertaken. You may have some recollection of the death of Mrs.
 Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887. Not? Well, I am sure Moran was at the
 bottom of it; but nothing could be proved. So cleverly was the
 Colonel concealed that even when the Moriarty gang was broken up we
 could not incriminate him. You remember at that date, when I called
 upon you in your rooms, how I put up the shutters for fear of
 air-guns? No doubt you thought me fanciful. I knew exactly what I was
 doing, for I knew of the existence of this remarkable gun, and I knew
 also that one of the best shots in the world would be behind it. When
 we were in Switzerland he followed us with Moriarty, and it was
 undoubtedly he who gave me that evil five minutes on the Reichenbach
 ledge.

 "You may think that I read the papers with some attention during my
 sojourn in France, on the look-out for any chance of laying him by
 the heels. So long as he was free in London my life would really not
 have been worth living. Night and day the shadow would have been over
 me, and sooner or later his chance must have come. What could I do? I
 could not shoot him at sight, or I should myself be in the dock.
 There was no use appealing to a magistrate. They cannot interfere on
 the strength of what would appear to them to be a wild suspicion. So
 I could do nothing. But I watched the criminal news, knowing that
 sooner or later I should get him. Then came the death of this Ronald
 Adair. My chance had come at last! Knowing what I did, was it not
 certain that Colonel Moran had done it? He had played cards with the
 lad; he had followed him home from the club; he had shot him through
 the open window. There was not a doubt of it. The bullets alone are
 enough to put his head in a noose. I came over at once. I was seen by
 the sentinel, who would, I knew, direct the Colonel's attention to my
 presence. He could not fail to connect my sudden return with his
 crime and to be terribly alarmed. I was sure that he would make an
 attempt to get me out of the way at once, and would bring round his
 murderous weapon for that purpose. I left him an excellent mark in
 the window, and, having warned the police that they might be
 needed--by the way, Watson, you spotted their presence in that
 doorway with unerring accuracy--I took up what seemed to me to be a
 judicious post for observation, never dreaming that he would choose
 the same spot for his attack. Now, my dear Watson, does anything
 remain for me to explain?"

 "Yes," said I. "You have not made it clear what was Colonel Moran's
 motive in murdering the Honourable Ronald Adair."

 "Ah! my dear Watson, there we come into those realms of conjecture
 where the most logical mind may be at fault. Each may form his own
 hypothesis upon the present evidence, and yours is as likely to be
 correct as mine."

 "You have formed one, then?"

 "I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts. It came out
 in evidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair had between them won a
 considerable amount of money. Now, Moran undoubtedly played foul--of
 that I have long been aware. I believe that on the day of the murder
 Adair had discovered that Moran was cheating. Very likely he had
 spoken to him privately, and had threatened to expose him unless he
 voluntarily resigned his membership of the club and promised not to
 play cards again. It is unlikely that a youngster like Adair would at
 once make a hideous scandal by exposing a well-known man so much
 older than himself. Probably he acted as I suggest. The exclusion
 from his clubs would mean ruin to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten
 card gains. He therefore murdered Adair, who at the time was
 endeavouring to work out how much money he should himself return,
 since he could not profit by his partner's foul play. He locked the
 door lest the ladies should surprise him and insist upon knowing what
 he was doing with these names and coins. Will it pass?"

 "I have no doubt that you have hit upon the truth."

 "It will be verified or disproved at the trial. Meanwhile, come what
 may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more, the famous air-gun of Von
 Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum, and once again Mr.
 Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to examining those
 interesting little problems which the complex life of London so
 plentifully presents."






                  THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER

 "From the point of view of the criminal expert," said Mr. Sherlock
 Holmes, "London has become a singularly uninteresting city since the
 death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty."

 "I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens to agree
 with you," I answered.

 "Well, well, I must not be selfish," said he, with a smile, as he
 pushed back his chair from the breakfast-table. "The community is
 certainly the gainer, and no one the loser, save the poor out-of-work
 specialist, whose occupation has gone. With that man in the field
 one's morning paper presented infinite possibilities. Often it was
 only the smallest trace, Watson, the faintest indication, and yet it
 was enough to tell me that the great malignant brain was there, as
 the gentlest tremors of the edges of the web remind one of the foul
 spider which lurks in the centre. Petty thefts, wanton assaults,
 purposeless outrage--to the man who held the clue all could be worked
 into one connected whole. To the scientific student of the higher
 criminal world no capital in Europe offered the advantages which
 London then possessed. But now--" He shrugged his shoulders in
 humorous deprecation of the state of things which he had himself done
 so much to produce.

 At the time of which I speak Holmes had been back for some months,
 and I, at his request, had sold my practice and returned to share the
 old quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, named Verner, had
 purchased my small Kensington practice, and given with astonishingly
 little demur the highest price that I ventured to ask--an incident
 which only explained itself some years later when I found that Verner
 was a distant relation of Holmes's, 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, to anything in the shape of public applause, and he bound me
 in the most stringent terms to say no further word of himself, his
 methods, or his successes--a prohibition which, as I have explained,
 has only now been removed.

 Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his whimsical
 protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a leisurely fashion,
 when our attention was arrested by a tremendous ring at the bell,
 followed immediately by a hollow drumming sound, as if someone were
 beating on the outer door with his fist. As it opened there came a
 tumultuous rush into the hall, rapid feet clattered up the stair, and
 an instant later a wild-eyed and frantic young man, pale,
 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 explain both his
 visit and its manner; but I could see by my companion's unresponsive
 face that it meant no more to him than to me.

 "Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane," said he, pushing his case across.
 "I am sure that with your symptoms my friend Dr. Watson here would
 prescribe a sedative. The weather has been so very warm these last
 few days. Now, if you feel a little more composed, I should be glad
 if you would sit down in that chair and tell us very slowly and
 quietly who you are and what it is that you want. You mentioned your
 name as if I should recognise it, but I assure you that, beyond the
 obvious facts that you are a bachelor, a solicitor, a Freemason, and
 an asthmatic, I know nothing whatever about you."

 Familiar as I was with my friend's methods, it was not difficult for
 me to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness of attire,
 the sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the breathing which
 had prompted them. Our client, however, stared in amazement.

 "Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes, and in addition I am the most
 unfortunate man at this moment in London. For Heaven's sake don't
 abandon me, Mr. Holmes! If they come to arrest me before I have
 finished my story, make them give me time so that I may tell you the
 whole truth. I could go to jail happy if I knew that you were working
 for me outside."

 "Arrest you!" said Holmes. "This is really most grati--most
 interesting. On what charge do you expect to be arrested?"

 "Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood."

 My companion's expressive face showed a sympathy which was not, I am
 afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.

 "Dear me," said he; "it was only this moment at breakfast that I was
 saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases had
 disappeared out of our papers."

 Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up the
 Daily Telegraph, which still lay upon Holmes's knee.

 "If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance what
 the errand is on which I have come to you this morning. I feel as if
 my name and my misfortune must be in every man's mouth." He turned it
 over to expose the central page. "Here it is, and with your
 permission I will read it to you. Listen to this, Mr. Holmes. The
 head-lines are: 'Mysterious Affair at Lower Norwood. Disappearance of
 a Well-known Builder. Suspicion of Murder and Arson. A Clue to the
 Criminal.' That is the clue which they are already following, Mr.
 Holmes, and I know that it leads infallibly to me. I have been
 followed from London Bridge Station, and I am sure that they are only
 waiting for the warrant to arrest me. It will break my mother's
 heart--it will break her heart!" He wrung his hands in an agony of
 apprehension, and swayed backwards and forwards 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 me the paragraph in
 question?"

 Underneath the vigorous head-lines which our client had quoted I read
 the following suggestive narrative:--

 "Late last night, or early this morning, an incident occurred at
 Lower Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime. Mr.
 Jonas Oldacre is a well-known resident of that suburb, where he has
 carried on his business as a builder for many years. Mr. Oldacre is a
 bachelor, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep Dene House, at
 the Sydenham end of the road of that name. He has had the reputation
 of being a man of eccentric habits, secretive and retiring. For some
 years he has practically withdrawn from the business, in which he is
 said to have amassed considerable wealth. A small timber-yard still
 exists, however, at the back of the house, and last night, about
 twelve o'clock, an alarm was given that one of the stacks was on
 fire. The engines were soon upon the spot, but the dry wood burned
 with great fury, and it was impossible to arrest the conflagration
 until the stack had been entirely consumed. Up to this point the
 incident bore the appearance of an ordinary accident, but fresh
 indications seem to point to serious crime. Surprise was expressed at
 the absence of the master of the establishment from the scene of the
 fire, and an inquiry followed, which showed that he had disappeared
 from the house. An examination of his room revealed that the bed had
 not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open, that a
 number of important papers were scattered about the room, and,
 finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle, slight traces
 of blood being found within the room, and an oaken walking-stick,
 which also showed stains of blood upon the handle. It is known that
 Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late visitor in his bedroom upon
 that night, and the stick found has been identified as the property
 of this person, who is a young London solicitor named John Hector
 McFarlane, junior partner of Graham and McFarlane, of 426, Gresham
 Buildings, E.C. The police believe that they have evidence in their
 possession which supplies a very convincing motive for the crime, and
 altogether it cannot be doubted that sensational developments will
 follow.
 "Later.--It is rumoured as we go to press that Mr. John Hector
 McFarlane has actually been arrested on the charge of the murder of
 Mr. Jonas Oldacre. It is at least certain that a warrant has been
 issued. There have been further and sinister developments in the
 investigation at Norwood. Besides the signs of a struggle in the room
 of the unfortunate builder it is now known that the French windows of
 his bedroom (which is on the ground floor) were found to be open,
 that there were marks as if some bulky object had been dragged across
 to the wood-pile, and, finally, it is asserted that charred remains
 have been found among the charcoal ashes of the fire. The police
 theory is that a most sensational crime has been committed, that the
 victim was clubbed to death in his own bedroom, his papers rifled,
 and his dead body dragged across to the wood-stack, which was then
 ignited so as to hide all traces of the crime. The conduct of the
 criminal investigation has been left in the experienced hands of
 Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, who is following up the clues
 with his accustomed energy and sagacity."

 Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and finger-tips together to
 this remarkable account.

 "The case has certainly some points of interest," said he, in his
 languid fashion. "May I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane, how
 it is that you are still at liberty, since there appears to be enough
 evidence to justify your arrest?"

 "I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Mr. Holmes;
 but last night, having to do business very late with Mr. Jonas
 Oldacre, I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to my business
 from there. I knew nothing of this affair until I was in the train,
 when I read what you have just heard. I at once saw the horrible
 danger of my position, and I hurried to put the case into your hands.
 I have no doubt that I should have been arrested either at my City
 office or at my home. A man followed me from London Bridge Station,
 and I have no doubt--Great Heaven, what is that?"

 It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly by heavy steps upon
 the stair. A moment later our old friend Lestrade appeared in the
 doorway. Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or two uniformed
 policemen outside.

 "Mr. John Hector McFarlane?" said Lestrade.

 Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

 "I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower
 Norwood."

 McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank into his
 chair once more like one who is crushed.

 "One moment, Lestrade," said Holmes. "Half an hour more or less can
 make no difference to you, and the gentleman was about to give us an
 account of this very interesting affair, which might aid us in
 clearing it up."

 "I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up," said
 Lestrade, grimly.

 "None the less, with your permission, I should be much interested to
 hear his account."

 "Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you anything, for
 you have been of use to the force once or twice in the past, and we
 owe you a good turn at Scotland Yard," said Lestrade. "At the same
 time I must remain with my prisoner, and I am bound to warn him that
 anything he may say will appear in evidence against him."

 "I wish nothing better," said our client. "All I ask is that you
 should hear and recognise 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 note-book, covered with scribbled
 writing--here they are--and he laid them on my table.

 "'Here is my will,' said he. 'I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast it
 into proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.'

 "I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment when I
 found that, with some reservations, he had left all his property to
 me. He was a strange little, ferret-like man, with white eyelashes,
 and when I looked up at him I found his keen grey eyes fixed upon me
 with an amused expression. I could hardly believe my own 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 witnessed by my clerk. This is it on the blue
 paper, and these slips, as I have explained, are the rough draft. Mr.
 Jonas Oldacre then informed me that there were a number of
 documents--building leases, title-deeds, mortgages, scrip, and so
 forth--which it was necessary that I should see and understand. He
 said that his mind would not be easy until the whole thing was
 settled, and he begged me to come out to his house at Norwood that
 night, bringing the will with me, and to arrange matters. 'Remember,
 my boy, not one word to your parents about the affair until
 everything is settled. We will keep it as a little surprise for
 them.' He was very insistent upon this point, and made me promise it
 faithfully.

 "You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to refuse
 him anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor, and all my
 desire was to carry out his wishes in every particular. I sent a
 telegram home, therefore, to say that I had important business on
 hand, and that it was impossible for me to say how late I might be.
 Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me to have supper with him
 at nine, as he might not be home before that hour. I had some
 difficulty in finding his house, however, and it was nearly half-past
 before I reached it. I found him--"

 "One moment!" said Holmes. "Who opened the door?"

 "A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose, his housekeeper."

 "And it was she, I presume, who mentioned your name?"

 "Exactly," said McFarlane.

 "Pray proceed."

 McFarlane wiped his damp brow and then continued his narrative:--

 "I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a frugal supper
 was laid out. Afterwards Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into his bedroom,
 in which there stood a heavy safe. This he opened and took out a mass
 of documents, which we went over together. It was between eleven and
 twelve when we finished. He remarked that we must not disturb the
 housekeeper. He showed me out through his own French window, which
 had been open all this time."

 "Was the blind down?" asked Holmes.

 "I will not be sure, but I believe that it was only half down. Yes, I
 remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the window. I
 could not find my stick, and he said, 'Never mind, my boy; I shall
 see a good deal of you now, I hope, and I will keep your stick until
 you come back to claim it.' I left him there, the safe open, and the
 papers made up in packets upon the table. It was so late that I could
 not get back to Blackheath, so I spent the night at the Anerley Arms,
 and I knew nothing more until I read of this horrible affair in the
 morning."

 "Anything more that you would like to ask, Mr. Holmes?" said
 Lestrade, whose eyebrows had gone up once or twice during this
 remarkable explanation.

 "Not until I have been to Blackheath."

 "You mean to Norwood," said Lestrade.

 "Oh, yes; no doubt that is what I must have meant," said Holmes, with
 his enigmatical smile. Lestrade had learned by more experiences than
 he would care to acknowledge that that 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 occupied in drawing up
 the will, then the train was an express, only stopping once between
 Norwood and London Bridge."

 Lestrade began to laugh.

 "You are too many for me when you begin to get on your theories, Mr.
 Holmes," said he. "How does this bear on the case?"

 "Well, it corroborates the young man's story to the extent that the
 will was drawn up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey yesterday. It is
 curious--is it not?--that a man should draw up so important a
 document in so haphazard a fashion. It suggests that he did not think
 it was going to be of much practical importance. If a man drew up a
 will which he did not intend ever to be effective he might do it so."

 "Well, he drew up his own death-warrant at the same time," said
 Lestrade.

 "Oh, you think so?"

 "Don't you?"

 "Well, it is quite possible; but the case is not clear to me yet."

 "Not clear? Well, if that isn't clear, what could be 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 all this not obvious?"

 "It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being just a trifle too
 obvious," said Holmes. "You do not add imagination to your other
 great qualities; but if you could for one moment put yourself in the
 place of this young man, would you choose the very night after the
 will had been made to commit your crime? Would it not seem dangerous
 to you to make so very close a relation between the two incidents?
 Again, would you choose an occasion when you are known to be in the
 house, when a servant has let you in? And, finally, would you take
 the great pains to conceal the body and yet leave your own stick as a
 sign that you were the criminal? Confess, Lestrade, that all this is
 very unlikely."

 "As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a
 criminal is often flurried and does things which a cool man would
 avoid. He was very likely afraid to go back to the room. Give me
 another theory that would fit the facts."

 "I could very easily give you half-a-dozen," said Holmes. "Here, for
 example, is a very possible and even probable one. I make you a free
 present of it. The older man is showing documents which are of
 evident value. A passing tramp sees them through the window, the
 blind of which is only half down. Exit the solicitor. Enter the
 tramp! He seizes a stick, which he observes there, kills Oldacre, and
 departs after burning the body."

 "Why should the tramp burn the body?"

 "For the matter of that why should McFarlane?"

 "To hide some evidence."

 "Possibly the tramp wanted to hide that any murder at all had been
 committed."

 "And why did the tramp take nothing?"

 "Because they were papers that he could not negotiate."

 Lestrade shook his head, though it seemed to me that his manner was
 less absolutely assured than before.

 "Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for your tramp, and while
 you are finding him we will hold on to our man. The future will show
 which is right. Just notice this point, Mr. Holmes: that so far as we
 know none of the papers were removed, and that the prisoner is the
 one man in the world who had no reason for removing them, since he
 was heir-at-law and would come into them in any case."

 My friend seemed struck by this remark.

 "I don't mean to deny that the evidence is in some ways very strongly
 in favour of your theory," said he. "I only wish to point out that
 there are other theories possible. As you say, the future will
 decide. Good morning! I dare say that in the course of the day I
 shall drop in at Norwood and see how you are getting on."

 When the detective departed my friend rose and made his preparations
 for the day's work with the alert air of a man who has a congenial
 task before him.

 "My first movement, Watson," said he, as he bustled into his
 frock-coat, "must, as I said, be in the direction of Blackheath."

 "And why not Norwood?"

 "Because we have in this case one singular incident coming close to
 the heels of another singular incident. The police are making the
 mistake of concentrating their attention upon the second, because it
 happens to be the one which is actually criminal. But it is evident
 to me that the logical way to approach the case is to begin by trying
 to throw some light upon the first incident--the curious will, so
 suddenly made, and to so unexpected an heir. It may do something to
 simplify what followed. No, my dear fellow, I don't think you can
 help me. There is no prospect of danger, or I should not dream of
 stirring out without you. I trust that when I see you in the evening
 I will be able to report that I have been able to do something for
 this unfortunate youngster who has thrown himself upon my
 protection."

 It was late when my friend returned, and I could see by a glance at
 his haggard and anxious face that the high hopes with which he had
 started had not been fulfilled. For an hour he droned away upon his
 violin, endeavouring to soothe his own ruffled spirits. At last he
 flung down the instrument and plunged into a detailed account of his
 misadventures.

 "It's all going wrong, Watson--all as wrong as it can go. I kept a
 bold face before Lestrade, but, upon my soul, I believe that for once
 the fellow is on the right track and we are on the wrong. All my
 instincts are one way and all the facts are the other, and I much
 fear that British juries have not yet attained that pitch of
 intelligence when they will give the preference to my theories over
 Lestrade's facts."

 "Did you go to Blackheath?"

 "Yes, Watson, I went there, and I found very quickly that the late
 lamented Oldacre was a pretty considerable black-guard. The father
 was away in search of his son. The mother was at home--a little,
 fluffy, blue-eyed person, in a tremor of fear and indignation. Of
 course, she would not admit even the possibility of his guilt. But
 she would not express either surprise or regret over the fate of
 Oldacre. On the contrary, she spoke of him with such bitterness that
 she was unconsciously considerably strengthening the case of the
 police, for, of course, if her son had heard her speak of the man in
 this fashion it would predispose him towards hatred and violence. 'He
 was more like a malignant and cunning ape than a human being,' said
 she, 'and he always was, ever since he was a young man.'

 "'You knew him at that time?' said I.

 "'Yes, I knew him well; in fact, he was an old suitor of mine. Thank
 Heaven that I had the sense to turn away from him and to marry a
 better, if a 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 note-book. 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 made 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
 discolorations, but undoubtedly fresh. The stick had been removed,
 but there also the marks were slight. There is no doubt about the
 stick belonging to our client. He admits it. Footmarks of both men
 could be made out on the carpet, but none of any third person, which
 again is a trick for the other side. They were piling up their score
 all the time and we were at a standstill.

 "Only one little gleam of hope did I get--and yet it amounted to
 nothing. I examined the contents of the safe, most of which had been
 taken out and left on the table. The papers had been made up into
 sealed envelopes, one or two of which had been opened by the police.
 They were not, so far as I could judge, of any great value, nor did
 the bank-book show that Mr. Oldacre was in such very affluent
 circumstances. But it seemed to me that all the papers were not
 there. There were allusions to some deeds--possibly the more
 valuable--which I could not find. This, of course, if we could
 definitely prove it, would turn Lestrade's argument against himself,
 for who would steal a thing if he knew that he would shortly inherit
 it?

 "Finally, having drawn every other cover and picked up no scent, I
 tried my luck with the housekeeper. Mrs. Lexington is her name, a
 little, dark, silent person, with suspicious and sidelong eyes. She
 could tell us something if she would--I am convinced of it. But she
 was as close as wax. Yes, she had let Mr. McFarlane in at half-past
 nine. She wished her hand had withered before she had done so. She
 had gone to bed at half-past ten. Her room was at the other end of
 the house, and she could hear nothing of what passed. Mr. McFarlane
 had left his hat, and to the best of her belief his stick, in the
 hall. She had been awakened by the alarm of fire. Her poor, dear
 master had certainly been murdered. Had he any enemies? Well, every
 man had enemies, but Mr. Oldacre kept himself very much to himself,
 and only met people in the way of business. She had seen the buttons,
 and was sure that they belonged to the clothes which he had worn last
 night. The wood-pile was very dry, for it had not rained for a month.
 It burned like tinder, and by the time she reached the spot nothing
 could be seen but flames. She and all the firemen smelled the burned
 flesh from inside it. She knew nothing of the papers, nor of Mr.
 Oldacre's private affairs.

 "So, my dear Watson, there's my report of a failure. And yet--and
 yet--"--he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm of conviction--"I
 know it's all wrong. I feel it in my bones. There is something that
 has not come out, and that housekeeper knows it. There was a sort of
 sulky defiance in her eyes, which only goes with guilty knowledge.
 However, there's no good talking any more about it, Watson; but
 unless some lucky chance comes our way I fear that the Norwood
 Disappearance Case will not figure in that chronicle of our successes
 which I foresee that a patient public will sooner or later have to
 endure."

 "Surely," said I, "the man's appearance would go far with any jury?"

 "That is a dangerous argument, my dear Watson. You remember that
 terrible murderer, Bert Stevens, who wanted us to get him off in '87?
 Was there ever a more mild-mannered, Sunday-school young man?"

 "It is true."

 "Unless we succeed in establishing an alternative theory this man is
 lost. You can hardly find a flaw in the case which can now be
 presented against him, and all further investigation has served to
 strengthen it. By the way, there is one curious little point about
 those papers which may serve us as the starting-point for an inquiry.
 On looking over the bank-book I found that the low state of the
 balance was principally due to large cheques which have been made out
 during the last year to Mr. Cornelius. I confess that I should be
 interested to know who this Mr. Cornelius may be with whom a retired
 builder has such very large transactions. Is it possible that he has
 had a hand in the affair? Cornelius might be a broker, but we have
 found no scrip to correspond with these large payments. Failing any
 other indication my researches must now take the direction of an
 inquiry at the bank for the gentleman who has cashed these cheques.
 But I fear, my dear fellow, that our case will end ingloriously by
 Lestrade hanging our client, which will certainly be a triumph for
 Scotland Yard."

 I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that night, but
 when I came down to breakfast I found him pale and harassed, his
 bright eyes the brighter for the dark shadows round them. The carpet
 round his chair was littered with cigarette-ends and with the early
 editions of the morning papers. An open telegram lay upon the table.

 "What do you think of this, Watson?" he asked, tossing it across.

 It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:

 "Important fresh evidence to hand. McFarlane's guilt definitely
 established. Advise you to abandon case.
 Lestrade.

 "This sounds serious," said I.

 "It is Lestrade's little cock-a-doodle of victory," Holmes answered,
 with a bitter smile. "And yet it may be premature to abandon the
 case. After all, important fresh evidence is a two-edged thing, and
 may possibly cut in a very different direction to that which Lestrade
 imagines. Take your breakfast, Watson, and we will go out together
 and see what we can do. I feel as if I shall need your company and
 your moral support 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, gentlemen, and I think I can
 convince you once for all that it was John McFarlane who did this
 crime."

 He led us through the passage and out into a dark hall beyond.

 "This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get his hat
 after the crime was done," said he. "Now, look at this." With
 dramatic suddenness he struck a match and by its light exposed a
 stain of blood upon the whitewashed wall. As he held the match nearer
 I saw that it was more than a stain. It was the well-marked print of
 a thumb.

 "Look at that with your magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes."

 "Yes, I am doing so."

 "You are aware that no two thumb marks are alike?"

 "I have heard something of the kind."

 "Well, then, will you please compare that print with this wax
 impression of young McFarlane's right thumb, taken by my orders this
 morning?"

 As he held the waxen print close to the blood-stain it did not take a
 magnifying glass to see that the two were undoubtedly from the same
 thumb. It was evident to me that our unfortunate client was lost.

 "That is final," said Lestrade.

 "Yes, that is final," I involuntarily echoed.

 "It is final," said Holmes.

 Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at him. An
 extraordinary change had come over his face. It was writhing with
 inward merriment. His two eyes were shining like stars. It seemed to
 me that he was making desperate efforts to restrain a convulsive
 attack of laughter.

 "Dear me! Dear me!" he said at last. "Well, now, who would have
 thought it? And how deceptive appearances may be, to be sure! Such a
 nice young man to look at! It is a lesson to us not to trust our own
 judgment, is it not, Lestrade?"

 "Yes, some of us are a little too much inclined to be cocksure, Mr.
 Holmes," said Lestrade. The man's insolence was maddening, but we
 could not resent it.

 "What a providential thing that this young man should press his right
 thumb against the wall in taking his hat from the peg! Such a very
 natural action, too, if you come to think of it." Holmes was
 outwardly calm, but his whole body gave a wriggle of suppressed
 excitement as he spoke. "By the way, Lestrade, who made this
 remarkable discovery?"

 "It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night
 constable's attention to it."

 "Where was the night constable?"

 "He remained on guard in the bedroom where the crime was committed,
 so as to see that nothing was touched."

 "But why didn't the police see this mark yesterday?"

 "Well, we had no particular reason to make a careful examination of
 the hall. Besides, it's not in a very prominent place, as you see."

 "No, no, of course not. I suppose there is no doubt that the mark was
 there yesterday?"

 Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he was going out of his
 mind. I confess that I was myself surprised both at his hilarious
 manner and at his rather wild observation.

 "I don't know whether you think that McFarlane came out of jail in
 the dead of the night in order to strengthen the evidence against
 himself," said Lestrade. "I leave it to any expert in the world
 whether that is not the mark of his thumb."

 "It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb."

 "There, that's enough," said Lestrade. "I am a practical man, Mr.
 Holmes, and when I have got my evidence I come to my conclusions. If
 you have anything to say you will find me writing my report in the
 sitting-room."

 Holmes had recovered his equanimity, though I still seemed to detect
 gleams of amusement in his expression.

 "Dear me, this is a very sad development, Watson, is it not?" said
 he. "And yet there are singular points about it which hold out some
 hopes for our client."

 "I am delighted to hear it," said I, heartily. "I was afraid it was
 all up with him."

 "I would hardly go so far as to say that, my dear Watson. The fact is
 that there is one really serious flaw in this evidence to which our
 friend attaches so much importance."

 "Indeed, Holmes! What is it?"

 "Only this: that I know that that mark was not there when I examined
 the hall yesterday. And now, Watson, let us have a little stroll
 round in the sunshine."

 With a confused brain, but with a heart into which some warmth of
 hope was returning, I accompanied my friend in a walk round the
 garden. Holmes took each face of the house in turn and examined it
 with great interest. He then led the way inside and went over the
 whole building from basement to attics. Most of the rooms were
 unfurnished, but none the less Holmes inspected them all minutely.
 Finally, on the top corridor, which ran outside three untenanted
 bedrooms, he again was seized with a spasm of merriment.

 "There are really some very unique features about this case, Watson,"
 said he. "I think it is time now that we took our friend Lestrade
 into our confidence. He has had his little smile at our expense, and
 perhaps we may do as much by him if my reading of this problem proves
 to be correct. Yes, yes; I think I see how we should approach it."

 The Scotland Yard inspector was still writing in the parlour when
 Holmes interrupted him.

 "I understood that you were writing a report of this case," said he.

 "So I am."

 "Don't you think it may be a little premature? I can't help thinking
 that your evidence is not complete."

 Lestrade knew my friend too well to disregard his words. He laid down
 his pen and looked curiously at him.

 "What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?"

 "Only that there is an important witness whom you have not seen."

 "Can you produce him?"

 "I think I can."

 "Then do so."

 "I will do my best. How many constables have you?"

 "There are three within call."

 "Excellent!" said Holmes. "May I ask if they are all large,
 able-bodied men with powerful voices?"

 "I have no doubt they are, though I fail to see what their voices
 have to do with it."

 "Perhaps I can help you to see that and one or two other things as
 well," said Holmes. "Kindly summon your men, and I will try."

 Five minutes later three policemen had assembled in the hall.

 "In the outhouse you will find a considerable quantity of straw,"
 said Holmes. "I will ask you to carry in two bundles of it. I think
 it will be of the greatest assistance in producing the witness whom I
 require. Thank you very much. I believe you have some matches in your
 pocket, Watson. Now, Mr. Lestrade, I will ask you all to accompany me
 to the top landing."

 As I have said, there was a broad corridor there, which ran outside
 three empty bedrooms. At one end of the corridor we were all
 marshalled by Sherlock Holmes, the constables grinning and Lestrade
 staring at my friend with amazement, expectation, and derision
 chasing each other across his features. Holmes stood before us with
 the air of a conjurer who is performing a trick.

 "Would you kindly send one of your constables for two buckets of
 water? Put the straw on the floor here, free from the wall on either
 side. Now I think that we are all ready."

 Lestrade's face had begun to grow red and angry.

 "I don't know whether you are playing a game with us, Mr. Sherlock
 Holmes," said he. "If you know anything, you can surely say it
 without all this tomfoolery."

 "I assure you, my good Lestrade, that I have an excellent reason for
 everything that I do. You may possibly remember that you chaffed me a
 little some hours ago, when the sun seemed on your side of the hedge,
 so you must not grudge me a little pomp and ceremony now. Might I ask
 you, Watson, to open that window, and then to put a match to the edge
 of the straw?"

 I did so, and, driven by the draught, a coil of grey smoke swirled
 down the corridor, while the dry straw crackled and flamed.

 "Now we must see if we can find this witness for you, Lestrade. Might
 I ask you all to join in the cry of 'Fire!'? Now, then; one, two,
 three--"

 "Fire!" we all yelled.

 "Thank you. I will trouble you once again."

 "Fire!"

 "Just once more, gentlemen, and all together."

 "Fire!" The shout must have rung over Norwood.

 It had hardly died away when an amazing thing happened. A door
 suddenly flew open out of what appeared to be solid wall at the end
 of the corridor, and a little, wizened man darted out of it, like a
 rabbit out of its burrow.

 "Capital!" said Holmes, calmly. "Watson, a bucket of water over the
 straw. That will do! Lestrade, allow me to present you with your
 principal missing witness, Mr. Jonas Oldacre."

 The detective stared at the new-comer with blank amazement. The
 latter was blinking in the bright light of the corridor, and peering
 at us and at the smouldering fire. It was an odious face--crafty,
 vicious, malignant, with shifty, light-grey eyes and white eyelashes.

 "What's this, then?" said Lestrade at last. "What have you been doing
 all this time, eh?"

 Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh, shrinking back from the furious red
 face of the angry detective.

 "I have done no harm."

 "No harm? You have done your best to get an innocent man hanged. If
 it wasn't for this gentleman here, I am not sure that you would not
 have succeeded."

 The wretched creature began to whimper.

 "I am sure, sir, it was only my practical joke."

 "Oh! a joke, was it? You won't find the laugh on your side, I promise
 you. Take him down and keep him in the sitting-room until I come. Mr.
 Holmes," he continued, when they had gone, "I could not speak before
 the constables, but I don't mind saying, in the presence of Dr.
 Watson, that this is the brightest thing that you have done yet,
 though it is a mystery to me how you did it. You have saved an
 innocent man's life, and you have prevented a very grave scandal,
 which would have ruined my reputation in the Force."

 Holmes smiled and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.

 "Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your
 reputation has been enormously enhanced. Just make a few alterations
 in that report which you were writing, and they will understand how
 hard it is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector Lestrade."

 "And you don't want your name to appear?"

 "Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps I shall get the
 credit also at some distant day when I permit my zealous historian to
 lay out his foolscap once more--eh, Watson? Well, now, let us see
 where this rat has been lurking."

 A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across the passage six feet
 from the end, with a door cunningly concealed in it. It was lit
 within by slits under the eaves. A few articles of furniture and a
 supply of food and water were within, together with a number of books
 and papers.

 "There's the advantage of being a builder," said Holmes, as we came
 out. "He was able to fix up his own little hiding-place without any
 confederate--save, of course, that precious housekeeper of his, whom
 I should lose no time in adding to your bag, Lestrade."

 "I'll take your advice. But how did you know of this place, Mr.
 Holmes?"

 "I made up my mind that the fellow was in hiding in the house. When I
 paced one corridor and found it six feet shorter than the
 corresponding one below, it was pretty clear where he was. I thought
 he had not the nerve to lie quiet before an alarm of fire. We could,
 of course, have gone in and taken him, but it amused me to make him
 reveal himself; besides, I owed you a little mystification, Lestrade,
 for your chaff in the morning."

 "Well, sir, you certainly got equal with me on that. But how in the
 world did you know that he was in the house at all?"

 "The thumb-mark, Lestrade. You said it was final; and so it was, in a
 very different sense. I knew it had not been there the day before. I
 pay a good deal of attention to matters of detail, as you may have
 observed, and I had examined the hall and was sure that the wall was
 clear. Therefore, it had been put on during the night."

 "But how?"

 "Very simply. When those packets were sealed up, Jonas Oldacre got
 McFarlane to secure one of the seals by putting his thumb upon the
 soft wax. It would be done so quickly and so naturally that I dare
 say the young man himself has no recollection of it. Very likely it
 just so happened, and Oldacre had himself no notion of the use he
 would put it to. Brooding over the case in that den of his, it
 suddenly struck him what absolutely damning evidence he could make
 against McFarlane by using that thumb-mark. It was the simplest thing
 in the world for him to take a wax impression from the seal, to
 moisten it in as much blood as he could get from a pin-prick, and to
 put the mark upon the wall during the night, either with his own hand
 or with that of his housekeeper. If you examine among those documents
 which he took with him into his retreat I will lay you a wager that
 you find the seal with the thumb-mark upon it."

 "Wonderful!" said Lestrade. "Wonderful! It's all as clear as crystal,
 as you put it. But what is the object of this deep deception, Mr.
 Holmes?"

 It was amusing to me to see how the detective's overbearing manner
 had changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions of its
 teacher.

 "Well, I don't think that is very hard to explain. A very deep,
 malicious, vindictive person is the gentleman who is now awaiting 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 cheques to a certain Mr.
 Cornelius, who is, I imagine, himself under another name. I have not
 traced these cheques yet, but I have no doubt that they were banked
 under that name at some provincial town where Oldacre from time to
 time led a double existence. He intended to change his name
 altogether, draw this money, and vanish, starting life again
 elsewhere."

 "Well, that's likely enough."

 "It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw all pursuit
 off his track, and at the same time have an ample and crushing
 revenge upon his old sweetheart, if he could give the impression that
 he had been murdered by her only child. It was a masterpiece of
 villainy, and he carried it out like a master. The idea of the will,
 which would give an obvious motive for the crime, the secret visit
 unknown to his own parents, the retention of the stick, the blood,
 and the animal remains and buttons in the wood-pile, all were
 admirable. It was a net from which it seemed to me a few hours ago
 that there was no possible escape. But he had not that supreme gift
 of the artist, the knowledge of when to stop. He wished to improve
 that which was already perfect--to draw the rope tighter yet round
 the neck of his unfortunate victim--and so he ruined all. Let us
 descend, Lestrade. There are just one or two questions that I would
 ask him."

 The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour with a policeman
 upon each side of him.

 "It was a joke, my good sir, a practical joke, nothing more," he
 whined incessantly. "I assure you, sir, that I simply concealed
 myself in order to see the effect of my disappearance, and I am sure
 that you would not be so unjust as to imagine that I would have
 allowed any harm to befall poor young Mr. McFarlane."

 "That's for a jury to decide," said Lestrade. "Anyhow, we shall have
 you on a charge of conspiracy, if not for attempted murder."

 "And you'll probably find that your creditors will impound the
 banking account of Mr. Cornelius," said Holmes.

 The little man started and turned his malignant eyes upon my friend.

 "I have to thank you for a good deal," said he. "Perhaps I'll pay my
 debt some day."

 Holmes smiled indulgently.

 "I fancy that for some few years you will find your time very fully
 occupied," said he. "By the way, what was it you put into the
 wood-pile besides your old trousers? A dead dog, or rabbits, or what?
 You won't tell? Dear me, how very unkind of you! Well, well, I dare
 say that a couple of rabbits would account both for the blood and for
 the charred ashes. If ever you write an account, Watson, you can make
 rabbits serve your turn."






                    THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN

 Holmes had been seated for some hours in silence with his long, thin
 back curved over a chemical vessel in which he was brewing a
 particularly malodorous product. His head was sunk upon his breast,
 and he looked from my point of view like a strange, lank bird, with
 dull grey plumage and a black top-knot.

 "So, Watson," said he, suddenly, "you do not propose to invest in
 South African securities?"

 I gave a start of astonishment. Accustomed as I was to Holmes's
 curious faculties, this sudden intrusion into my most intimate
 thoughts was utterly inexplicable.

 "How on earth do you know that?" I asked.

 He wheeled round upon his stool, with a steaming test-tube in his
 hand and a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes.

 "Now, Watson, confess yourself utterly taken aback," said he.

 "I am."

 "I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect."

 "Why?"

 "Because in five minutes you will say that it is all so absurdly
 simple."

 "I am sure that I shall say nothing of the kind."

 "You see, my dear Watson"--he propped his test-tube in the rack and
 began to lecture with the air of a professor addressing his
 class--"it is not really difficult to construct a series of
 inferences, each dependent upon its predecessor and each simple in
 itself. If, after doing so, one simply knocks out all the central
 inferences and presents one's audience with the starting-point and
 the conclusion, one may produce a startling, though possibly a
 meretricious, effect. Now, it was not really difficult, by an
 inspection of the groove between your left forefinger and thumb, to
 feel sure that you did not propose to invest your small capital in
 the goldfields."

 "I see no connection."

 "Very likely not; but I can quickly show you a close connection. Here
 are the missing links of the very simple chain: 1. You had chalk
 between your left finger and thumb when you returned from the club
 last night. 2. You put chalk there when you play billiards to steady
 the cue. 3. You never play billiards except with Thurston. 4. You
 told me four weeks ago that Thurston had an option on some South
 African property which would expire in a month, and which he desired
 you to share with him. 5. Your cheque-book is locked in my drawer,
 and you have not asked for the key. 6. You do not propose to invest
 your money in this manner."

 "How absurdly simple!" I cried.

 "Quite so!" said he, a little nettled. "Every problem becomes very
 childish when once it is explained to you. Here is an unexplained
 one. See what you can make of that, friend Watson." He tossed a sheet
 of paper upon the table and turned once more to his chemical
 analysis.

 I looked with amazement at the absurd hieroglyphics upon the paper.

 "Why, Holmes, it is a child's drawing," I cried.

 "Oh, that's your idea!"

 "What else should it be?"

 "That is what Mr. Hilton Cubitt, of Ridling Thorpe Manor, Norfolk, is
 very anxious to know. This little conundrum came by the first post,
 and he was to follow by the next train. There's a ring at the bell,
 Watson. I should not be very much surprised if this were he."

 A heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and an instant later there
 entered a tall, ruddy, clean-shaven gentleman, whose clear eyes and
 florid cheeks told of a life led far from the fogs of Baker Street.
 He seemed to bring a whiff of his strong, fresh, bracing, east-coast
 air with him as he entered. Having shaken hands with each of us, he
 was about to sit down when his eye rested upon the paper with the
 curious markings, which I had just examined and left upon the table.

 "Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you make of these?" he cried. "They told
 me that you were fond of queer mysteries, and I don't think you can
 find a queerer one than that. I sent the paper on ahead so that you
 might have time to study it before I came."

 "It is certainly rather a curious production," said Holmes. "At first
 sight it would appear to be some childish prank. It consists of a
 number of absurd little figures dancing across the paper upon which
 they are drawn. Why should you attribute any importance to so
 grotesque an object?"

 "I never should, Mr. Holmes. But my wife does. It is frightening her
 to death. She says nothing, but I can see terror in her eyes. That's
 why I want to sift the matter to the bottom."

 Holmes held up the paper so that the sunlight shone full upon it. It
 was a page torn from a note-book. The markings were done in pencil,
 and ran in this way:--

 [ Picture: Picture of several figures of dancing men, some holding
 flags ]

 Holmes examined it for some time, and then, folding it carefully up,
 he placed it in his pocket-book.

 "This promises to be a most interesting and unusual case," said he.
 "You gave me a few particulars in your letter, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, but
 I should be very much obliged if you would kindly go over it all
 again for the benefit of my friend, Dr. Watson."

 "I'm not much of a story-teller," said our visitor, nervously
 clasping and unclasping his great, strong hands. "You'll just ask me
 anything that I don't make clear. I'll begin at the time of my
 marriage last year; but I want to say first of all that, though I'm
 not a rich man, my people have been at Ridling Thorpe for a matter of
 five centuries, and there is no better known family in the County of
 Norfolk. Last year I came up to London for the Jubilee, and I stopped
 at a boarding-house in Russell Square, because Parker, the vicar of
 our parish, was staying in it. There was an American young lady
 there--Patrick was the name--Elsie Patrick. In some way we became
 friends, until before my month was up I was as much in love as a man
 could be. We were quietly married at a registry office, and we
 returned to Norfolk a wedded couple. You'll think it very mad, Mr.
 Holmes, that a man of a good old family should marry a wife in this
 fashion, knowing nothing of her past or of her people; but if you saw
 her and knew her it would help you to understand.

 "She was very straight about it, was Elsie. I can't say that she did
 not give me every chance of getting out of it if I wished to do so.
 'I have had some very disagreeable associations in my life,' said
 she; 'I wish to forget all about them. I would rather never allude to
 the past, for it is very painful to me. If you take me, Hilton, you
 will take a woman who has nothing that she need be personally ashamed
 of; but you will have to be content with my word for it, and to allow
 me to be silent as to all that passed up to the time when I became
 yours. If these conditions are too hard, then go back to Norfolk and
 leave me to the lonely life in which you found me.' It was only the
 day before our wedding that she said those very words to me. I told
 her that I was content to take her on her own terms, and I have been
 as good as my word.

 "Well, we have been married now for a year, and very happy we have
 been. But about a month ago, at the end of June, I saw for the first
 time signs of trouble. One day my wife received a letter from
 America. I saw the American stamp. She turned deadly white, read the
 letter, and threw it into the fire. She made no allusion to it
 afterwards, and I made none, for a promise is a promise; but she has
 never known an easy hour from that moment. There is always a look of
 fear upon her face--a look as if she were waiting and expecting. She
 would do better to trust me. She would find that I was her best
 friend. But until she speaks I can say nothing. Mind you, she is a
 truthful woman, Mr. Holmes, and whatever trouble there may have been
 in her past life it has been no fault of hers. I am only a simple
 Norfolk squire, but there is not a man in England who ranks his
 family honour more highly than I do. She knows it well, and she knew
 it well before she married me. She would never bring any stain upon
 it--of that I am sure.

 "Well, now I come to the queer part of my story. About a week ago--it
 was the Tuesday of last week--I found on one of the window-sills a
 number of absurd little dancing figures, like these upon the paper.
 They were scrawled with chalk. I thought that it was the stable-boy
 who had drawn them, but the lad swore he knew nothing about it.
 Anyhow, they had come there during the night. I had them washed out,
 and I only mentioned the matter to my wife afterwards. To my surprise
 she took it very seriously, and begged me if any more came to let her
 see them. None did come for a week, and then yesterday morning I
 found this paper lying on the sun-dial in the garden. I showed it to
 Elsie, and down she dropped in a dead faint. Since then she has
 looked like a woman in a dream, half dazed, and with terror always
 lurking in her eyes. It was then that I wrote and sent the paper to
 you, Mr. Holmes. It was not a thing that I could take to the police,
 for they would have laughed at me, but you will tell me what to do. I
 am not a rich man; but if there is any danger threatening my little
 woman I would spend my last copper to shield her."

 He was a fine creature, this man of the old English soil, simple,
 straight, and gentle, with his great, earnest blue eyes and broad,
 comely face. His love for his wife and his trust in her shone in his
 features. Holmes had listened to his story with the utmost attention,
 and now he sat for some time in silent thought.

 "Don't you think, Mr. Cubitt," said he, at last, "that your best plan
 would be to make a direct appeal to your wife, and to ask her to
 share her secret with you?"

 Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.

 "A promise is a promise, Mr. Holmes. If Elsie wished to tell me she
 would. If not, it is not for me to force her confidence. But I am
 justified in taking my own line--and I will."

 "Then I will help you with all my heart. In the first place, have you
 heard of any strangers being seen in your neighbourhood?"

 "No."

 "I presume that it is a very quiet place. Any fresh face would cause
 comment?"

 "In the immediate neighbourhood, yes. But we have several small
 watering-places not very far away. And the farmers take in lodgers."

 "These hieroglyphics have evidently a meaning. If it is a purely
 arbitrary one it may be impossible for us to solve it. If, on the
 other hand, it is systematic, I have no doubt that we shall get to
 the bottom of it. But this particular sample is so short that I can
 do nothing, and the facts which you have brought me are so indefinite
 that we have no basis for an investigation. I would suggest that you
 return to Norfolk, that you keep a keen look-out, and that you take
 an exact copy of any fresh dancing men which may appear. It is a
 thousand pities that we have not a reproduction of those which were
 done in chalk upon the window-sill. Make a discreet inquiry also as
 to any strangers in the neighbourhood. When you have collected some
 fresh evidence come to me again. That is the best advice which I can
 give you, Mr. Hilton Cubitt. If there are any pressing fresh
 developments I shall be always ready to run down and see you in your
 Norfolk home."

 The interview left Sherlock Holmes very thoughtful, and several times
 in the next few days I saw him take his slip of paper from his
 note-book and look long and earnestly at the curious figures
 inscribed upon it. He made no allusion to the affair, however, until
 one afternoon a fortnight or so later. I was going out when he called
 me back.

 "You had better stay here, Watson."

 "Why?"

 "Because I had a wire from Hilton Cubitt this morning--you remember
 Hilton Cubitt, of the dancing men? He was to reach Liverpool Street
 at one-twenty. He may be here at any moment. I gather from his wire
 that there have been some new incidents of importance."

 We had not long to wait, for our Norfolk squire came straight from
 the station as fast as a hansom could bring him. He was looking
 worried and depressed, with tired eyes and a lined forehead.

 "It's getting on my nerves, this business, Mr. Holmes," said he, as
 he sank, like a wearied man, into an arm-chair. "It's bad enough to
 feel that you are surrounded by unseen, unknown folk, who have some
 kind of design upon you; but when, in addition to that, you know that
 it is just killing your wife by inches, then it becomes as much as
 flesh and blood can endure. She's wearing away under it--just wearing
 away before my eyes."

 "Has she said anything yet?"

 "No, Mr. Holmes, she has not. And yet there have been times when the
 poor girl has wanted to speak, and yet could not quite bring herself
 to take the plunge. I have tried to help her; but I dare say I did it
 clumsily, and scared her off from it. She has spoken about my old
 family, and our reputation in the county, and our pride in our
 unsullied honour, and I always felt it was leading to the point; but
 somehow it turned off before we got there."

 "But you have found out something for yourself?"

 "A good deal, Mr. Holmes. I have several fresh dancing men pictures
 for you to examine, and, what is more important, I have seen the
 fellow."

 "What, the man who draws them?"

 "Yes, I saw him at his work. But I will tell you everything in order.
 When I got back after my visit to you, the very first thing I saw
 next morning was a fresh crop of dancing men. They had been drawn in
 chalk upon the black wooden door of the tool-house, which stands
 beside the lawn in full view of the front windows. I took an exact
 copy, and here it is." He unfolded a paper and laid it upon the
 table. Here is a copy of the hieroglyphics:--

 [ Picture: Picture of a few dancing men ]

 "Excellent!" said Holmes. "Excellent! Pray continue."

 "When I had taken the copy I rubbed out the marks; but two mornings
 later a fresh inscription had appeared. I have a copy of it here":--

 [ Picture: Picture of some more dancing man figures ]

 Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.

 "Our material is rapidly accumulating," said he.

 "Three days later a message was left scrawled upon paper, and placed
 under a pebble upon the sun-dial. Here it is. The characters are, as
 you see, exactly the same as the last one. After that I determined to
 lie in wait; so I got out my revolver and I sat up in my study, which
 overlooks the lawn and garden. About two in the morning I was seated
 by the window, all being dark save for the moonlight outside, when I
 heard steps behind me, and there was my wife in her dressing-gown.
 She implored me to come to bed. I told her frankly that I wished to
 see who it was who played such absurd tricks upon us. She answered
 that it was some senseless practical joke, and that I should not take
 any notice of it.

 "'If it really annoys you, Hilton, we might go and travel, you and I,
 and so avoid this nuisance.'

 "'What, be driven out of our own house by a practical joker?' said I.
 'Why, we should have the whole county laughing at us.'

 "'Well, come to bed,' said she, 'and we can discuss it in the
 morning.'

 "Suddenly, as she spoke, I saw her white face grow whiter yet in the
 moonlight, and her hand tightened upon my shoulder. Something was
 moving in the shadow of the tool-house. I saw a dark, creeping figure
 which crawled round the corner and squatted in front of the door.
 Seizing my pistol I was rushing out, when my wife threw her arms
 round me and held me with convulsive strength. I tried to throw her
 off, but she clung to me most desperately. At last I got clear, but
 by the time I had opened the door and reached the house the creature
 was gone. He had left a trace of his presence, however, for there on
 the door was the very same arrangement of dancing men which had
 already twice appeared, and which I have copied on that paper. There
 was no other sign of the fellow anywhere, though I ran all over the
 grounds. And yet the amazing thing is that he must have been there
 all the time, for when I examined the door again in the morning he
 had scrawled some more of his pictures under the line which I had
 already seen."

 "Have you that fresh drawing?"

 "Yes; it is very short, but I made a copy of it, and here it is."

 Again he produced a paper. The new dance was in this form:--

 [ Picture: Picture of five dancing men figures ]

 "Tell me," said Holmes--and I could see by his eyes that he was much
 excited--"was this a mere addition to the first, or did it appear to
 be entirely separate?"

 "It was on a different panel of the door."

 "Excellent! This is far the most important of all for our purpose. It
 fills me with hopes. Now, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, please continue your
 most interesting statement."

 "I have nothing more to say, Mr. Holmes, except that I was angry with
 my wife that night for having held me back when I might have caught
 the skulking rascal. She said that she feared that I might come to
 harm. For an instant it had crossed my mind that perhaps what she
 really feared was that he might come to harm, for I could not doubt
 that she knew who this man was and what he meant by these strange
 signals. But there is a tone in my wife's voice, Mr. Holmes, and a
 look in her eyes which forbid doubt, and I am sure that it was indeed
 my own safety that was in her mind. There's the whole case, and now I
 want your advice as to what I ought to do. My own inclination is to
 put half-a-dozen of my farm lads in the shrubbery, and when this
 fellow comes again to give him such a hiding that he will leave us in
 peace for the future."

 "I fear it is too deep a case for such simple remedies," said Holmes.
 "How long can you stay in London?"

 "I must go back to-day. I would not leave my wife alone all night for
 anything. She is very nervous and begged me to come back."

 "I dare say you are right. But if you could have stopped I might
 possibly have been able to return with you in a day or two. Meanwhile
 you will leave me these papers, and I think that it is very likely
 that I shall be able to pay you a visit shortly and to throw some
 light upon your case."

 Sherlock Holmes preserved his calm professional manner until our
 visitor had left us, although it was easy for me, who knew him so
 well, to see that he was profoundly excited. The moment that Hilton
 Cubitt's broad back had disappeared through the door my comrade
 rushed to the table, laid out all the slips of paper containing
 dancing men in front of him, and threw himself into an intricate and
 elaborate calculation. For two hours I watched him as he covered
 sheet after sheet of paper with figures and letters, so completely
 absorbed in his task that he had evidently forgotten my presence.
 Sometimes he was making progress and whistled and sang at his work;
 sometimes he was puzzled, and would sit for long spells with a
 furrowed brow and a vacant eye. Finally he sprang from his chair with
 a cry of satisfaction, and walked up and down the room rubbing his
 hands together. Then he wrote a long telegram upon a cable form. "If
 my answer to this is as I hope, you will have a very pretty case to
 add to your collection, Watson," said he. "I expect that we shall be
 able to go down to Norfolk to-morrow, and to take our friend some
 very definite news as to the secret of his annoyance."

 I confess that I was filled with curiosity, but I was aware that
 Holmes liked to make his disclosures at his own time and in his own
 way; so I waited until it should suit him to take me into his
 confidence.

 But there was a delay in that answering telegram, and two days of
 impatience followed, during which Holmes pricked up his ears at every
 ring of the bell. On the evening of the second there came a letter
 from Hilton Cubitt. All was quiet with him, save that a long
 inscription had appeared that morning upon the pedestal of the
 sun-dial. He inclosed a copy of it, which is here reproduced:--

 [ Picture: Picture of many dancing men figures ]

 Holmes bent over this grotesque frieze for some minutes, and then
 suddenly sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise and
 dismay. His face was haggard with anxiety.

 "We have let this affair go far enough," said he. "Is there a train
 to North Walsham to-night?"

 I turned up the time-table. The last had just gone.

 "Then we shall breakfast early and take the very first in the
 morning," said Holmes. "Our presence is most urgently needed. Ah!
 here is our expected cablegram. One moment, Mrs. Hudson; there may be
 an answer. No, that is quite as I expected. This message makes it
 even more essential that we should not lose an hour in letting Hilton
 Cubitt know how matters stand, for it is a singular and a dangerous
 web in which our simple Norfolk squire is entangled."

 So, indeed, it proved, and as I come to the dark conclusion of a
 story which had seemed to me to be only childish and bizarre I
 experience once again the dismay and horror with which I was filled.
 Would that I had some brighter ending to communicate to my readers,
 but these are the chronicles of fact, and I must follow to their dark
 crisis the strange chain of events which for some days made Ridling
 Thorpe Manor a household word through the length and breadth of
 England.

 We had hardly alighted at North Walsham, and mentioned the name of
 our destination, when the station-master hurried towards us. "I
 suppose that you are the detectives from London?" said he.

 A look of annoyance passed over Holmes's face.

 "What makes you think such a thing?"

 "Because Inspector Martin from Norwich has just passed through. But
 maybe you are the surgeons. She's not dead--or wasn't by last
 accounts. You may be in time to save her yet--though it be for the
 gallows."

 Holmes's brow was dark with anxiety.

 "We are going to Ridling Thorpe Manor," said he, "but we have heard
 nothing of what has passed there."

 "It's a terrible business," said the station-master. "They are shot,
 both Mr. Hilton Cubitt and his wife. She shot him and then
 herself--so the servants say. He's dead and her life is despaired of.
 Dear, dear, one of the oldest families in the County of Norfolk, and
 one of the most honoured."

 Without a word Holmes hurried to a carriage, and during the long
 seven miles' drive he never opened his mouth. Seldom have I seen him
 so utterly despondent. He had been uneasy during all our journey from
 town, and I had observed that he had turned over the morning papers
 with anxious attention; but now this sudden realization of his worst
 fears left him in a blank melancholy. He leaned back in his seat,
 lost in gloomy speculation. Yet there was much around to interest us,
 for we were passing through as singular a country-side as any in
 England, where a few scattered cottages represented the population of
 to-day, while on every hand enormous square-towered churches bristled
 up from the flat, green landscape and told of the glory and
 prosperity of old East Anglia. At last the violet rim of the German
 Ocean appeared over the green edge of the Norfolk coast, and the
 driver pointed with his whip to two old brick and timber gables which
 projected from a grove of trees. "That's Ridling Thorpe Manor," said
 he.

 As we drove up to the porticoed front door I observed in front of it,
 beside the tennis lawn, the black tool-house and the pedestalled
 sun-dial with which we had such strange associations. A dapper little
 man, with a quick, alert manner and a waxed moustache, had just
 descended from a high dog-cart. He introduced himself as Inspector
 Martin, of the Norfolk Constabulary, and he was considerably
 astonished when he heard the name of my companion.

 "Why, Mr. Holmes, the crime was only committed at three this morning.
 How could you hear of it in London and get to the spot as soon as I?"

 "I anticipated it. I came in the hope of preventing it."

 "Then you must have important evidence of which we are ignorant, for
 they were said to be a most united couple."

 "I have only the evidence of the dancing men," said Holmes. "I will
 explain the matter to you later. Meanwhile, since it is too late to
 prevent this tragedy, I am very anxious that I should use the
 knowledge which I possess in order to ensure that justice be done.
 Will you associate me in your investigation, or will you prefer that
 I should act independently?"

 "I should be proud to feel that we were acting together, Mr. Holmes,"
 said the inspector, earnestly.

 "In that case I should be glad to hear the evidence and to examine
 the premises without an instant of unnecessary delay."

 Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow my friend to do things
 in his own fashion, and contented himself with carefully noting the
 results. The local surgeon, an old, white-haired man, had just come
 down from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt's room, and he reported that her
 injuries were serious, but not necessarily fatal. The bullet had
 passed through the front of her brain, and it would probably be some
 time before she could regain consciousness. On the question of
 whether she had been shot or had shot herself he would not venture to
 express any decided opinion. Certainly the bullet had been discharged
 at very close quarters. There was only the one pistol found in the
 room, two barrels of which had been emptied. Mr. Hilton Cubitt had
 been shot through the heart. It was equally conceivable that he had
 shot her and then himself, or that she had been the criminal, for the
 revolver lay upon the floor midway between them.

 "Has he been moved?" asked Holmes.

 "We have moved nothing except the lady. We could not leave her lying
 wounded upon the floor."

 "How long have you been here, doctor?"

 "Since four o'clock."

 "Anyone else?"

 "Yes, the constable here."

 "And you have touched nothing?"

 "Nothing."

 "You have acted with great discretion. Who sent for you?"

 "The housemaid, Saunders."

 "Was it she who gave the alarm?"

 "She and Mrs. King, the cook."

 "Where are they now?"

 "In the kitchen, I believe."

 "Then I think we had better hear their story at once."

 The old hall, oak-panelled and high-windowed, had been turned into a
 court of investigation. Holmes sat in a great, old-fashioned chair,
 his inexorable eyes gleaming out of his haggard face. I could read in
 them a set purpose to devote his life to this quest until the client
 whom he had failed to save should at last be avenged. The trim
 Inspector Martin, the old, grey-headed country doctor, myself, and a
 stolid village policeman made up the rest of that strange company.

 The two women told their story clearly enough. They had been aroused
 from their sleep by the sound of an explosion, which had been
 followed a minute later by a second one. They slept in adjoining
 rooms, and Mrs. King had rushed in to Saunders. Together they had
 descended the stairs. The door of the study was open and a candle was
 burning upon the table. Their master lay upon his face in the centre
 of the room. He was quite dead. Near the window his wife was
 crouching, her head leaning against the wall. She was horribly
 wounded, and the side of her face was red with blood. She breathed
 heavily, but was incapable of saying anything. The passage, as well
 as the room, was full of smoke and the smell of powder. The window
 was certainly shut and fastened upon the inside. Both women were
 positive upon the point. They had at once sent for the doctor and for
 the constable. Then, with the aid of the groom and the stable-boy,
 they had conveyed their injured mistress to her room. Both she and
 her husband had occupied the bed. She was clad in her dress--he in
 his dressing-gown, over his night clothes. Nothing had been moved in
 the study. So far as they knew there had never been any quarrel
 between husband and wife. They had always looked upon them as a very
 united couple.

 These were the main points of the servants' evidence. In answer to
 Inspector Martin they were clear that every door was fastened upon
 the inside, and that no one could have escaped from the house. In
 answer to Holmes they both remembered that they were conscious of the
 smell of powder from the moment that they ran out of their rooms upon
 the top floor. "I commend that fact very carefully to your
 attention," said Holmes to his professional colleague. "And now I
 think that we are in a position to undertake a thorough examination
 of the room."

 The study proved to be a small chamber, lined on three sides with
 books, and with a writing-table facing an ordinary window, which
 looked out upon the garden. Our first attention was given to the body
 of the unfortunate squire, whose huge frame lay stretched across the
 room. His disordered dress showed that he had been hastily aroused
 from sleep. The bullet had been fired at him from the front, and had
 remained in his body after penetrating the heart. His death had
 certainly been instantaneous and painless. There was no
 powder-marking either upon his dressing-gown or on his hands.
 According to the country surgeon the lady had stains upon her face,
 but none upon her hand.

 "The absence of the latter means nothing, though its presence may
 mean everything," said Holmes. "Unless the powder from a
 badly-fitting cartridge happens to spurt backwards, one may fire many
 shots without leaving a sign. I would suggest that Mr. Cubitt's body
 may now be removed. I suppose, doctor, you have not recovered the
 bullet which wounded the lady?"

 "A serious operation will be necessary before that can be done. But
 there are still four cartridges in the revolver. Two have been fired
 and two wounds inflicted, so that each bullet can be accounted for."

 "So it would seem," said Holmes. "Perhaps you can account also for
 the bullet which has so obviously struck the edge of the window?"

 He had turned suddenly, and his long, thin finger was pointing to a
 hole which had been drilled right through the lower window-sash about
 an inch above the bottom.

 "By George!" cried the inspector. "How ever did you see that?"

 "Because I looked for it."

 "Wonderful!" said the country doctor. "You are certainly right, sir.
 Then a third shot has been fired, and therefore a third person must
 have been present. But who could that have been and how could he have
 got away?"

 "That is the problem which we are now about to solve," said Sherlock
 Holmes. "You remember, Inspector Martin, when the servants said that
 on leaving their room they were at once conscious of a smell of
 powder I remarked that the point was an extremely important one?"

 "Yes, sir; but I confess I did not quite follow you."

 "It suggested that at the time of the firing the window as well as
 the door of the room had been open. Otherwise the fumes of powder
 could not have been blown so rapidly through the house. A draught in
 the room was necessary for that. Both door and window were only open
 for a very short time, however."

 "How do you prove that?"

 "Because the candle has not guttered."

 "Capital!" cried the inspector. "Capital!"

 "Feeling sure that the window had been open at the time of the
 tragedy I conceived that there might have been a third person in the
 affair, who stood outside this opening and fired through it. Any shot
 directed at this person might hit the sash. I looked, and there, sure
 enough, was the bullet mark!"

 "But how came the window to be shut and fastened?"

 "The woman's first instinct would be to shut and fasten the window.
 But, halloa! what is this?"

 It was a lady's hand-bag which stood upon the study table--a trim
 little hand-bag of crocodile-skin and silver. Holmes opened it and
 turned the contents out. There were twenty fifty-pound notes of the
 Bank of England, held together by an india-rubber band--nothing else.

 "This must be preserved, for it will figure in the trial," said
 Holmes, as he handed the bag with its contents to the inspector. "It
 is now necessary that we should try to throw some light upon this
 third bullet, which has clearly, from the splintering of the wood,
 been fired from inside the room. I should like to see Mrs. King, the
 cook, again. You said, Mrs. King, that you were awakened by a loud
 explosion. When you said that, did you mean that it seemed to you to
 be louder than the second one?"

 "Well, sir, it wakened me from my sleep, and so it is hard to judge.
 But it did seem very loud."

 "You don't think that it might have been two shots fired almost at
 the same instant?"

 "I am sure I couldn't say, sir."

 "I believe that it was undoubtedly so. I rather think, Inspector
 Martin, that we have now exhausted all that this room can teach us.
 If you will kindly step round with me, we shall see what fresh
 evidence the garden has to offer."

 A flower-bed extended up to the study window, and we all broke into
 an exclamation as we approached it. The flowers were trampled down,
 and the soft soil was imprinted all over with footmarks. Large,
 masculine feet they were, with peculiarly long, sharp toes. Holmes
 hunted about among the grass and leaves like a retriever after a
 wounded bird. Then, with a cry of satisfaction, he bent forward and
 picked up a little brazen cylinder.

 "I thought so," said he; "the revolver had an ejector, and here is
 the third cartridge. I really think, Inspector Martin, that our case
 is almost complete."

 The country inspector's face had shown his intense amazement at the
 rapid and masterful progress of Holmes's investigation. At first he
 had shown some disposition to assert his own position; but now he was
 overcome with admiration and ready to follow without question
 wherever Holmes led.

 "Whom do you suspect?" he asked.

 "I'll go into that later. There are several points in this problem
 which I have not been able to explain to you yet. Now that I have got
 so far I had best proceed on my own lines, and then clear the whole
 matter up once and for all."

 "Just as you wish, Mr. Holmes, so long as we get our man."

 "I have no desire to make mysteries, but it is impossible at the
 moment of action to enter into long and complex explanations. I have
 the threads of this affair all in my hand. Even if this lady should
 never recover consciousness we can still reconstruct the events of
 last night and ensure that justice be done. First of all I wish to
 know whether there is any inn in this neighbourhood known as
 'Elrige's'?"

 The servants were cross-questioned, but none of them had heard of
 such a place. The stable-boy threw a light upon the matter by
 remembering that a farmer of that name lived some miles off in the
 direction of East Ruston.

 "Is it a lonely farm?"

 "Very lonely, sir."

 "Perhaps they have not heard yet of all that happened here during the
 night?"

 "Maybe not, sir."

 Holmes thought for a little and then a curious smile played over his
 face.

 "Saddle a horse, my lad," said he. "I shall wish you to take a note
 to Elrige's Farm."

 He took from his pocket the various slips of the dancing men. With
 these in front of him he worked for some time at the study-table.
 Finally he handed a note to the boy, with directions to put it into
 the hands of the person to whom it was addressed, and especially to
 answer no questions of any sort which might be put to him. I saw the
 outside of the note, addressed in straggling, irregular characters,
 very unlike Holmes's usual precise hand. It was consigned to Mr. Abe
 Slaney, Elrige's Farm, East Ruston, Norfolk.

 "I think, inspector," Holmes remarked, "that you would do well to
 telegraph for an escort, as, if my calculations prove to be correct,
 you may have a particularly dangerous prisoner to convey to the
 county jail. The boy who takes this note could no doubt forward your
 telegram. If there is an afternoon train to town, Watson, I think we
 should do well to take it, as I have a chemical analysis of some
 interest to finish, and this investigation draws rapidly to a close."

 When the youth had been dispatched with the note, Sherlock Holmes
 gave his instructions to the servants. If any visitor were to call
 asking for Mrs. Hilton Cubitt no information should be given as to
 her condition, but he was to be shown at once into the drawing-room.
 He impressed these points upon them with the utmost earnestness.
 Finally he led the way into the drawing-room with the remark that the
 business was now out of our hands, and that we must while away the
 time as best we might until we could see what was in store for us.
 The doctor had departed to his patients, and only the inspector and
 myself remained.

 "I think that I can help you to pass an hour in an interesting and
 profitable manner," said Holmes, drawing his chair up to the table
 and spreading out in front of him the various papers upon which were
 recorded the antics of the dancing men. "As to you, friend Watson, I
 owe you every atonement for having allowed your natural curiosity to
 remain so long unsatisfied. To you, inspector, the whole incident may
 appeal as a remarkable professional study. I must tell you first of
 all the interesting circumstances connected with the previous
 consultations which Mr. Hilton Cubitt has had with me in Baker
 Street." He then shortly recapitulated the facts which have already
 been recorded. "I have here in front of me these singular
 productions, at which one might smile had they not proved themselves
 to be the fore-runners of so terrible a tragedy. I am fairly familiar
 with all forms of secret writings, and am myself the author of a
 trifling monograph upon the subject, in which I analyze one hundred
 and sixty separate ciphers; but I confess that this is entirely new
 to me. The object of those who invented the system has apparently
 been to conceal that these characters convey a message, and to give
 the idea that they are the mere random sketches of children.

 "Having once recognised, however, that the symbols stood for letters,
 and having applied the rules which guide us in all forms of secret
 writings, the solution was easy enough. The first message submitted
 to me was so short that it was impossible for me to do more than to
 say with some confidence that the symbol

 [ Picture: Picture of a single dancing man ]

 stood for E. As you are aware, E is the most common letter in the
 English alphabet, and it predominates to so marked an extent that
 even in a short sentence one would expect to find it most often. Out
 of fifteen symbols in the first message four were the same, so it was
 reasonable to set this down as E. It is true that in some cases the
 figure was bearing a flag and in some cases not, but it was probable
 from the way in which the flags were distributed that they were used
 to break the sentence up into words. I accepted this as a hypothesis,
 and noted that E was represented by

 [ Picture: Picture of a single dancing man ]

 "But now came the real difficulty of the inquiry. The order of the
 English letters after E is by no means well marked, and any
 preponderance which may be shown in an average of a printed sheet may
 be reversed in a single short sentence. Speaking roughly, T, A, O, I,
 N, S, H, R, D, and L are the numerical order in which letters occur;
 but T, A, O, and I are very nearly abreast of each other, and it
 would be an endless task to try each combination until a meaning was
 arrived at. I, therefore, waited for fresh material. In my second
 interview with Mr. Hilton Cubitt he was able to give me two other
 short sentences and one message, which appeared--since there was no
 flag--to be a single word. Here are the symbols. Now, in the single
 word I have already got the two E's coming second and fourth in a
 word of five letters. It might be 'sever,' or 'lever,' or 'never.'
 There can be no question that the latter as a reply to an appeal is
 far the most probable, and the circumstances pointed to its being a
 reply written by the lady. Accepting it as correct, we are now able
 to say that the symbols

 [ Picture: Picture of three dancing men ]

 stand respectively for N, V, and R.

 "Even now I was in considerable difficulty, but a happy thought put
 me in possession of several other letters. It occurred to me that if
 these appeals came, as I expected, from someone who had been intimate
 with the lady in her early life, a combination which contained two
 E's with three letters between might very well stand for the name
 'ELSIE.' On examination I found that such a combination formed the
 termination of the message which was three times repeated. It was
 certainly some appeal to 'Elsie.' In this way I had got my L, S, and
 I. But what appeal could it be? There were only four letters in the
 word which preceded 'Elsie,' and it ended in E. Surely the word must
 be 'COME.' I tried all other four letters ending in E, but could find
 none to fit the case. So now I was in possession of C, O, and M, and
 I was in a position to attack the first message once more, dividing
 it into words and putting dots for each symbol which was still
 unknown. So treated it worked out in this fashion:

                          .M  .ERE  ..E  SL.NE.

 "Now the first letter can only be A, which is a most useful
 discovery, since it occurs no fewer than three times in this short
 sentence, and the H is also apparent in the second word. Now it
 becomes:--

                          AM  HERE  A.E  SLANE.

 Or, filling in the obvious vacancies in the name:--

                         AM  HERE  ABE  SLANEY.

 I had so many letters now that I could proceed with considerable
 confidence to the second message, which worked out in this fashion:--

                               A. ELRI.ES.

 Here I could only make sense by putting T and G for the missing
 letters, and supposing that the name was that of some house or inn at
 which the writer was staying."

 Inspector Martin and I had listened with the utmost interest to the
 full and clear account of how my friend had produced results which
 had led to so complete a command over our difficulties.

 "What did you do then, sir?" asked the inspector.

 "I had every reason to suppose that this Abe Slaney was an American,
 since Abe is an American contraction, and since a letter from America
 had been the starting-point of all the trouble. I had also every
 cause to think that there was some criminal secret in the matter. The
 lady's allusions to her past and her refusal to take her husband into
 her confidence both pointed in that direction. I therefore cabled to
 my friend, Wilson Hargreave, of the New York Police Bureau, who has
 more than once made use of my knowledge of London crime. I asked him
 whether the name of Abe Slaney was known to him. Here is his reply:
 'The most dangerous crook in Chicago.' On the very evening upon which
 I had his answer Hilton Cubitt sent me the last message from Slaney.
 Working with known letters it took this form:--

                   ELSIE  .RE.ARE  TO  MEET  THY  GO.

 The addition of a P and a D completed a message which showed me that
 the rascal was proceeding from persuasion to threats, and my
 knowledge of the crooks of Chicago prepared me to find that he might
 very rapidly put his words into action. I at once came to Norfolk
 with my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, but, unhappily, only in
 time to find that the worst had already occurred."

 "It is a privilege to be associated with you in the handling of a
 case," said the inspector, warmly. "You will excuse me, however, if I
 speak frankly to you. You are only answerable to yourself, but I have
 to answer to my superiors. If this Abe Slaney, living at Elrige's, is
 indeed the murderer, and if he has made his escape while I am seated
 here, I should certainly get into serious trouble."

 "You need not be uneasy. He will not try to escape."

 "How do you know?"

 "To fly would be a confession of guilt."

 "Then let us go to arrest him."

 "I expect him here every instant."

 "But why should he come?"

 "Because I have written and asked him."

 "But this is incredible, Mr. Holmes! Why should he come because you
 have asked him? Would not such a request rather rouse his suspicions
 and cause him to fly?"

 "I think I have known how to frame the letter," said Sherlock Holmes.
 "In fact, if I am not very much mistaken, here is the gentleman
 himself coming up the drive."

 A man was striding up the path which led to the door. He was a tall,
 handsome, swarthy fellow, clad in a suit of grey flannel, with a
 Panama hat, a bristling black beard, and a great, aggressive hooked
 nose, and flourishing a cane as he walked. He swaggered up the path
 as if the place belonged to him, and we heard his loud, confident
 peal at the bell.

 "I think, gentlemen," said Holmes, quietly, "that we had best take up
 our position behind the door. Every precaution is necessary when
 dealing with such a fellow. You will need your handcuffs, inspector.
 You can leave the talking to me."

 We waited in silence for a minute--one of those minutes which one can
 never forget. Then the door opened and the man stepped in. In an
 instant Holmes clapped a pistol to his head and Martin slipped the
 handcuffs over his wrists. It was all done so swiftly and deftly that
 the fellow was helpless before he knew that he was attacked. He
 glared from one to the other of us with a pair of blazing black eyes.
 Then he burst into a bitter laugh.

 "Well, gentlemen, you have the drop on me this time. I seem to have
 knocked up against something hard. But I came here in answer to a
 letter from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt. Don't tell me that she is in this?
 Don't tell me that she helped to set a trap for me?"

 "Mrs. Hilton Cubitt was seriously injured and is at death's door."

 The man gave a hoarse cry of grief which rang through the house.

 "You're crazy!" he cried, fiercely. "It was he that was hurt, not
 she. Who would have hurt little Elsie? I may have threatened her, God
 forgive me, but I would not have touched a hair of her pretty head.
 Take it back--you! Say that she is not hurt!"

 "She was found badly wounded by the side of her dead husband."

 He sank with a deep groan on to the settee and buried his face in his
 manacled hands. For five minutes he was silent. Then he raised his
 face once more, and spoke with the cold composure of despair.

 "I have nothing to hide from you, gentlemen," said he. "If I shot the
 man he had his shot at me, and there's no murder in that. But if you
 think I could have hurt that woman, then you don't know either me or
 her. I tell you there was never a man in this world loved a woman
 more than I loved her. I had a right to her. She was pledged to me
 years ago. Who was this Englishman that he should come between us? I
 tell you that I had the first right to her, and that I was only
 claiming my own."

 "She broke away from your influence when she found the man that you
 are," said Holmes, sternly. "She fled from America to avoid you, and
 she married an honourable gentleman in England. You dogged her and
 followed her and made her life a misery to her in order to induce her
 to abandon the husband whom she loved and respected in order to fly
 with you, whom she feared and hated. You have ended by bringing about
 the death of a noble man and driving his wife to suicide. That is
 your record in this business, Mr. Abe Slaney, and you will answer for
 it to the law."

 "If Elsie dies I care nothing what becomes of me," said the American.
 He opened one of his hands and looked at a note crumpled up in his
 palm. "See here, mister," he cried, with a gleam of suspicion in his
 eyes, "you're not trying to scare me over this, are you? If the lady
 is hurt as bad as you say, who was it that wrote this note?" He
 tossed it forwards on to the table.

 "I wrote it to bring you here."

 "You wrote it? There was no one on earth outside the Joint who knew
 the secret of the dancing men. How came you to write it?"

 "What one man can invent another can discover," said Holmes. "There
 is a cab coming to convey you to Norwich, Mr. Slaney. But, meanwhile,
 you have time to make some small reparation for the injury you have
 wrought. Are you aware that Mrs. Hilton Cubitt has herself lain under
 grave suspicion of the murder of her husband, and that it was only my
 presence here and the knowledge which I happened to possess which has
 saved her from the accusation? The least that you owe her is to make
 it clear to the whole world that she was in no way, directly or
 indirectly, responsible for his tragic end."

 "I ask nothing better," said the American. "I guess the very best
 case I can make for myself is the absolute naked truth."

 "It is my duty to warn you that it will be used against you," cried
 the inspector, with the magnificent fair-play of the British criminal
 law.

 Slaney shrugged his shoulders.

 "I'll chance that," said he. "First of all, I want you gentlemen to
 understand that I have known this lady since she was a child. There
 were seven of us in a gang in Chicago, and Elsie's father was the
 boss of the Joint. He was a clever man, was old Patrick. It was he
 who invented that writing, which would pass as a child's scrawl
 unless you just happened to have the key to it. Well, Elsie learned
 some of our ways; but she couldn't stand the business, and she had a
 bit of honest money of her own, so she gave us all the slip and got
 away to London. She had been engaged to me, and she would have
 married me, I believe, if I had taken over another profession; but
 she would have nothing to do with anything on the cross. It was only
 after her marriage to this Englishman that I was able to find out
 where she was. I wrote to her, but got no answer. After that I came
 over, and, as letters were no use, I put my messages where she could
 read them.

 "Well, I have been here a month now. I lived in that farm, where I
 had a room down below, and could get in and out every night, and no
 one the wiser. I tried all I could to coax Elsie away. I knew that
 she read the messages, for once she wrote an answer under one of
 them. Then my temper got the better of me, and I began to threaten
 her. She sent me a letter then, imploring me to go away and saying
 that it would break her heart if any scandal should come upon her
 husband. She said that she would come down when her husband was
 asleep at three in the morning, and speak with me through the end
 window, if I would go away afterwards and leave her in peace. She
 came down and brought money with her, trying to bribe me to go. This
 made me mad, and I caught her arm and tried to pull her through the
 window. At that moment in rushed the husband with his revolver in his
 hand. Elsie had sunk down upon the floor, and we were face to face. I
 was heeled also, and I held up my gun to scare him off and let me get
 away. He fired and missed me. I pulled off almost at the same
 instant, and down he dropped. I made away across the garden, and as I
 went I heard the window shut behind me. That's God's truth,
 gentlemen, every word of it, and I heard no more about it until that
 lad came riding up with a note which made me walk in here, like a
 jay, and give myself into your hands."

 A cab had driven up whilst the American had been talking. Two
 uniformed policemen sat inside. Inspector Martin rose and touched his
 prisoner on the shoulder.

 "It is time for us to go."

 "Can I see her first?"

 "No, she is not conscious. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I only hope that if
 ever again I have an important case I shall have the good fortune to
 have you by my side."

 We stood at the window and watched the cab drive away. As I turned
 back my eye caught the pellet of paper which the prisoner had tossed
 upon the table. It was the note with which Holmes had decoyed him.

 "See if you can read it, Watson," said he, with a smile.

 It contained no word, but this little line of dancing men:--

 [ Picture: Picture of various dancing men ]

 "If you use the code which I have explained," said Holmes, "you will
 find that it simply means 'Come here at once.' I was convinced that
 it was an invitation which he would not refuse, since he could never
 imagine that it could come from anyone but the lady. And so, my dear
 Watson, we have ended by turning the dancing men to good when they
 have so often been the agents of evil, and I think that I have
 fulfilled my promise of giving you something unusual for your
 note-book. Three-forty is our train, and I fancy we should be back in
 Baker Street for dinner."

 Only one word of epilogue. The American, Abe Slaney, was condemned to
 death at the winter assizes at Norwich; but his penalty was changed
 to penal servitude in consideration of mitigating circumstances, and
 the certainty that Hilton Cubitt had fired the first shot. Of Mrs.
 Hilton Cubitt I only know that I have heard she recovered entirely,
 and that she still remains a widow, devoting her whole life to the
 care of the poor and to the administration of her husband's estate.






                  THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST

 From the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a very
 busy man. It is safe to say that there was no public case of any
 difficulty in which he was not consulted during those eight years,
 and there were hundreds of private cases, some of them of the most
 intricate and extraordinary character, in which he played a prominent
 part. Many startling successes and a few unavoidable failures were
 the outcome of this long period of continuous work. As I have
 preserved very full notes of all these cases, and was myself
 personally engaged in many of them, it may be imagined that it is no
 easy task to know which I should select to lay before the public. I
 shall, however, preserve my former rule, and give the preference to
 those cases which derive their interest not so much from the
 brutality of the crime as from the ingenuity and dramatic quality of
 the solution. For this reason I will now lay before the reader the
 facts connected with Miss Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist of
 Charlington, and the curious sequel of our investigation, which
 culminated in unexpected tragedy. It is true that the circumstances
 did not admit of any striking illustration of those powers for which
 my friend was famous, but there were some points about the case which
 made it stand out in those long records of crime from which I gather
 the material for these little narratives.

 On referring to my note-book for the year 1895 I find that it was
 upon Saturday, the 23rd of April, that we first heard of Miss Violet
 Smith. Her visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome to Holmes, for
 he was immersed at the moment in a very abstruse and complicated
 problem concerning the peculiar persecution to which John Vincent
 Harden, the well-known tobacco millionaire, had been subjected. My
 friend, who loved above all things precision and concentration of
 thought, resented anything which distracted his attention from the
 matter in hand. And yet without a harshness which was foreign to his
 nature it was impossible to refuse to listen to the story of the
 young and beautiful woman, tall, graceful, and queenly, who presented
 herself at Baker Street late in the evening and implored his
 assistance and advice. It was vain to urge that his time was already
 fully occupied, for the young lady had come with the determination to
 tell her story, and it was evident that nothing short of force could
 get her out of the room until she had done so. With a resigned air
 and a somewhat weary smile, Holmes begged the beautiful intruder to
 take a seat and to inform us what it was that was troubling her.

 "At least it cannot be your health," said he, as his keen eyes darted
 over her; "so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy."

 She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and I observed the
 slight roughening of the side of the sole caused by the friction of
 the edge of the pedal.

 "Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has something to do
 with my visit to you to-day."

 My friend took the lady's ungloved hand and examined it with as close
 an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist would show to a
 specimen.

 "You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business," said he, as he
 dropped it. "I nearly fell into the error of supposing that you were
 typewriting. Of course, it is obvious that it is music. You observe
 the spatulate finger-end, Watson, which is common to both
 professions? There is a spirituality about the face, however"--he
 gently turned it towards the light--"which the typewriter does not
 generate. This lady is a musician."

 "Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music."

 "In the country, I presume, from your complexion."

 "Yes, sir; near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey."

 "A beautiful neighbourhood and full of the most interesting
 associations. You remember, Watson, that it was near there that we
 took Archie Stamford, the forger. Now, Miss Violet, what has happened
 to you near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?"

 The young lady, with great clearness and composure, made the
 following curious statement:--

 "My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith, who conducted the
 orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre. My mother and I were left
 without a relation in the world except one uncle, Ralph Smith, who
 went to Africa twenty-five years ago, and we have never had a word
 from him since. When father died we were left very poor, but one day
 we were told that there was an advertisement in the Times inquiring
 for our whereabouts. You can imagine how excited we were, for we
 thought that someone had left us a fortune. We went at once to the
 lawyer whose name was given in the paper. There we met two gentlemen,
 Mr. Carruthers and Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from South
 Africa. They said that my uncle was a friend of theirs, that he died
 some months before in great poverty in Johannesburg, and that he had
 asked them with his last breath to hunt up his relations and see that
 they were in no want. It seemed strange to us that Uncle Ralph, who
 took no notice of us when he was alive, should be so careful to look
 after us when he was dead; but Mr. Carruthers explained that the
 reason was that my uncle had just heard of the death of his brother,
 and so felt responsible for our fate."

 "Excuse me," said Holmes; "when was this interview?"

 "Last December--four months ago."

 "Pray proceed."

 "Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person. He was for ever
 making eyes at me--a coarse, puffy-faced, red-moustached young man,
 with his hair plastered down on each side of his forehead. I thought
 that he was perfectly hateful--and I was sure that Cyril would not
 wish me to know such a person."

 "Oh, Cyril is his name!" said Holmes, smiling.

 The young lady blushed and laughed.

 "Yes, Mr. Holmes; Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and we hope
 to be married at the end of the summer. Dear me, how did I get
 talking about him? What I wished to say was that Mr. Woodley was
 perfectly odious, but that Mr. Carruthers, who was a much older man,
 was more agreeable. He was a dark, sallow, clean-shaven, silent
 person; but he had polite manners and a pleasant smile. He inquired
 how we were left, and on finding that we were very poor he suggested
 that I should come and teach music to his only daughter, aged ten. I
 said that I did not like to leave my mother, on which he suggested
 that I should go home to her every week-end, and he offered me a
 hundred a year, which was certainly splendid pay. So it ended by my
 accepting, and I went down to Chiltern Grange, about six miles from
 Farnham. Mr. Carruthers was a widower, but he had engaged a
 lady-housekeeper, a very respectable, elderly person, called Mrs.
 Dixon, to look after his establishment. The child was a dear, and
 everything promised well. Mr. Carruthers was very kind and very
 musical, and we had most pleasant evenings together. Every week-end I
 went home to my mother in town.

 "The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival of the red-moustached
 Mr. Woodley. He came for a visit of a week, and oh, it seemed three
 months to me! He was a dreadful person, a bully to everyone else, but
 to me something infinitely worse. He made odious love to me, boasted
 of his wealth, said that if I married him I would have the finest
 diamonds in London, and finally, when I would have nothing to do with
 him, he seized me in his arms one day after dinner--he was hideously
 strong--and he swore that he would not let me go until I had kissed
 him. Mr. Carruthers came in and tore him off from me, on which he
 turned upon his own host, knocking him down and cutting his face
 open. That was the end of his visit, as you can imagine. Mr.
 Carruthers apologized to me next day, and assured me that I should
 never be exposed to such an insult again. I have not seen Mr. Woodley
 since.

 "And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special thing which has
 caused me to ask your advice to-day. You must know that every
 Saturday forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station in order to
 get the 12.22 to town. The road from Chiltern Grange is a lonely one,
 and at one spot it is particularly so, for it lies for over a mile
 between Charlington Heath upon one side and the woods which lie round
 Charlington Hall upon the other. You could not find a more lonely
 tract of road anywhere, and it is quite rare to meet so much as a
 cart, or a peasant, until you reach the high road near Crooksbury
 Hill. Two weeks ago I was passing this place when I chanced to look
 back over my shoulder, and about two hundred yards behind me I saw a
 man, also on a bicycle. He seemed to be a middle-aged man, with a
 short, dark beard. I looked back before I reached Farnham, but the
 man was gone, so I thought no more about it. But you can imagine how
 surprised I was, Mr. Holmes, when on my return on the Monday I saw
 the same man on the same stretch of road. My astonishment was
 increased when the incident occurred again, exactly as before, on the
 following Saturday and Monday. He always kept his distance and did
 not molest me in any way, but still it certainly was very odd. I
 mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers, who seemed interested in what I said,
 and told me that he had ordered a horse and trap, so that in future I
 should not pass over these lonely roads without some companion.

 "The horse and trap were to have come this week, but for some reason
 they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to the station.
 That was this morning. You can think that I looked out when I came to
 Charlington Heath, and there, sure enough, was the man, exactly as he
 had been the two weeks before. He always kept so far from me that I
 could not clearly see his face, but it was certainly someone whom I
 did not know. He was dressed in a dark suit with a cloth cap. The
 only thing about his face that I could clearly see was his dark
 beard. To-day I was not alarmed, but I was filled with curiosity, and
 I determined to find out who he was and what he wanted. I slowed down
 my machine, but he slowed down his. Then I stopped altogether, but he
 stopped also. Then I laid a trap for him. There is a sharp turning of
 the road, and I pedalled very quickly round this, and then I stopped
 and waited. I expected him to shoot round and pass me before he could
 stop. But he never appeared. Then I went back and looked round the
 corner. I could see a mile of road, but he was not on it. To make it
 the more extraordinary, there was no side road at this point down
 which he could have gone."

 Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. "This case certainly presents
 some features of its own," said he. "How much time elapsed between
 your turning the corner and your discovery that the road was clear?"

 "Two or three minutes."

 "Then he could not have retreated down the road, and you say that
 there are no side roads?"

 "None."

 "Then he certainly took a footpath on one side or the other."

 "It could not have been on the side of the heath or I should have
 seen him."

 "So by the process of exclusion we arrive at the fact that he made
 his way towards Charlington Hall, which, as I understand, is situated
 in its own grounds on one side of the road. Anything else?"

 "Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that I was so perplexed that I felt I
 should not be happy until I had seen you and had your advice."

 Holmes sat in silence for some little time.

 "Where is the gentleman to whom you are engaged?" he asked, at last.

 "He is in the Midland Electrical Company, at Coventry."

 "He would not pay you a surprise visit?"

 "Oh, Mr. Holmes! As if I should not know him!"

 "Have you had any other admirers?"

 "Several before I knew Cyril."

 "And since?"

 "There was this dreadful man, Woodley, if you can call him an
 admirer."

 "No one else?"

 Our fair client seemed a little confused.

 "Who was he?" asked Holmes.

 "Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it has seemed to me
 sometimes that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal of
 interest in me. We are thrown rather together. I play his
 accompaniments in the evening. He has never said anything. He is a
 perfect gentleman. But a girl always knows."

 "Ha!" Holmes looked grave. "What does he do for a living?"

 "He is a rich man."

 "No carriages or horses?"

 "Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do. But he goes into the City
 two or three times a week. He is deeply interested in South African
 gold shares."

 "You will let me know any fresh development, Miss Smith. I am very
 busy just now, but I will find time to make some inquiries into your
 case. In the meantime take no step without letting me know. Good-bye,
 and I trust that we shall have nothing but good news from you."

 "It is part of the settled order of Nature that such a girl should
 have followers," said Holmes, as he pulled at his meditative pipe,
 "but for choice not on bicycles in lonely country roads. Some
 secretive lover, beyond all doubt. But there are curious and
 suggestive details about the case, Watson."

 "That he should appear only at that point?"

 "Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who are the tenants of
 Charlington Hall. Then, again, how about the connection between
 Carruthers and Woodley, since they appear to be men of such a
 different type? How came they both to be so keen upon looking up
 Ralph Smith's relations? One more point. What sort of a menage is it
 which pays double the market price for a governess, but does not keep
 a horse although six miles from the station? Odd, Watson--very odd!"

 "You will go down?"

 "No, my dear fellow, you will go down. This may be some trifling
 intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research for the sake
 of it. On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham; you will conceal
 yourself near Charlington Heath; you will observe these facts for
 yourself, and act as your own judgment advises. Then, having inquired
 as to the occupants of the Hall, you will come back to me and report.
 And now, Watson, not another word of the matter until we have a few
 solid stepping-stones on which we may hope to get across to our
 solution."

 We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the Monday
 by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9.50, so I started early and
 caught the 9.13. At Farnham Station I had no difficulty in being
 directed to Charlington Heath. It was impossible to mistake the scene
 of the young lady's adventure, for the road runs between the open
 heath on one side and an old yew hedge upon the other, surrounding a
 park which is studded with magnificent trees. There was a main
 gateway of lichen-studded stone, each side pillar surmounted by
 mouldering heraldic emblems; but besides this central carriage drive
 I observed several points where there were gaps in the hedge and
 paths leading through them. The house was invisible from the road,
 but the surroundings all spoke of gloom and decay.

 The heath was covered with golden patches of flowering gorse,
 gleaming magnificently in the light of the bright spring sunshine.
 Behind one of these clumps I took up my position, so as to command
 both the gateway of the Hall and a long stretch of the road upon
 either side. It had been deserted when I left it, but now I saw a
 cyclist riding down it from the opposite direction to that in which I
 had come. He was clad in a dark suit, and I saw that he had a black
 beard. On reaching the end of the Charlington grounds he sprang from
 his machine and led it through a gap in the hedge, disappearing from
 my view.

 A quarter of an hour passed and then a second cyclist appeared. This
 time it was the young lady coming from the station. I saw her look
 about her as she came to the Charlington hedge. An instant later the
 man emerged from his hiding-place, sprang upon his cycle, and
 followed her. In all the broad landscape those were the only moving
 figures, the graceful girl sitting very straight upon her machine,
 and the man behind her bending low over his handle-bar, with a
 curiously furtive suggestion in every movement. She looked back at
 him and slowed her pace. He slowed also. She stopped. He at once
 stopped too, keeping two hundred yards behind her. Her next movement
 was as unexpected as it was spirited. She suddenly whisked her wheels
 round and dashed straight at him! He was as quick as she, however,
 and darted off in desperate flight. Presently she came back up the
 road again, her head haughtily in the air, not deigning to take any
 further notice of her silent attendant. He had turned also, and still
 kept his distance until the curve of the road hid them from my sight.

 I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well that I did so, for
 presently the man reappeared cycling slowly back. He turned in at the
 Hall gates and dismounted from his machine. For some few minutes I
 could see him standing among the trees. His hands were raised and he
 seemed to be settling his necktie. Then he mounted his cycle and rode
 away from me down the drive towards the Hall. I ran across the heath
 and peered through the trees. Far away I could catch glimpses of the
 old grey building with its bristling Tudor chimneys, but the drive
 ran through a dense shrubbery, and I saw no more of my man.

 However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly good morning's
 work, and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local
 house-agent could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and
 referred me to a well-known firm in Pall Mall. There I halted on my
 way home, and met with courtesy from the representative. No, I could
 not have Charlington Hall for the summer. I was just too late. It had
 been let about a month ago. Mr. Williamson was the name of the
 tenant. He was a respectable elderly gentleman. The polite agent was
 afraid he could say no more, as the affairs of his clients were not
 matters which he could discuss.

 Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report which
 I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not elicit that
 word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should have valued. On
 the contrary, his austere face was even more severe than usual as he
 commented upon the things that I had done and the things that I had
 not.

 "Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty. You should have
 been behind the hedge; then you would have had a close view of this
 interesting person. As it is you were some hundreds of yards away,
 and can tell me even less than Miss Smith. She thinks she does not
 know the man; I am convinced she does. Why, otherwise, should he be
 so desperately anxious that she should not get so near him as to see
 his features? You describe him as bending over the handle-bar.
 Concealment again, you see. You really have done remarkably badly. He
 returns to the house and you want to find out who he is. You come to
 a London house-agent!"

 "What should I have done?" I cried, with some heat.

 "Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the centre of country
 gossip. They would have told you every name, from the master to the
 scullery-maid. Williamson! It conveys nothing to my mind. If he is an
 elderly man he is not this active cyclist who sprints away from that
 athletic young lady's pursuit. What have we gained by your
 expedition? The knowledge that the girl's story is true. I never
 doubted it. That there is a connection between the cyclist and the
 Hall. I never doubted that either. That the Hall is tenanted by
 Williamson. Who's the better for that? Well, well, my dear sir, don't
 look so depressed. We can do little more until next Saturday, and in
 the meantime I may make one or two inquiries myself."

 Next morning we had a note from Miss Smith, recounting shortly and
 accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but the pith of the
 letter lay in the postscript:

 "I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr. Holmes, when I
 tell you that my place here has become difficult owing to the fact
 that my employer has proposed marriage to me. I am convinced that his
 feelings are most deep and most honourable. At the same time my
 promise is, of course, given. He took my refusal very seriously, but
 also very gently. You can understand, however, that the situation is
 a little strained."

 "Our young friend seems to be getting into deep waters," said Holmes,
 thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. "The case certainly presents
 more features of interest and more possibility of development than I
 had originally thought. I should be none the worse for a quiet,
 peaceful day in the country, and I am inclined to run down this
 afternoon and test one or two theories which I have formed."

 Holmes's quiet day in the country had a singular termination, for he
 arrived at Baker Street late in the evening with a cut lip and a
 discoloured lump upon his forehead, besides a general air of
 dissipation which would have made his own person the fitting object
 of a Scotland Yard investigation. He was immensely tickled by his own
 adventures, and laughed heartily as he recounted them.

 "I get so little active exercise that it is always a treat," said he.
 "You are aware that I have some proficiency in the good old British
 sport of boxing. Occasionally it is of service. To-day, for example,
 I should have come to very ignominious grief without it."

 I begged him to tell me what had occurred.

 "I found that country pub which I had already recommended to your
 notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries. I was in the bar, and
 a garrulous landlord was giving me all that I wanted. Williamson is a
 white-bearded man, and he lives alone with a small staff of servants
 at the Hall. There is some rumour that he is or has been a clergyman;
 but one or two incidents of his short residence at the Hall struck me
 as peculiarly unecclesiastical. I have already made some inquiries at
 a clerical agency, and they tell me that there was a man of that name
 in orders whose career has been a singularly dark one. The landlord
 further informed me that there are usually week-end visitors--'a warm
 lot, sir'--at the Hall, and especially one gentleman with a red
 moustache, Mr. Woodley by name, who was always there. We had got as
 far as this when who should walk in but the gentleman himself, who
 had been drinking his beer in the tap-room and had heard the whole
 conversation. Who was I? What did I want? What did I mean by asking
 questions? He had a fine flow of language, and his adjectives were
 very vigorous. He ended a string of abuse by a vicious back-hander
 which I failed to entirely avoid. The next few minutes were
 delicious. It was a straight left against a slogging ruffian. I
 emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley went home in a cart. So ended my
 country trip, and it must be confessed that, however enjoyable, my
 day on the Surrey border has not been much more profitable than your
 own."

 The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.

 You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes [said she] to hear that I am
 leaving Mr. Carruthers's employment. Even the high pay cannot
 reconcile me to the discomforts of my situation. On Saturday I come
 up to town and I do not intend to return. Mr. Carruthers has got a
 trap, and so the dangers of the lonely road, if there ever were any
 dangers, are now over.
 As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the strained
 situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the reappearance of that
 odious man, Mr. Woodley. He was always hideous, but he looks more
 awful than ever now, for he appears to have had an accident and he is
 much disfigured. I saw him out of the window, but I am glad to say I
 did not meet him. He had a long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed
 much excited afterwards. Woodley must be staying in the
 neighbourhood, for he did not sleep here, and yet I caught a glimpse
 of him again this morning slinking about in the shrubbery. I would
 sooner have a savage wild animal loose about the place. I loathe and
 fear him more than I can say. How can Mr. Carruthers endure such a
 creature for a moment? However, all my troubles will be over on
 Saturday.

 "So I trust, Watson; so I trust," said Holmes, gravely. "There is
 some deep intrigue going on round that little woman, and it is our
 duty to see that no one molests her upon that last journey. I think,
 Watson, that we must spare time to run down together on Saturday
 morning, and make sure that this curious and inconclusive
 investigation has no untoward ending."

 I confess that I had not up to now taken a very serious view of the
 case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre than
 dangerous. That a man should lie in wait for and follow a very
 handsome woman is no unheard-of thing, and if he had so little
 audacity that he not only dared not address her, but even fled from
 her approach, he was not a very formidable assailant. The ruffian
 Woodley was a very different person, but, except on one occasion, he
 had not molested our client, and now he visited the house of
 Carruthers without intruding upon her presence. The man on the
 bicycle was doubtless a member of those week-end parties at the Hall
 of which the publican had spoken; but who he was or what he wanted
 was as obscure as ever. It was the severity of Holmes's manner and
 the fact that he slipped a revolver into his pocket before leaving
 our rooms which impressed me with the feeling that tragedy might
 prove to lurk behind this curious train of events.

 A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and the
 heath-covered country-side with the glowing clumps of flowering gorse
 seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were weary of the duns
 and drabs and slate-greys of London. Holmes and I walked along the
 broad, sandy road inhaling the fresh morning air, and rejoicing in
 the music of the birds and the fresh breath of the spring. From a
 rise of the road on the shoulder of Crooksbury Hill we could see the
 grim Hall bristling out from amidst the ancient oaks, which, old as
 they were, were still younger than the building which they
 surrounded. Holmes pointed down the long tract of road which wound, a
 reddish yellow band, between the brown of the heath and the budding
 green of the woods. Far away, a black dot, we could see a vehicle
 moving in our direction. Holmes gave an exclamation of impatience.

 "I had given a margin of half an hour," said he. "If that is her trap
 she must be making for the earlier train. I fear, Watson, that she
 will be past Charlington before we can possibly meet her."

 From the instant that we passed the rise we could no longer see the
 vehicle, but we hastened onwards at such a pace that my sedentary
 life began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to fall behind.
 Holmes, however, was always in training, for he had inexhaustible
 stores of nervous energy upon which to draw. His springy step never
 slowed until suddenly, when he was a hundred yards in front of me, he
 halted, and I saw him throw up his hand with a gesture of grief and
 despair. At the same instant an empty dog-cart, the horse cantering,
 the reins trailing, appeared round the curve of the road and rattled
 swiftly towards us.

 "Too late, Watson; too late!" cried Holmes, as I ran panting to his
 side. "Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train! It's
 abduction, Watson--abduction! Murder! Heaven knows what! Block the
 road! Stop the horse! That's right. Now, jump in, and let us see if I
 can repair the consequences of my own blunder."

 We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turning the horse,
 gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back along the road.
 As we turned the curve the whole stretch of road between the Hall and
 the heath was opened up. I grasped Holmes's arm.

 "That's the man!" I gasped.

 A solitary cyclist was coming towards us. His head was down and his
 shoulders rounded as he put every ounce of energy that he possessed
 on to the pedals. He was flying like a racer. Suddenly he raised his
 bearded face, saw us close to him, and pulled up, springing from his
 machine. That coal-black beard was in singular contrast to the pallor
 of his face, and his eyes were as bright as if he had a fever. He
 stared at us and at the dog-cart. Then a look of amazement came over
 his face.

 "Halloa! Stop there!" he shouted, holding his bicycle to block our
 road. "Where did you get that dog-cart? Pull up, man!" he yelled,
 drawing a pistol from his side pocket. "Pull up, I say, or, by
 George, I'll put a bullet into your horse."

 Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down from the cart.

 "You're the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith?" he said,
 in his quick, clear way.

 "That's what I am asking you. You're in her dog-cart. You ought to
 know where she is."

 "We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it. We drove
 back to help the young lady."

 "Good Lord! Good Lord! what shall I do?" cried the stranger, in an
 ecstasy of despair. "They've got her, that hellhound Woodley and the
 blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her friend.
 Stand by me and we'll save her, if I have to leave my carcass in
 Charlington Wood."

 He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in the
 hedge. Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazing beside
 the road, followed Holmes.

 "This is where they came through," said he, pointing to the marks of
 several feet upon the muddy path. "Halloa! Stop a minute! Who's this
 in the bush?"

 It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler, with
 leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees drawn up,
 a terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but alive. A glance
 at his wound told me that it had not penetrated the bone.

 "That's Peter, the groom," cried the stranger. "He drove her. The
 beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we can't do
 him any good, but we may save her from the worst fate that can befall
 a woman."

 We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the trees. We had
 reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when Holmes pulled
 up.

 "They didn't go to the house. Here are their marks on the left--here,
 beside the laurel bushes! Ah, I said so!"

 As he spoke a woman's shrill scream--a scream which vibrated with a
 frenzy of horror--burst from the thick green clump of bushes in front
 of us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke and a
 gurgle.

 "This way! This way! They are in the bowling alley," cried the
 stranger, darting through the bushes. "Ah, the cowardly dogs! Follow
 me, gentlemen! Too late! too late! by the living Jingo!"

 We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greensward surrounded
 by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the shadow of a
 mighty oak, there stood a singular group of three people. One was a
 woman, our client, drooping and faint, a handkerchief round her
 mouth. Opposite her stood a brutal, heavy-faced, red-moustached young
 man, his gaitered legs parted wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving
 a riding-crop, his whole attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado.
 Between them an elderly, grey-bearded man, wearing a short surplice
 over a light tweed suit, had evidently just completed the wedding
 service, for he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared and slapped
 the sinister bridegroom upon the back in jovial congratulation.

 "They're married!" I gasped.

 "Come on!" cried our guide; "come on!" He rushed across the glade,
 Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the lady staggered
 against the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson, the
 ex-clergyman, bowed to us with mock politeness, and the bully Woodley
 advanced with a shout of brutal and exultant laughter.

 "You can take your beard off, Bob," said he. "I know you right
 enough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to be
 able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley."

 Our guide's answer was a singular one. He snatched off the dark beard
 which had disguised him and threw it on the ground, disclosing a
 long, sallow, clean-shaven face below it. Then he raised his revolver
 and covered the young ruffian, who was advancing upon him with his
 dangerous riding-crop swinging in his hand.

 "Yes," said our ally, "I am Bob Carruthers, and I'll see this woman
 righted if I have to swing for it. I told you what I'd do if you
 molested her, and, by the Lord, I'll be as good as my word!"

 "You're too late. She's my wife!"

 "No, she's your widow."

 His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the front of
 Woodley's waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon his
 back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful mottled
 pallor. The old man, still clad in his surplice, burst into such a
 string of foul oaths as I have never heard, and pulled out a revolver
 of his own, but before he could raise it he was looking down the
 barrel of Holmes's weapon.

 "Enough of this," said my friend, coldly. "Drop that pistol! Watson,
 pick it up! Hold it to his head! Thank you. You, Carruthers, give me
 that revolver. We'll have no more violence. Come, hand it over!"

 "Who are you, then?"

 "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

 "Good Lord!"

 "You have heard of me, I see. I will represent the official police
 until their arrival. Here, you!" he shouted to a frightened groom who
 had appeared at the edge of the glade. "Come here. Take this note as
 hard as you can ride to Farnham." He scribbled a few words upon a
 leaf from his note-book. "Give it to the superintendent at the
 police-station. Until he comes I must detain you all under my
 personal custody."

 The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated the tragic
 scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands. Williamson and
 Carruthers found themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into the
 house, and I gave my arm to the frightened girl. The injured man was
 laid on his bed, and at Holmes's request I examined him. I carried my
 report to where he sat in the old tapestry-hung dining-room with his
 two prisoners before him.

 "He will live," said I.

 "What!" cried Carruthers, springing out of his chair. "I'll go
 upstairs and finish him first. Do you tell me that that girl, that
 angel, is to be tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?"

 "You need not concern yourself about that," said Holmes. "There are
 two very good reasons why she should under no circumstances be his
 wife. In the first place, we are very safe in questioning Mr.
 Williamson's right to solemnize a marriage."

 "I have been ordained," cried the old rascal.

 "And also unfrocked."

 "Once a clergyman, always a clergyman."

 "I think not. How about the license?"

 "We had a license for the marriage. I have it here in my pocket."

 "Then you got it by a trick. But in any case a forced marriage is no
 marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you will discover
 before you have finished. You'll have time to think the point out
 during the next ten years or so, unless I am mistaken. As to you,
 Carruthers, you would have done better to keep your pistol in your
 pocket."

 "I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes; but when I thought of all the
 precaution I had taken to shield this girl--for I loved her, Mr.
 Holmes, and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was--it
 fairly drove me mad to think that she was in the power of the
 greatest brute and bully in South Africa, a man whose name is a holy
 terror from Kimberley to Johannesburg. Why, Mr. Holmes, you'll hardly
 believe it, but ever since that girl has been in my employment I
 never once let her go past this house, where I knew these rascals
 were lurking, without following her on my bicycle just to see that
 she came to no harm. I kept my distance from her, and I wore a beard
 so that she should not recognise me, for she is a good and
 high-spirited girl, and she wouldn't have stayed in my employment
 long if she had thought that I was following her about the country
 roads."

 "Why didn't you tell her of her danger?"

 "Because then, again, she would have left me, and I couldn't bear to
 face that. Even if she couldn't love me it was a great deal to me
 just to see her dainty form about the house, and to hear the sound of
 her voice."

 "Well," said I, "you call that love, Mr. Carruthers, but I should
 call it selfishness."

 "Maybe the two things go together. Anyhow, I couldn't let her go.
 Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that she should have
 someone near to look after her. Then when the cable came I knew they
 were bound to make a move."

 "What cable?"

 Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket.

 "That's it," said he.

 It was short and concise:

 The old man is dead.
 "Hum!" said Holmes. "I think I see how things worked, and I can
 understand how this message would, as you say, bring them to a head.
 But while we wait you might tell me what you can."

 The old reprobate with the surplice burst into a volley of bad
 language.

 "By Heaven," said he, "if you squeal on us, Bob Carruthers, I'll
 serve you as you served Jack Woodley. You can bleat about the girl to
 your heart's content, for that's your own affair, but if you round on
 your pals to this plain-clothes copper it will be the worst day's
 work that ever you did."

 "Your reverence need not be excited," said Holmes, lighting a
 cigarette. "The case is clear enough against you, and all I ask is a
 few details for my private curiosity. However, if there's any
 difficulty in your telling me I'll do the talking, and then you will
 see how far you have a chance of holding back your secrets. In the
 first place, three of you came from South Africa on this game--you
 Williamson, you Carruthers, and Woodley."

 "Lie number one," said the old man; "I never saw either of them until
 two months ago, and I have never been in Africa in my life, so you
 can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Busybody Holmes!"

 "What he says is true," said Carruthers.

 "Well, well, two of you came over. His reverence is our own home-made
 article. You had known Ralph Smith in South Africa. You had reason to
 believe he would not live long. You found out that his niece would
 inherit his fortune. How's that--eh?"

 Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

 "She was next-of-kin, no doubt, and you were aware that the old
 fellow would make no will."

 "Couldn't read or write," said Carruthers.

 "So you came over, the two of you, and hunted up the girl. The idea
 was that one of you was to marry her and the other have a share of
 the plunder. For some reason Woodley was chosen as the husband. Why
 was that?"

 "We played cards for her on the voyage. He won."

 "I see. You got the young lady into your service, and there Woodley
 was to do the courting. She recognised the drunken brute that he was,
 and would have nothing to do with him. Meanwhile, your arrangement
 was rather upset by the fact that you had yourself fallen in love
 with the lady. You could no longer bear the idea of this ruffian
 owning her."

 "No, by George, I couldn't!"

 "There was a quarrel between you. He left you in a rage, and began to
 make his own plans independently of you."

 "It strikes me, Williamson, there isn't very much that we can tell
 this gentleman," cried Carruthers, with a bitter laugh. "Yes, we
 quarreled, and he knocked me down. I am level with him on that,
 anyhow. Then I lost sight of him. That was when he picked up with
 this cast padre here. I found that they had set up house-keeping
 together at this place on the line that she had to pass for the
 station. I kept my eye on her after that, for I knew there was some
 devilry in the wind. I saw them from time to time, for I was anxious
 to know what they were after. Two days ago Woodley came up to my
 house with this cable, which showed that Ralph Smith was dead. He
 asked me if I would stand by the bargain. I said I would not. He
 asked me if I would marry the girl myself and give him a share. I
 said I would willingly do so, but that she would not have me. He
 said, 'Let us get her married first, and after a week or two she may
 see things a bit different.' I said I would have nothing to do with
 violence. So he went off cursing, like the foul-mouthed blackguard
 that he was, and swearing that he would have her yet. She was leaving
 me this week-end, and I had got a trap to take her to the station,
 but I was so uneasy in my mind that I followed her on my bicycle. She
 had got a start, however, and before I could catch her the mischief
 was done. The first thing I knew about it was when I saw you two
 gentlemen driving back in her dog-cart."

 Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate. "I
 have been very obtuse, Watson," said he. "When in your report you
 said that you had seen the cyclist as you thought arrange his necktie
 in the shrubbery, that alone should have told me all. However, we may
 congratulate ourselves upon a curious and in some respects a unique
 case. I perceive three of the county constabulary in the drive, and I
 am glad to see that the little ostler is able to keep pace with them;
 so it is likely that neither he nor the interesting bridegroom will
 be permanently damaged by their morning's adventures. I think,
 Watson, that in your medical capacity you might wait upon Miss Smith
 and tell her that if she is sufficiently recovered we shall be happy
 to escort her to her mother's home. If she is not quite convalescent
 you will find that a hint that we were about to telegraph to a young
 electrician in the Midlands would probably complete the cure. As to
 you, Mr. Carruthers, I think that you have done what you could to
 make amends for your share in an evil plot. There is my card, sir,
 and if my evidence can be of help to you in your trial it shall be at
 your disposal."

 In the whirl of our incessant activity it has often been difficult
 for me, as the reader has probably observed, to round off my
 narratives, and to give those final details which the curious might
 expect. Each case has been the prelude to another, and the crisis
 once over the actors have passed for ever out of our busy lives. I
 find, however, a short note at the end of my manuscripts dealing with
 this case, in which I have put it upon record that Miss Violet Smith
 did indeed inherit a large fortune, and that she is now the wife of
 Cyril Morton, the senior partner of Morton & Kennedy, the famous
 Westminster electricians. Williamson and Woodley were both tried for
 abduction and assault, the former getting seven years and the latter
 ten. Of the fate of Carruthers I have no record, but I am sure that
 his assault was not viewed very gravely by the Court, since Woodley
 had the reputation of being a most dangerous ruffian, and I think
 that a few months were sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice.






                   THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL

 We have had some dramatic entrances and exits upon our small stage at
 Baker Street, but I cannot recollect anything more sudden and
 startling than the first appearance of Thorneycroft Huxtable, M.A.,
 Ph.D., etc. His card, which seemed too small to carry the weight of
 his academic distinctions, preceded him by a few seconds, and then he
 entered himself--so large, so pompous, and so dignified that he was
 the very embodiment of self-possession and solidity. And yet his
 first action when the door had closed behind him was to stagger
 against the table, whence he slipped down upon the floor, and there
 was that majestic figure prostrate and insensible upon our bearskin
 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,
 grey eyes looked up at us. An instant later the man had scrambled on
 to his feet, his face crimson with shame.

 "Forgive this weakness, Mr. Holmes; I have been a little overwrought.
 Thank you, if I might have a glass of milk and a biscuit I have no
 doubt that I should be better. I came personally, Mr. Holmes, in
 order to ensure that you would return with me. I feared that no
 telegram would convince you of the absolute urgency of the case."

 "When you are quite restored--

 "I am quite well again. I cannot imagine how I came to be so weak. I
 wish you, Mr. Holmes, to come to Mackleton with me by the next
 train."

 My friend shook his head.

 "My colleague, Dr. Watson, could tell you that we are very busy at
 present. I am retained in this case of the Ferrers Documents, and the
 Abergavenny murder is coming up for trial. Only a very important
 issue could call me from London at present."

 "Important!" Our visitor threw up his hands. "Have you heard nothing
 of the abduction of the only son of the Duke of Holdernesse?"

 "What! the late Cabinet Minister?"

 "Exactly. We had tried to keep it out of the papers, but there was
 some rumour in the Globe last night. I thought it might have reached
 your ears."

 Holmes shot out his long, thin arm and picked out Volume "H" in his
 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. Minerals in Lancashire and Wales.
 Address: Carlton House Terrace; Holdernesse Hall, Hallamshire;
 Carston Castle, Bangor, Wales. Lord of the Admiralty, 1872; Chief
 Secretary of State for--' Well, well, this man is certainly one of
 the greatest subjects of the Crown!"

 "The greatest and perhaps the wealthiest. I am aware, Mr. Holmes,
 that you take a very high line in professional matters, and that you
 are prepared to work for the work's sake. I may tell you, however,
 that his Grace has already intimated that a cheque for five thousand
 pounds will be handed over to the person who can tell him where his
 son is, and another thousand to him who can name the man, or men, who
 have taken him."

 "It is a princely offer," said Holmes. "Watson, I think that we shall
 accompany Dr. Huxtable back to the North of England. And now, Dr.
 Huxtable, when you have consumed that milk you will kindly tell me
 what has happened, when it happened, how it happened, and, finally,
 what Dr. Thorneycroft Huxtable, of the Priory School, near Mackleton,
 has to do with the matter, and why he comes three days after an
 event--the state of your chin gives the date--to ask for my humble
 services."

 Our visitor had consumed his milk and biscuits. The light had come
 back to his eyes and the colour to his cheeks as he set himself with
 great vigour and lucidity to explain the situation.

 "I must inform you, gentlemen, that the Priory is a preparatory
 school, of which I am the founder and principal. 'Huxtable's
 Sidelights on Horace' may possibly recall my name to your memories.
 The Priory is, without exception, the best and most select
 preparatory school in England. Lord Leverstoke, the Earl of
 Blackwater, Sir Cathcart Soames--they all have entrusted 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 Saltire, ten years
 old, his only son and heir, was about to be committed to my charge.
 Little did I think that this would be the prelude to the most
 crushing misfortune of my life.

 "On May 1st the boy arrived, that being the beginning of the summer
 term. He was a charming youth, and he soon fell into our ways. I may
 tell you--I trust that I am not indiscreet, but half-confidences are
 absurd in such a case--that he was not entirely happy at home. It is
 an open secret that the Duke's married life had not been a peaceful
 one, and the matter had ended in a separation by mutual consent, the
 Duchess taking up her residence in the South of France. This had
 occurred very shortly before, and the boy's sympathies are known to
 have been strongly with his mother. He moped after her departure from
 Holdernesse Hall, and it was for this reason that the Duke desired to
 send him to my establishment. In a fortnight the boy was quite at
 home with us, and was apparently absolutely happy.

 "He was last seen on the night of May 13th--that is, the night of
 last Monday. His room was on the second floor, and was approached
 through another larger room in which two boys were sleeping. These
 boys saw and heard nothing, so that it is certain that young Saltire
 did not pass out that way. His window was open, and there is a stout
 ivy plant leading to the ground. We could trace no footmarks below,
 but it is sure that this is the only possible exit.

 "His absence was discovered at seven o'clock on Tuesday morning. His
 bed had been slept in. He had dressed himself fully before going off
 in his usual school suit of black Eton jacket and dark grey trousers.
 There were no signs that anyone had entered the room, and it is quite
 certain that anything in the nature of cries, or a struggle, would
 have been heard, since Caunter, the elder boy in the inner room, is a
 very light sleeper.

 "When Lord Saltire's disappearance was discovered I at once called a
 roll of the whole establishment, boys, masters, and servants. It was
 then that we ascertained that Lord Saltire had not been alone in his
 flight. Heidegger, the German master, was missing. His room was on
 the second floor, at the farther end of the building, facing the same
 way as Lord Saltire's. His bed had also been slept in; but he had
 apparently gone away partly dressed, since his shirt and socks were
 lying on the floor. He had undoubtedly let himself down by the ivy,
 for we could see the marks of his feet where he had landed on the
 lawn. His bicycle was kept in a small shed beside this lawn, and it
 also was gone.

 "He had been with me for two years, and came with the best
 references; but he was a silent, morose man, not very popular either
 with masters or boys. No trace could be found of the fugitives, and
 now on Thursday morning we are as ignorant as we were on Tuesday.
 Inquiry was, of course, made at once at Holdernesse Hall. It is only
 a few miles away, and we imagined that in some sudden attack of
 home-sickness he had gone back to his father; but nothing had been
 heard of him. The Duke is greatly agitated--and as to me, you have
 seen yourselves the state of nervous prostration to which the
 suspense and the responsibility have reduced me. Mr. Holmes, if ever
 you put forward your full powers, I implore you to do so now, for
 never in your life could you have a case which is more worthy of
 them."

 Sherlock Holmes had listened with the utmost intentness to the
 statement of the unhappy schoolmaster. His drawn brows and the deep
 furrow between them showed that he needed no exhortation to
 concentrate all his attention upon a problem which, apart from the
 tremendous interests involved, must appeal so directly to his love of
 the complex and the unusual. He now drew out his note-book 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 he desired to give the idea that
 they had gone off upon them?"

 "I suppose he would."

 "Of course he would. The blind theory won't do. But the incident is
 an admirable starting-point for an investigation. After all, a
 bicycle is not an easy thing to conceal or to destroy. One other
 question. Did anyone call to see the boy on the day before he
 disappeared?"

 "No."

 "Did he get any letters?"

 "Yes; one letter."

 "From whom?"

 "From his father."

 "Do you open the boys' letters?"

 "No."

 "How do you know it was from the father?"

 "The coat of arms was on the envelope, and it was addressed in the
 Duke's peculiar stiff hand. Besides, the Duke remembers having
 written."

 "When had he a letter before that?"

 "Not for several days."

 "Had he ever one from France?"

 "No; never."

 "You see the point of my questions, of course. Either the boy was
 carried off by force or he went of his own free will. In the latter
 case you would expect that some prompting from outside would be
 needed to make so young a lad do such a thing. If he has had no
 visitors, that prompting must have come in letters. Hence I try to
 find out who were his correspondents."

 "I fear I cannot help you much. His only correspondent, so far as I
 know, was his own father."

 "Who wrote to him on the very day of his disappearance. Were the
 relations between father and son very friendly?"

 "His Grace is never very friendly with anyone. He is completely
 immersed in large public questions, and is rather inaccessible to all
 ordinary emotions. But he was always kind to the boy in his own way."

 "But the sympathies of the latter were with the mother?"

 "Yes."

 "Did he say so?"

 "No."

 "The Duke, then?"

 "Good heavens, no!"

 "Then how could you know?"

 "I have had some confidential talks with Mr. James Wilder, his
 Grace's secretary. It was he who gave me the information about Lord
 Saltire's feelings."

 "I see. By the way, that last letter of the Duke's--was it found in
 the boy's room after he was gone?"

 "No; he had taken it with him. I think, Mr. Holmes, it is time that
 we were leaving for Euston."

 "I will order a four-wheeler. In a quarter of an hour we shall be at
 your service. If you are telegraphing home, Mr. Huxtable, it would be
 well to allow the people in your neighbourhood to imagine that the
 inquiry is still going on in Liverpool, or wherever else that red
 herring led your pack. In the meantime I will do a little quiet work
 at your own doors, and perhaps the scent is not so cold but that two
 old hounds like Watson and myself may get a sniff of it."

 That evening found us in the cold, bracing atmosphere of the Peak
 country, in which Dr. Huxtable's famous school is situated. It was
 already dark when we reached it. A card was lying on the hall table,
 and the butler whispered something to his master, who turned to us
 with agitation in every heavy feature.

 "The Duke is here," said he. "The Duke and Mr. Wilder are in the
 study. Come, gentlemen, and I will introduce you."

 I was, of course, familiar with the pictures of the famous statesman,
 but the man himself was very different from his representation. He
 was a tall and stately person, scrupulously dressed, with a drawn,
 thin face, and a nose which was grotesquely curved and long. His
 complexion was of a dead pallor, which was more startling by contrast
 with a long, dwindling beard of vivid red, which flowed down over his
 white waistcoat, with his watch-chain gleaming through its fringe.
 Such was the stately presence who looked stonily at us from the
 centre of Dr. Huxtable's hearthrug. Beside him stood a very young
 man, whom I understood to be Wilder, the private secretary. He was
 small, nervous, alert, with intelligent, light-blue eyes and mobile
 features. It was he who at once, in an incisive and positive tone,
 opened the conversation.

 "I called this morning, Dr. Huxtable, too late to prevent you from
 starting for London. I learned that your object was to invite Mr.
 Sherlock Holmes to undertake the conduct of this case. His Grace is
 surprised, Dr. Huxtable, that you should have taken such a step
 without consulting him."

 "When I learned that the police had failed--"

 "His Grace is by no means convinced that the police have failed."

 "But surely, Mr. Wilder--"

 "You are well aware, Dr. Huxtable, that his Grace is particularly
 anxious to avoid all public scandal. He prefers to take as few people
 as possible into his confidence."

 "The matter can be easily remedied," said the brow-beaten doctor;
 "Mr. Sherlock Holmes can return to London by the morning train."

 "Hardly that, Doctor, hardly that," said Holmes, in his blandest
 voice. "This northern air is invigorating and pleasant, so I propose
 to spend a few days upon your moors, and to occupy my mind as best I
 may. Whether I have the shelter of your roof or of the village inn
 is, of course, for you to decide."

 I could see that the unfortunate doctor was in the last stage of
 indecision, from which he was rescued by the deep, sonorous voice of
 the red-bearded Duke, which boomed out like a dinner-gong.

 "I agree with Mr. Wilder, Dr. Huxtable, that you would have done
 wisely to consult me. But since Mr. Holmes has already been taken
 into your confidence, it would indeed be absurd that we should not
 avail ourselves of his services. Far from going to the inn, Mr.
 Holmes, I should be pleased if you would come and stay with me at
 Holdernesse Hall."

 "I thank your Grace. For the purposes of my investigation I think
 that it would be wiser for me to remain at the scene of the mystery."

 "Just as you like, Mr. Holmes. Any information which Mr. Wilder or I
 can give you is, of course, at your disposal."

 "It will probably be necessary for me to see you at the Hall," said
 Holmes. "I would only ask you now, sir, whether you have formed any
 explanation in your own mind as to the mysterious disappearance of
 your son?"

 "No, sir, I have not."

 "Excuse me if I allude to that which is painful to you, but I have no
 alternative. Do you think that the Duchess had anything to do with
 the matter?"

 The great Minister showed perceptible hesitation.

 "I do not think so," he said, at last.

 "The other most obvious explanation is that the child has been
 kidnapped for the purpose of levying ransom. You have not had any
 demand of the sort?"

 "No, sir."

 "One more question, your Grace. I understand that you wrote to your
 son upon the day when this incident occurred."

 "No; I wrote upon the day before."

 "Exactly. But he received it on that day?"

 "Yes."

 "Was there anything in your letter which might have unbalanced him or
 induced him to take such a step?"

 "No, sir, certainly not."

 "Did you post that letter yourself?"

 The nobleman's reply was interrupted by his secretary, who broke in
 with some heat.

 "His Grace is not in the habit of posting letters himself," said he.
 "This letter was laid with others upon the study table, and I myself
 put them in the post-bag."

 "You are sure this one was among them?"

 "Yes; I observed it."

 "How many letters did your Grace write that day?"

 "Twenty or thirty. I have a large correspondence. But surely this is
 somewhat irrelevant?"

 "Not entirely," said Holmes.

 "For my own part," the Duke continued, "I have advised the police to
 turn their attention to the South of France. I have already said that
 I do not believe that the Duchess would encourage so monstrous an
 action, but the lad had the most wrong-headed opinions, and it is
 possible that he may have fled to her, aided and abetted by this
 German. I think, Dr. Huxtable, that we will now return to the Hall."

 I could see that there were other questions which Holmes would have
 wished to put; but the nobleman's abrupt manner showed that the
 interview was at an end. It was evident that to his intensely
 aristocratic nature this discussion of his intimate family affairs
 with a stranger was most abhorrent, and that he feared lest every
 fresh question would throw a fiercer light into the discreetly
 shadowed corners of his ducal history.

 When the nobleman and his secretary had left, my friend flung himself
 at once with characteristic eagerness into the investigation.

 The boy's chamber was carefully examined, and yielded nothing save
 the absolute conviction that it was only through the window that he
 could have escaped. The German master's room and effects gave no
 further clue. In his case a trailer of ivy had given way under his
 weight, and we saw by the light of a lantern the mark on the lawn
 where his heels had come down. That one dint in the short green grass
 was the only material witness left of this inexplicable nocturnal
 flight.

 Sherlock Holmes left the house alone, and only returned after eleven.
 He had obtained a large ordnance map of the neighbourhood, and this
 he brought into my room, where he laid it out on the bed, and, having
 balanced the lamp in the middle of it, he began to smoke over it, and
 occasionally to point out objects of interest with the reeking amber
 of his pipe.

 "This case grows upon me, Watson," said he. "There are decidedly some
 points of interest in connection with it. In this early stage I want
 you to realize those geographical features which may have a good deal
 to do with our investigation.

 "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."

 [ Picture: Chart of the surrounding area ]

 "Exactly."

 "By a singular and happy chance we are able to some extent to check
 what passed along this road during the night in question. At this
 point, where my pipe is now resting, a country 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 upwards. 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 exhilaration of
 the master workman who sees his work lie ready before him. A very
 different Holmes, this active, alert man, from the introspective and
 pallid dreamer of Baker Street. I felt, as I looked upon that supple
 figure, alive with nervous energy, that it was indeed a strenuous day
 that awaited us.

 And yet it opened in the blackest disappointment. With high hopes we
 struck across the peaty, russet moor, intersected with a thousand
 sheep paths, until we came to the broad, light-green belt which
 marked the morass between us and Holdernesse. Certainly, if the lad
 had gone homewards, 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 tyre 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 tyre.

 "Here is Herr Heidegger, sure enough!" cried Holmes, exultantly. "My
 reasoning seems to have been pretty sound, Watson."

 "I congratulate you."

 "But we have a long way still to go. Kindly walk clear of the path.
 Now let us follow the trail. I fear that it will not lead very far."

 We found, however, as we advanced that this portion of the moor is
 intersected with soft patches, and, though we frequently lost sight
 of the track, we always succeeded in picking it up once more.

 "Do you observe," said Holmes, "that the rider is now undoubtedly
 forcing the pace? There can be no doubt of it. Look at this
 impression, where you get both 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 tyre 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
 night-shirt beneath it. It was undoubtedly the German master.

 Holmes turned the body over reverently, and examined it with great
 attention. He then sat in deep thought for a time, and I could see by
 his ruffled brow that this grim discovery had not, in his opinion,
 advanced us much in our inquiry.

 "It is a little difficult to know what to do, Watson," said he, at
 last. "My own inclinations are to push this inquiry on, for we have
 already lost so much time that we cannot afford to waste another
 hour. On the other hand, we are bound to inform the police of the
 discovery, and to see that this poor fellow's body is looked after."

 "I could take a note back."

 "But I need your company and assistance. Wait a bit! There is a
 fellow cutting peat up yonder. Bring him over here, and he will guide
 the police."

 I brought the peasant across, and Holmes dispatched the frightened
 man with a note to Dr. Huxtable.

 "Now, Watson," said he, "we have picked up two clues this morning.
 One is the bicycle with the Palmer 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 onwards 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, grey village which lay in
 front of us, and marked the position of the Chesterfield high road.

 As we approached the forbidding and squalid inn, with the sign of a
 game-cock above the door, Holmes gave a sudden groan and clutched me
 by the shoulder to save himself from falling. He had had one of those
 violent strains of the ankle which leave a man helpless. With
 difficulty he limped up to the door, where a squat, dark, elderly man
 was smoking a black clay pipe.

 "How are you, Mr. Reuben Hayes?" said Holmes.

 "Who are you, and how do you get my name so pat?" the countryman
 answered, with a suspicious flash of a pair of cunning eyes.

 "Well, it's printed on the board above your head. It's easy to see a
 man who is master of his own house. I suppose you haven't such a
 thing as a carriage in your stables?"

 "No; I have not."

 "I can hardly put my foot to the ground."

 "Don't put it to the ground."

 "But I can't walk."

 "Well, then, hop."

 Mr. Reuben Hayes's manner was far from gracious, but Holmes took it
 with admirable good-humour.

 "Look here, my man," said he. "This is really rather an awkward fix
 for me. I don't mind how I get on."

 "Neither do I," said the morose landlord.

 "The matter is very important. I would offer you a sovereign for the
 use of a bicycle."

 The landlord pricked up his ears.

 "Where do you want to go?"

 "To Holdernesse Hall."

 "Pals of the Dook, I suppose?" said the landlord, surveying our
 mud-stained garments with ironical eyes.

 Holmes laughed good-naturedly.

 "He'll be glad to see us, anyhow."

 "Why?"

 "Because we bring him news of his lost son."

 The landlord gave a very visible start.

 "What, you're on his track?"

 "He has been heard of in Liverpool. They expect to get him every
 hour."

 Again a swift change passed over the heavy, unshaven face. His manner
 was suddenly genial.

 "I've less reason to wish the Dook well than most men," said he, "for
 I was 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 convulsed with passion. He held a
 short, metal-headed stick in his hand, and he advanced in so menacing
 a fashion that I was right glad to feel the revolver in my pocket.

 "You infernal spies!" the man cried. "What are you doing there?"

 "Why, Mr. Reuben Hayes," said Holmes, coolly, "one might think that
 you were afraid of our finding something out."

 The man mastered himself with a violent effort, and his grim mouth
 loosened into a false laugh, which was more menacing than his frown.

 "You're welcome to all you can find out in my smithy," said he. "But
 look here, mister, I don't care for folk poking about my place
 without my leave, so the sooner you pay your score and get out of
 this the better I shall be pleased."

 "All right, Mr. Hayes--no harm meant," said Holmes. "We have been
 having a look at your horses, but I think I'll walk after all. It's
 not far, I believe."

 "Not more than two miles to the Hall gates. That's the road to the
 left." He watched us with sullen eyes until we had left his premises.

 We did not go very far along the road, for Holmes stopped the instant
 that the curve hid us from the landlord's view.

 "We were warm, as the children say, at that inn," said he. "I seem to
 grow colder every step that I take away from it. No, no; I can't
 possibly leave it."

 "I am convinced," said I, "that this Reuben Hayes knows all about it.
 A more self-evident villain I never saw."

 "Oh! he impressed you in that way, did he? There are the horses,
 there is the smithy. Yes, it is an interesting place, this Fighting
 Cock. I think we shall have another look at it in an unobtrusive
 way."

 A long, sloping hillside, dotted with grey limestone boulders,
 stretched behind us. We had turned off the road, and were making our
 way up the hill, when, looking in the direction of Holdernesse Hall,
 I saw a cyclist coming swiftly along.

 "Get down, Watson!" cried Holmes, with a heavy hand upon my shoulder.
 We had hardly sunk from view when the man flew past us on the road.
 Amid a rolling cloud of dust I caught a glimpse of a pale, agitated
 face--a face with horror in every lineament, the mouth open, the eyes
 staring wildly in front. It was like some strange caricature of the
 dapper James Wilder whom we had seen the night before.

 "The Duke's secretary!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson, let us see what
 he does."

 We scrambled from rock to rock until in a few moments we had made our
 way to a point from which we could see the front door of the inn.
 Wilder's bicycle was leaning against the wall beside it. No one was
 moving about the house, nor could we catch a glimpse of any faces at
 the windows. Slowly the twilight crept down as the sun sank behind
 the high towers of Holdernesse Hall. Then in the gloom we saw the two
 side-lamps of a trap light up in the stable yard of the inn, and
 shortly afterwards heard the rattle of hoofs, as it wheeled out into
 the road and tore off at a furious pace in the direction of
 Chesterfield.

 "What do you make of that, Watson?" Holmes whispered.

 "It looks like a flight."

 "A single man in a dog-cart, so far as I could see. Well, it
 certainly was not Mr. James Wilder, for there he is at the door."

 A red square of light had sprung out of the darkness. In the middle
 of it was the black figure of the secretary, his head advanced,
 peering out into the night. It was evident that he was expecting
 someone. Then at last there were steps in the road, a second figure
 was visible for an instant against the light, the door shut, and all
 was black once more. Five minutes later a lamp was lit in a room upon
 the first floor.

 "It seems to be a curious class of custom that is done by the
 Fighting Cock," said Holmes.

 "The bar is on the other side."

 "Quite so. These are what one may call the private guests. Now, what
 in the world is Mr. James Wilder doing in that den at this hour of
 night, and who is the companion who comes to meet him there? Come,
 Watson, we must really take a risk and try to investigate this a
 little more closely."

 Together we stole down to the road and crept across to the door of
 the inn. The bicycle still leaned against the wall. Holmes struck a
 match and held it to the back wheel, and I heard him chuckle as the
 light fell upon a patched Dunlop 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 alert and
 vigorous as he had been when he started in the morning. "All goes
 well, my friend," said he. "I promise that before to-morrow evening
 we shall have reached the solution of the mystery."

 At eleven o'clock next morning my friend and I were walking up the
 famous yew avenue of Holdernesse Hall. We were ushered through the
 magnificent Elizabethan doorway and into his Grace's study. There we
 found Mr. James Wilder, demure and courtly, but with some trace of
 that wild terror of the night before still lurking in his furtive
 eyes and in his twitching features.

 "You have come to see his Grace? I am sorry; but the fact is that the
 Duke is far from well. He has been very much upset by the tragic
 news. We received a telegram from Dr. Huxtable yesterday afternoon,
 which told us of your discovery."

 "I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder."

 "But he is in his room."

 "Then I must go to his room."

 "I believe he is in his bed."

 "I will see him there."

 Holmes's cold and inexorable manner showed the secretary that it was
 useless to argue with him.

 "Very good, Mr. Holmes; I will tell him that you are here."

 After half 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 to the table.

 "Well, Mr. Holmes?" said he.

 But my friend's eyes were fixed upon the secretary, who stood by his
 master's chair.

 "I think, your Grace, that I could speak more freely in Mr. Wilder's
 absence."

 The man turned a shade paler and cast a malignant glance at Holmes.

 "If your Grace wishes--"

 "Yes, yes; you had better go. Now, Mr. Holmes, what have you to say?"

 My friend waited until the door had closed behind the retreating
 secretary.

 "The fact is, your Grace," said he, "that my colleague, Dr. Watson,
 and myself had an assurance from Dr. Huxtable that a reward had been
 offered in this case. I should like to have this confirmed from your
 own lips."

 "Certainly, Mr. Holmes."

 "It amounted, if I am correctly informed, to five thousand pounds to
 anyone who will tell you where your son is?"

 "Exactly."

 "And another thousand to the man who will name the person or persons
 who keep him in custody?"

 "Exactly."

 "Under the latter heading is included, no doubt, not only those who
 may have taken him away, but also those who conspire to keep him in
 his present position?"

 "Yes, yes," cried the Duke, impatiently. "If you do your work well,
 Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you will have no reason to complain of niggardly
 treatment."

 My friend rubbed his thin hands together with an appearance of
 avidity which was a surprise to me, who knew his frugal tastes.

 "I fancy that I see your Grace's cheque-book upon the table," said
 he. "I should be glad if you would make me out a cheque for six
 thousand pounds. It would be as well, perhaps, for you to cross it.
 The Capital and Counties Bank, Oxford Street branch, are my agents."

 His Grace sat very stern and upright in his chair, and looked stonily
 at my friend.

 "Is this a joke, Mr. Holmes? It is hardly a subject for pleasantry."

 "Not at all, your Grace. I was never more earnest in my life."

 "What do you mean, then?"

 "I mean that I have earned the reward. I know where your son is, and
 I know some, at least, of those who are holding him."

 The Duke's beard had turned more aggressively red than ever against
 his ghastly white face.

 "Where is he?" he gasped. 

 "He is, or was last night, at the Fighting Cock Inn, about two miles
 from your park gate."

 The Duke fell back in his chair.

 "And whom do you accuse?"

 Sherlock Holmes's answer was an astounding one. He stepped swiftly
 forward and touched the Duke upon the shoulder.

 "I accuse you," said he. "And now, your Grace, I'll trouble you for
 that cheque."

 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 besides your friend know?"

 "I have spoken to no one."

 The Duke took a pen in his quivering fingers and opened his
 cheque-book.

 "I shall be as good as my word, Mr. Holmes. I am about to write your
 cheque, however unwelcome the information which you have gained may
 be to me. When the offer was first made I little thought the turn
 which events might take. But you and your friend are men of
 discretion, Mr. Holmes?"

 "I hardly understand your Grace."

 "I must put it plainly, Mr. Holmes. If only you two know of this
 incident, there is no reason why it should go any farther. I think
 twelve thousand pounds is the sum that I owe you, is it not?"

 But Holmes smiled and shook his head.

 "I fear, your Grace, that matters can hardly be arranged so easily.
 There is the death of this schoolmaster to be accounted for."

 "But James knew nothing of that. You cannot hold him responsible for
 that. It was the work of this brutal ruffian whom he had the
 misfortune to employ."

 "I must take the view, your Grace, that when a man embarks upon a
 crime he is morally guilty of any other crime which may spring from
 it."

 "Morally, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. But surely not in the
 eyes of the law. A man cannot be condemned for a murder at which he
 was not present, and which he loathes and abhors as much as you do.
 The instant that he heard of it he made a complete confession to me,
 so filled was he with horror and remorse. He lost not an hour in
 breaking entirely with the murderer. Oh, Mr. Holmes, you must save
 him--you must save him! I tell you that you must save him!" The Duke
 had dropped the last attempt at self-command, and was pacing the room
 with a convulsed face and with his clenched hands raving in the air.
 At last he mastered himself and sat down once more at his desk. "I
 appreciate your conduct in coming here before you spoke to anyone
 else," said he. "At least, we may take counsel how far we can
 minimize this hideous scandal."

 "Exactly," said Holmes. "I think, your Grace, that this can only be
 done by absolute and complete 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
 abhorrent to me. His presence had something to do with the unhappy
 issue of my marriage. Above all, he hated my young legitimate heir
 from the first with a persistent hatred. You may well ask me why,
 under these circumstances, I still kept James under my roof. I answer
 that it was because I could see his mother's face in his, and that
 for her dear sake there was no end to my long-suffering. All her
 pretty ways, too--there was not one of them which he could not
 suggest and bring back to my memory. I could not send him away. But I
 feared so much lest he should do Arthur--that is, Lord Saltire--a
 mischief that I dispatched him for safety to Dr. Huxtable's school.

 "James came into contact with this fellow Hayes because the man was a
 tenant of mine, and James acted as agent. The fellow was a rascal
 from the beginning; but in some extraordinary way James became
 intimate with him. He had always a taste for low company. When James
 determined to kidnap Lord Saltire it was of this man's service that
 he availed himself. You remember that I wrote to Arthur upon that
 last day. Well, James opened the letter and inserted a note asking
 Arthur to meet him in a little wood called the Ragged Shaw, which is
 near to the school. He used the Duchess's name, and in that way got
 the boy to come. That evening James bicycled over--I am telling you
 what he has himself confessed to me--and he told Arthur, whom he met
 in the wood, that his mother longed to see him, that she was awaiting
 him on the moor, and that if he would come back into the wood at
 midnight he would find a man with a horse, who would take him to her.
 Poor Arthur fell into the trap. He came to the appointment and found
 this fellow Hayes with a led pony. Arthur mounted, and they set off
 together. It appears--though this James only heard yesterday--that
 they were pursued, that Hayes struck the pursuer with his stick, and
 that the man died of his injuries. Hayes brought Arthur to his
 public-house, the Fighting Cock, where he was confined in an upper
 room, under the care of Mrs. Hayes, who is a kindly woman, but
 entirely under the control of her brutal husband.

 "Well, Mr. Holmes, that was the state of affairs when I first saw you
 two days ago. I had no more idea of the truth than you. You will ask
 me what was James's motive in doing such a deed. I answer that there
 was a great deal which was unreasoning and fanatical in the hatred
 which he bore my heir. In his view he should himself have been heir
 of all my estates, and he deeply resented those social laws which
 made it impossible. At the same time he had a definite motive also.
 He was eager that I should break the entail, and he was of opinion
 that it lay in my power to do so. He intended to make a bargain with
 me--to restore Arthur if I would break the entail, and so make it
 possible for the estate to be left to him by will. He knew well that
 I should never willingly invoke the aid of the police against him. I
 say that he would have proposed such a bargain to me, but he did not
 actually do so, for events moved too quickly for him, and he had not
 time to put his plans into practice.

 "What brought all his wicked scheme to wreck was your discovery of
 this man Heidegger's dead body. James was seized with horror at the
 news. It came to us yesterday as we sat together in this study. Dr.
 Huxtable had sent a telegram. James was so overwhelmed with grief and
 agitation that my suspicions, which had never been entirely absent,
 rose instantly to a certainty, and I taxed him with the deed. He made
 a complete voluntary confession. Then he implored me to keep his
 secret for three days longer, so as to give his wretched accomplice a
 chance of saving his guilty life. I yielded--as I have always
 yielded--to his prayers, and instantly James hurried off to the
 Fighting Cock to warn Hayes and give him the means of flight. I could
 not go there by daylight without provoking comment, but as soon as
 night fell I hurried off to see my dear Arthur. I found him safe and
 well, but horrified beyond expression by the dreadful deed he had
 witnessed. In deference to my promise, and much against my will, I
 consented to leave him there for three days under the charge of Mrs.
 Hayes, since it was evident that it was impossible to inform the
 police where he was without telling them also who was the murderer,
 and I could not see how that murderer could be punished without ruin
 to my unfortunate James. You asked for frankness, Mr. Holmes, and I
 have taken you at your word, for I have now told you everything
 without an attempt at circumlocution or concealment. Do you in turn
 be as frank with me."

 "I will," said Holmes. "In the first place, your Grace, I am bound to
 tell you that you have placed yourself in a most serious position in
 the eyes of the law. You have condoned a felony and you have aided
 the escape of a murderer; for I cannot doubt that any money which was
 taken by James Wilder to aid his accomplice in his flight came from
 your Grace's purse."

 The Duke bowed his assent.

 "This is indeed a most serious matter. Even more culpable in my
 opinion, your Grace, is your attitude towards your younger son. You
 leave him in this den for three days."

 "Under solemn promises--"

 "What are promises to such people as these? You have no guarantee
 that he will not be spirited away again. To humour your guilty elder
 son you have exposed your innocent younger son to imminent and
 unnecessary danger. It was a most unjustifiable action."

 The proud lord of Holdernesse was not accustomed to be so rated in
 his own ducal hall. The blood flushed into his high forehead, but his
 conscience held him dumb.

 "I will help you, but on one condition only. It is that you ring for
 the footman and let me give such orders as I like."

 Without a word the Duke pressed the electric bell. A servant entered.

 "You will be glad to hear," said Holmes, "that your young master is
 found. It is the Duke's desire that the carriage shall go at once to
 the Fighting Cock Inn to bring Lord Saltire home.

 "Now," said Holmes, when the rejoicing lackey had disappeared,
 "having secured the future, we can afford to be more lenient with the
 past. I am not in an official position, and there is no reason, so
 long as the ends of justice are served, why I should disclose all
 that I know. As to Hayes I say nothing. The gallows awaits him, and I
 would do nothing to save him from it. What he will divulge I cannot
 tell, but I have no doubt that your Grace could make him understand
 that it is to his interest to be silent. From the police point of
 view he will have kidnapped the boy for the purpose of ransom. If
 they do not themselves find it out I see no reason why I should
 prompt them to take a broader point of view. I would warn your Grace,
 however, that the continued presence of Mr. James Wilder in your
 household can only lead to misfortune."

 "I understand that, Mr. Holmes, and it is already settled that he
 shall leave me for ever and go to seek his fortune in Australia."

 "In that case, your Grace, since you have yourself stated that any
 unhappiness in your married life was caused by his presence, I would
 suggest that you make such amends as you can to the Duchess, and that
 you try to resume those relations which have been so unhappily
 interrupted."

 "That also I have arranged, Mr. Holmes. I wrote to the Duchess this
 morning."

 "In that case," said Holmes, rising, "I think that my friend and I
 can congratulate ourselves upon several most happy results from our
 little visit to the North. There is one other small point upon which
 I desire some light. This fellow Hayes had shod his horses with shoes
 which counterfeited the tracks of cows. Was it from Mr. Wilder that
 he learned so extraordinary a device?"

 The Duke stood in thought for a moment, with a look of intense
 surprise on his face. Then he opened a door and showed us into a
 large room furnished as a museum. He led the way to a glass case in a
 corner, and pointed to the inscription.

 "These shoes," it ran, "were dug up in the moat of Holdernesse Hall.
 They are for the use of horses; but they are shaped below with a
 cloven foot of iron, so as to throw pursuers off the track. They are
 supposed to have belonged to some of the marauding Barons of
 Holdernesse in the Middle Ages."

 Holmes opened the case, and moistening his finger he passed it along
 the shoe. A thin film of recent mud was left upon his skin.

 "Thank you," said he, as he replaced the glass. "It is the second
 most interesting object that I have seen in the North."

 "And the first?"

 Holmes folded up his cheque and placed it carefully in his note-book.
 "I am a poor man," said he, as he patted it affectionately and thrust
 it into the depths of his inner pocket.






                      THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER

 I have never known my friend to be in better form, both mental and
 physical, than in the year '95. His increasing fame had brought with
 it an immense practice, and I should be guilty of an indiscretion if
 I were even to hint at the identity of some of the illustrious
 clients who crossed our humble threshold in Baker Street. Holmes,
 however, like all great artists, lived for his art's sake, and, save
 in the case of the Duke of Holdernesse, I have seldom known him claim
 any large reward for his inestimable services. So unworldly was
 he--or so capricious--that he frequently refused his help to the
 powerful and wealthy where the problem made no appeal to his
 sympathies, while he would devote weeks of most intense application
 to the affairs of some humble client whose case presented those
 strange and dramatic qualities which appealed to his imagination and
 challenged his ingenuity.

 In this memorable year '95 a curious and incongruous succession of
 cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous
 investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca--an inquiry which
 was carried out by him at the express desire of His Holiness the
 Pope--down to his arrest of Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer,
 which removed a plague-spot from the East-End of London. Close on the
 heels of these two famous cases came the tragedy of Woodman's Lee,
 and the very obscure circumstances which surrounded the death of
 Captain Peter Carey. No record of the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
 would be complete which did not include some account of this very
 unusual affair.

 During the first week of July my friend had been absent so often and
 so long from our lodgings that I knew he had something on hand. The
 fact that several rough-looking men called during that time and
 inquired for Captain Basil made me understand that Holmes was working
 somewhere under one of the numerous disguises and names with which he
 concealed his own formidable identity. He had at least five small
 refuges in different parts of London in which he was able to change
 his personality. He said nothing of his business to me, and it was
 not my habit to force a confidence. The first positive sign which he
 gave me of the direction which his investigation was taking was an
 extraordinary one. He had gone out before breakfast, and I had sat
 down to mine, when he strode into the room, his hat upon his head and
 a huge barbed-headed spear tucked like an umbrella under his arm.

 "Good gracious, Holmes!" I cried. "You don't mean to say that you
 have been walking about London with that thing?"

 "I drove to the butcher's and back."

 "The butcher's?"

 "And I return with an excellent appetite. There can be no question,
 my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before breakfast. But I am
 prepared to bet that you will not guess the form that my exercise has
 taken."

 "I will not attempt it."

 He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.

 "If you could have looked into Allardyce's back shop you would have
 seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and a gentleman in
 his shirt-sleeves furiously stabbing at it with this weapon. I was
 that energetic person, and I have satisfied myself that by no
 exertion of my strength can I transfix the pig with a single blow.
 Perhaps you would care to try?"

 "Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?"

 "Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon the mystery
 of Woodman's Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last night, and I have
 been expecting you. Come and join us."

 Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age,
 dressed in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing of one
 who was accustomed to official uniform. I recognised him at once as
 Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector for whose future Holmes had
 high hopes, while he in turn professed the admiration and respect of
 a pupil for the scientific methods of the famous amateur. Hopkins's
 brow was clouded, and he sat down with an air of deep dejection.

 "No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I came round. I spent the
 night in town, for I came up yesterday to report."

 "And what had you to report?"

 "Failure, sir; absolute failure."

 "You have made no progress?"

 "None."

 "Dear me! I must have a look at the matter."

 "I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes. It's my first big
 chance, and I am at my wit's end. For goodness' sake come down and
 lend me a hand."

 "Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all the
 available evidence, including the report of the inquest, with some
 care. By the way, what do you make of that tobacco-pouch found on the
 scene of the crime? Is there no clue there?"

 Hopkins looked surprised.

 "It was the man's own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it. And it
 was of seal-skin--and he an old sealer."

 "But he had no pipe."

 "No, sir, we could find no pipe; indeed, he smoked very little. And
 yet he might have kept some tobacco for his friends."

 "No doubt. I only mention it because if I had been handling the case
 I should have been inclined to make that the starting-point of my
 investigation. However, my friend Dr. Watson knows nothing of this
 matter, and I should be none the worse for hearing the sequence of
 events once more. Just give us some short sketch of the essentials."

 Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

 "I have a few dates here which will give you the career of the dead
 man, Captain Peter Carey. He was born in '45--fifty years of age. He
 was a most daring and successful seal and whale fisher. In 1883 he
 commanded the steam sealer Sea Unicorn, of Dundee. He had then had
 several successful voyages in succession, and in the following year,
 1884, he retired. After that he travelled for some years, and finally
 he bought a small place called Woodman's Lee, near Forest Row, in
 Sussex. There he has lived for six years, and there he died just a
 week ago to-day.

 "There were some most singular points about the man. In ordinary life
 he was a strict Puritan--a silent, gloomy fellow. His household
 consisted of his wife, his daughter, aged twenty, and two female
 servants. These last were continually changing, for it was never a
 very cheery situation, and sometimes it became past all bearing. The
 man was an intermittent drunkard, and when he had the fit on him he
 was a perfect fiend. He has been known to drive his wife and his
 daughter out of doors in the middle of the night, and flog them
 through the park until the whole village outside the gates was
 aroused by their screams.

 "He was summoned once for a savage assault upon the old vicar, who
 had called upon him to remonstrate with him upon his conduct. In
 short, Mr. Holmes, you would go far before you found a more dangerous
 man than Peter Carey, and I have heard that he bore the same
 character when he commanded his ship. He was known in the trade as
 Black Peter, and the name was given him, not only on account of his
 swarthy features and the colour of his huge beard, but for the
 humours which were the terror of all around him. I need not say that
 he was loathed and avoided by every one of his neighbours, and that I
 have not heard one single word of sorrow about his terrible end.

 "You must have read in the account of the inquest about the man's
 cabin, Mr. Holmes; but perhaps your friend here has not heard of it.
 He had built himself a wooden outhouse--he always called it 'the
 cabin'--a few hundred yards from his house, and it was here that he
 slept every night. It was a little, single-roomed hut, sixteen feet
 by ten. He kept the key in his pocket, made his own bed, cleaned it
 himself, and allowed no other foot to cross the threshold. There are
 small windows on each side, which were covered by curtains and never
 opened. One of these windows was turned towards the high road, and
 when the light burned in it at night the folk used to point it out to
 each other and wonder what Black Peter was doing in there. That's the
 window, Mr. Holmes, which gave us one of the few bits of positive
 evidence that came out at the inquest.

 "You remember that a stonemason, named Slater, walking from Forest
 Row about one o'clock in the morning--two days before the
 murder--stopped as he passed the grounds and looked at the square of
 light still shining among the trees. He swears that the shadow of a
 man's head turned sideways was clearly visible on the blind, and that
 this shadow was certainly not that of Peter Carey, whom he knew well.
 It was that of a bearded man, but the beard was short and bristled
 forwards in a way very different from that of the captain. So he
 says, but he had been two hours in the public-house, and it is some
 distance from the road to the window. Besides, this refers to the
 Monday, and the crime was done upon the Wednesday.

 "On the Tuesday Peter Carey was in one of his blackest moods, flushed
 with drink and as savage as a dangerous wild beast. He roamed about
 the house, and the women ran for it when they heard him coming. Late
 in the evening he went down to his own hut. About two o'clock the
 following morning his daughter, who slept with her window open, heard
 a most fearful yell from that direction, but it was no unusual thing
 for him to bawl and shout when he was in drink, so no notice was
 taken. On rising at seven one of the maids noticed that the door of
 the hut was open, but so great was the terror which the man caused
 that it was midday before anyone would venture down to see what had
 become of him. Peeping into the open door they saw a sight which sent
 them flying with white faces into the village. Within an hour I was
 on the spot and had taken over the case.

 "Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but I
 give you my word that I got a shake when I put my head into that
 little house. It was droning like a harmonium with the flies and
 bluebottles, and the floor and walls were like a slaughter-house. He
 had called it a cabin, and a cabin it was sure enough, for you would
 have thought that you were in a ship. There was a bunk at one end, a
 sea-chest, maps and charts, a picture of the Sea Unicorn, a line of
 log-books on a shelf, all exactly as one would expect to find it in a
 captain's room. And there in the middle of it was the man himself,
 his face twisted like a lost soul in torment, and his great brindled
 beard stuck upwards in his agony. Right through his broad breast a
 steel harpoon had been driven, and it had sunk deep into the wood of
 the wall behind him. He was pinned like a beetle on a card. Of
 course, he was quite dead, and had been so from the instant that he
 had uttered that last yell of agony.

 "I know your methods, sir, and I applied them. Before I permitted
 anything to be moved I examined most carefully the ground outside,
 and also the floor of the room. There were no footmarks."

 "Meaning that you saw none?"

 "I assure you, sir, that there were none."

 "My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes, but I have never
 yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As long as the
 criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be some
 indentation, some abrasion, some trifling displacement which can be
 detected by the scientific searcher. It is incredible that this
 blood-bespattered room contained no trace which could have aided us.
 I understand, however, from the inquest that there were some objects
 which you failed to overlook?"

 The young inspector winced at my companion's ironical comments.

 "I was a fool not to call you in at the time, Mr. Holmes. However,
 that's past praying for now. Yes, there were several objects in the
 room which called for special attention. One was the harpoon with
 which the deed was committed. It had been snatched down from a rack
 on the wall. Two others remained there, and there was a vacant place
 for the third. On the stock was engraved 'S.S.. Sea Unicorn, Dundee.'
 This seemed to establish that the crime had been done in a moment of
 fury, and that the murderer had seized the first weapon which came in
 his way. The fact that the crime was committed at two in the morning,
 and yet Peter Carey was fully dressed, suggested that he had an
 appointment with the murderer, which is borne out by the fact that a
 bottle of rum and two dirty glasses stood upon the table."

 "Yes," said Holmes; "I think that both inferences are permissible.
 Was there any other spirit but rum in the room?"

 "Yes; there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on the
 sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however, since the decanters
 were full, and it had therefore not been used."

 "For all that its presence has some significance," said Holmes.
 "However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem to
 you to bear upon the case."

 "There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table."

 "What part of the table?"

 "It lay in the middle. It was of coarse seal-skin--the
 straight-haired skin, with a leather thong to bind it. Inside was
 'P.C.' on the flap. There was half an ounce of strong ship's tobacco
 in it."

 "Excellent! What more?"

 Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered note-book. The
 outside was rough and worn, the leaves discoloured. On the first page
 were written the initials "J.H.N." and the date "1883." Holmes laid
 it on the table and examined it in his minute way, while Hopkins and
 I gazed over each shoulder. On the second page were the printed
 letters "C.P.R.," and then came several sheets of numbers. Another
 heading was Argentine, another Costa Rica, and another San Paulo,
 each with pages of signs and figures after it.

 "What do you make of these?" asked Holmes.

 "They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities. I thought that
 'J.H.N.' were the initials of a broker, and that 'C.P.R.' may have
 been his client."

 "Try Canadian Pacific Railway," said Holmes.

 Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth and struck his thigh with his
 clenched hand.

 "What a fool I have been!" he cried. "Of course, it is as you say.
 Then 'J.H.N.' are the only initials we have to solve. I have already
 examined the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can find no one in 1883
 either in the House or among the outside brokers whose initials
 correspond with these. Yet I feel that the clue is the most important
 one that I hold. You will admit, Mr. Holmes, that there is a
 possibility that these initials are those of the second person who
 was present--in other words, of the murderer. I would also urge that
 the introduction into the case of a document relating to large masses
 of valuable securities gives us for the first time some indication of
 a motive for the crime."

 Sherlock Holmes's face showed that he was thoroughly taken aback by
 this new development.

 "I must admit both your points," said he. "I confess that this
 note-book, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any views
 which I may have formed. I had come to a theory of the crime in which
 I can find no place for this. Have you endeavoured to trace any of
 the securities here mentioned?"

 "Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that the
 complete register of the stockholders of these South American
 concerns is in South America, and that some weeks must elapse before
 we can trace the shares."

 Holmes had been examining the cover of the note-book with his
 magnifying lens.

 "Surely there is some discolouration here," said he.

 "Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book off
 the floor."

 "Was the blood-stain above or below?"

 "On the side next the boards."

 "Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the crime
 was committed."

 "Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured
 that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay
 near the door."

 "I suppose that none of these securities have been found among the
 property of the dead man?"

 "No, sir."

 "Have you any reason to suspect robbery?"

 "No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched."

 "Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was a
 knife, was there not?"

 "A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the dead
 man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband's property."

 Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

 "Well," said he, at last, "I suppose I shall have to come out and
 have a look at it."

 Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

 "Thank you, sir. That will indeed be a weight off my mind."

 Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

 "It would have been an easier task a week ago," said he. "But even
 now my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you can spare
 the time I should be very glad of your company. If you will call a
 four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for Forest Row in a
 quarter of an hour."

 Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles
 through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of that
 great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at bay--the
 impenetrable "weald," for sixty years the bulwark of Britain. Vast
 sections of it have been cleared, for this is the seat of the first
 iron-works of the country, and the trees have been felled to smelt
 the ore. Now the richer fields of the North have absorbed the trade,
 and nothing save these ravaged groves and great scars in the earth
 show the work of the past. Here in a clearing upon the green slope of
 a hill stood a long, low stone house, approached by a curving drive
 running through the fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three
 sides by bushes, was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing
 in our direction. It was the scene of the murder.

 Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us to
 a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man, whose
 gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror in the
 depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of hardship and
 ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her daughter, a pale,
 fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly at us as she told us
 that she was glad that her father was dead, and that she blessed the
 hand which had struck him down. It was a terrible household that
 Black Peter Carey had made for himself, and it was with a sense of
 relief that we found ourselves in the sunlight again and making our
 way along a path which had been worn across the fields by the feet of
 the dead man.

 The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
 shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther
 side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket, and had stooped
 to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention and surprise
 upon his face.

 "Someone has been tampering with it," he said.

 There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut and the
 scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been that
 instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.

 "Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed to
 make his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar."

 "This is a most extraordinary thing," said the inspector; "I could
 swear that these marks were not here yesterday evening."

 "Some curious person from the village, perhaps," I suggested.

 "Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the grounds,
 far less try to force their way into the cabin. What do you think of
 it, Mr. Holmes?"

 "I think that fortune is very kind to us."

 "You mean that the person will come again?"

 "It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He
 tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could not
 manage it. What would he do?"

 "Come again next night with a more useful tool."

 "So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to receive
 him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin."

 The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture within
 the little room still stood as it had been on the night of the crime.
 For two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes examined every
 object in turn, but his face showed that his quest was not a
 successful one. Once only he paused in his patient investigation.

 "Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?"

 "No; I have moved nothing."

 "Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of the
 shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its side. It
 may have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more. Let us walk
 in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few hours to the birds
 and the flowers. We shall meet you here later, Hopkins, and see if we
 can come to closer quarters with the gentleman who has paid this
 visit in the night."

 It was past eleven o'clock when we formed our little ambuscade.
 Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was of
 the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions of the stranger. The
 lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a strong blade was needed
 to push it back. Holmes also suggested that we should wait, not
 inside the hut, but outside it among the bushes which grew round the
 farther window. In this way we should be able to watch our man if he
 struck a light, and see what his object was in this stealthy
 nocturnal visit.

 It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it something
 of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies beside the water
 pool and waits for the coming of the thirsty beast of prey. What
 savage creature was it which might steal upon us out of the darkness?
 Was it a fierce tiger of crime, which could only be taken fighting
 hard with flashing fang and claw, or would it prove to be some
 skulking jackal, dangerous only to the weak and unguarded?

 In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for
 whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated villagers,
 or the sound of voices from the village, lightened our vigil; but one
 by one these interruptions died away and an absolute stillness fell
 upon us, save for the chimes of the distant church, which told us of
 the progress of the night, and for the rustle and whisper of a fine
 rain falling amid the foliage which roofed us in.

 Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which precedes
 the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click came from the
 direction of the gate. Someone had entered the drive. Again there was
 a long silence, and I had begun to fear that it was a false alarm,
 when a stealthy step was heard upon the other side of the hut, and a
 moment later a metallic scraping and clinking. The man was trying to
 force the lock! This time his skill was greater or his tool was
 better, for there was a sudden snap and the creak of the hinges. Then
 a match was struck, and next instant the steady light from a candle
 filled the interior of the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes
 were all riveted upon the scene within.

 The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a black
 moustache which intensified the deadly pallor of his face. He could
 not have been much above twenty years of age. I have never seen any
 human being who appeared to be in such a pitiable fright, for his
 teeth were visibly chattering and he was shaking in every limb. He
 was dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers,
 with a cloth cap upon his head. We watched him staring round with
 frightened eyes. Then he laid the candle-end upon the table and
 disappeared from our view into one of the corners. He returned with a
 large book, one of the log-books which formed a line upon the
 shelves. Leaning on the table he rapidly turned over the leaves of
 this volume until he came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an
 angry gesture of his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it
 in the corner, and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave
 the hut when Hopkins's hand was on the fellow's collar, and I heard
 his loud gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken. The
 candle was re-lit, and there was our wretched captive shivering and
 cowering in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon the
 sea-chest, and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.

 "Now, my fine fellow," said Stanley Hopkins, "who are you, and what
 do you want here?"

 The man pulled himself together and faced us with an effort at
 self-composure.

 "You are detectives, I suppose?" said he. "You imagine I am connected
 with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you that I am
 innocent."

 "We'll see about that," said Hopkins. "First of all, what is your
 name?"

 "It is John Hopley Neligan."

 I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

 "What are you doing here?"

 "Can I speak confidentially?"

 "No, certainly not."

 "Why should I tell you?"

 "If you have no answer it may go badly with you at the trial."

 The young man winced.

 "Well, I will tell you," he said. "Why should I not? And yet I hate
 to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life. Did you
 ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?"

 I could see from Hopkins's face that he never had; but Holmes was
 keenly interested.

 "You mean the West-country bankers," said he. "They failed for a
 million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan
 disappeared."

 "Exactly. Neligan was my father."

 At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a long
 gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey pinned
 against the wall with one of his own harpoons. We all listened
 intently to the young man's words.

 "It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I was
 only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to feel the
 shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that my father
 stole all the securities and fled. It is not true. It was his belief
 that if he were given time in which to realize them all would be well
 and every creditor paid in full. He started in his little yacht for
 Norway just before the warrant was issued for his arrest. I can
 remember that last night when he bade farewell to my mother. He left
 us a list of the securities he was taking, and he swore that he would
 come back with his honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him
 would suffer. Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both the
 yacht and he vanished utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he
 and it, with the securities that he had taken with him, were at the
 bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who is a
 business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that some of
 the securities which my father had with him have reappeared on the
 London market. You can imagine our amazement. I spent months in
 trying to trace them, and at last, after many doublings and
 difficulties, I discovered that the original seller had been Captain
 Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.

 "Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he had
 been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the Arctic
 seas at the very time when my father was crossing to Norway. The
 autumn of that year was a stormy one, and there was a long succession
 of southerly gales. My father's yacht may well have been blown to the
 north, and there met by Captain Peter Carey's ship. If that were so,
 what had become of my father? In any case, if I could prove from
 Peter Carey's evidence how these securities came on the market it
 would be a proof that my father had not sold them, and that he had no
 view to personal profit when he took them.

 "I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain, but
 it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I read at the
 inquest a description of his cabin, in which it stated that the old
 log-books of his vessel were preserved in it. It struck me that if I
 could see what occurred in the month of August, 1883, on board the
 Sea Unicorn, I might settle the mystery of my father's fate. I tried
 last night to get at these log-books, but was unable to open the
 door. To-night I tried again, and succeeded; but I find that the
 pages which deal with that month have been torn from the book. It was
 at that moment I found myself a prisoner in your hands."

 "Is that all?" asked Hopkins.

 "Yes, that is all." His eyes shifted as he said it.

 "You have nothing else to tell us?"

 He hesitated.

 "No; there is nothing."

 "You have not been here before last night?"

 "No."

 "Then how do you account for that?" cried Hopkins, as he held up the
 damning note-book, with the initials of our prisoner on the first
 leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.

 The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands and
 trembled all over.

 "Where did you get it?" he groaned. "I did not know. I thought I had
 lost it at the hotel."

 "That is enough," said Hopkins, sternly. "Whatever else you have to
 say you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to the
 police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to you and
 to your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns out your
 presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the case to this
 successful issue without you; but none the less I am very grateful.
 Rooms have been reserved for you at the Brambletye Hotel, so we can
 all walk down to the village together."

 "Well, Watson, what do you think of it?" asked Holmes, as we
 travelled back next morning.

 "I can see that you are not satisfied."

 "Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same time
 Stanley Hopkins's methods do not commend themselves to me. I am
 disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better things from
 him. One should always look for a possible alternative and provide
 against it. It is the first rule of criminal investigation."

 "What, then, is the alternative?"

 "The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It may
 give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow it to the
 end."

 Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He snatched
 one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a triumphant chuckle of
 laughter.

 "Excellent, Watson. The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
 forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: 'Sumner, Shipping
 Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten to-morrow
 morning.--Basil.' That's my name in those parts. The other is:
 'Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46, Lord Street, Brixton. Come breakfast
 to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if unable to
 come.--Sherlock Holmes.' There, Watson, this infernal case has
 haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it completely from my
 presence. To-morrow I trust that we shall hear the last of it for
 ever."

 Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and we
 sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson had
 prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at his success.

 "You really think that your solution must be correct?" asked Holmes.

 "I could not imagine a more complete case."

 "It did not seem to me conclusive."

 "You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?"

 "Does your explanation cover every point?"

 "Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye
 Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of
 playing golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get out
 when he liked. That very night he went down to Woodman's Lee, saw
 Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him with the
 harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had done, he fled out of the hut,
 dropping the note-book which he had brought with him in order to
 question Peter Carey about these different securities. You may have
 observed that some of them were marked with ticks, and the
 others--the great majority--were not. Those which are ticked have
 been traced on the London market; but the others presumably were
 still in the possession of Carey, and young Neligan, according to his
 own account, was anxious to recover them in order to do the right
 thing by his father's creditors. After his flight he did not dare to
 approach the hut again for some time; but at last he forced himself
 to do so in order to obtain the information which he needed. Surely
 that is all simple and obvious?"

 Holmes smiled and shook his head.

 "It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is that
 it is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a harpoon
 through a body? No? Tut, tut, my dear sir, you must really pay
 attention to these details. My friend Watson could tell you that I
 spent a whole morning in that exercise. It is no easy matter, and
 requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow was delivered with
 such violence that the head of the weapon sank deep into the wall. Do
 you imagine that this anaemic youth was capable of so frightful an
 assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed in rum and water with Black
 Peter in the dead of the night? Was it his profile that was seen on
 the blind two nights before? No, no, Hopkins; it is another and a
 more formidable person for whom we must seek."

 The detective's face had grown longer and longer during Holmes's
 speech. His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him. But
 he would not abandon his position without a struggle.

 "You can't deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes. The
 book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to satisfy
 a jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it. Besides, Mr.
 Holmes, I have laid my hand upon my man. As to this terrible person
 of yours, where is he?"

 "I rather fancy that he is on the stair," said Holmes, serenely. "I
 think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver where you
 can reach it." He rose, and laid a written paper upon a side-table.
 "Now we are ready," said he.

 There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs.
 Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring for
 Captain Basil.

 "Show them in one by one," said Holmes.

 The first who entered was a little ribston-pippin of a man, with
 ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a
 letter from his pocket.

 "What name?" he asked.

 "James Lancaster."

 "I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a
 sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait there
 for a few minutes."

 The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and
 sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his
 dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.

 The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce
 bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two bold
 dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted, overhung
 eyebrows. He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning his cap round
 in his hands.

 "Your name?" asked Holmes.

 "Patrick Cairns."

 "Harpooner?"

 "Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages."

 "Dundee, I suppose?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "And ready to start with an exploring ship?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "What wages?"

 "Eight pounds a month."

 "Could you start at once?"

 "As soon as I get my kit."

 "Have you your papers?"

 "Yes, sir." He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his pocket.
 Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

 "You are just the man I want," said he. "Here's the agreement on the
 side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled."

 The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.

 "Shall I sign here?" he asked, stooping over the table.

 Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his neck.

 "This will do," said he.

 I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The next
 instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground together. He
 was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with the handcuffs
 which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his wrists, he would have
 very quickly overpowered my friend had Hopkins and I not rushed to
 his rescue. Only when I pressed the cold muzzle of the revolver to
 his temple did he at last understand that resistance was vain. We
 lashed his ankles with cord and rose breathless from the struggle.

 "I must really apologize, Hopkins," said Sherlock Holmes; "I fear
 that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the rest of
 your breakfast all the better, will you not, for the thought that you
 have brought your case to a triumphant conclusion."

 Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

 "I don't know what to say, Mr. Holmes," he blurted out at last, with
 a very red face. "It seems to me that I have been making a fool of
 myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I should never have
 forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the master. Even now I see
 what you have done, but I don't know how you did it, or what it
 signifies."

 "Well, well," said Holmes, good-humouredly. "We all learn by
 experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never lose
 sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young Neligan that
 you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the true murderer of
 Peter Carey."

 The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.

 "See here, mister," said he, "I make no complaint of being
 man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by
 their right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey; I say I killed
 Peter Carey, and there's all the difference. Maybe you don't believe
 what I say. Maybe you think I am just slinging you a yarn."

 "Not at all," said Holmes. "Let us hear what you have to say."

 "It's soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I knew
 Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a harpoon
 through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me. That's how he
 died. You can call it murder. Anyhow, I'd as soon die with a rope
 round my neck as with Black Peter's knife in my heart."

 "How came you there?" asked Holmes.

 "I'll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little so as I
 can speak easy. It was in '83 that it happened--August of that year.
 Peter Carey was master of the Sea Unicorn, and I was spare harpooner.
 We were coming out of the ice-pack on our way home, with head winds
 and a week's southerly gale, when we picked up a little craft that
 had been blown north. There was one man on her--a landsman. The crew
 had thought she would founder, and had made for the Norwegian coast
 in the dinghy. I guess they were all drowned. Well, we took him on
 board, this man, and he and the skipper had some long talks in the
 cabin. All the baggage we took off with him was one tin box. So far
 as I know, the man's name was never mentioned, and on the second
 night he disappeared as if he had never been. It was given out that
 he had either thrown himself overboard or fallen overboard in the
 heavy weather that we were having. Only one man knew what had
 happened to him, and that was me, for with my own eyes I saw the
 skipper tip up his heels and put him over the rail in the middle
 watch of a dark night, two days before we sighted the Shetland
 lights.

 "Well, I kept my knowledge to myself and waited to see what would
 come of it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and
 nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by an accident, and it
 was nobody's business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave up
 the sea, and it was long years before I could find where he was. I
 guessed that he had done the deed for the sake of what was in that
 tin box, and that he could afford now to pay me well for keeping my
 mouth shut.

 "I found out where he was through a sailor man that had met him in
 London, and down I went to squeeze him. The first night he was
 reasonable enough, and was ready to give me what would make me free
 of the sea for life. We were to fix it all two nights later. When I
 came I found him three parts drunk and in a vile temper. We sat down
 and we drank and we yarned about old times, but the more he drank the
 less I liked the look on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the
 wall, and I thought I might need it before I was through. Then at
 last he broke out at me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his
 eyes and a great clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to get it
 from the sheath before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a
 yell he gave; and his face gets between me and my sleep! I stood
 there, with his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a bit; but
 all was quiet, so I took heart once more. I looked round, and there
 was the tin box on a shelf. I had as much right to it as Peter Carey,
 anyhow, so I took it with me and left the hut. Like a fool I left my
 baccy-pouch upon the table.

 "Now I'll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had hardly
 got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid among the
 bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut, gave a cry as
 if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he could run until
 he was out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted is more than I can
 tell. For my part I walked ten miles, got a train at Tunbridge Wells,
 and so reached London, and no one the wiser.

 "Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money in
 it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I had lost
 my hold on Black Peter, and was stranded in London without a
 shilling. There was only my trade left. I saw these advertisements
 about harpooners and high wages, so I went to the shipping agents,
 and they sent me here. That's all I know, and I say again that if I
 killed Black Peter the law should give me thanks, for I saved them
 the price of a hempen rope."

 "A very clear statement," said Holmes, rising and lighting his pipe.
 "I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in conveying your
 prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not well adapted for a
 cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too large a proportion of our
 carpet."

 "Mr. Holmes," said Hopkins, "I do not know how to express my
 gratitude. Even now I do not understand how you attained this
 result."

 "Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the
 beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this note-book it
 might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I heard
 pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the skill in the
 use of the harpoon, the rum and water, the seal-skin tobacco-pouch,
 with the coarse tobacco--all these pointed to a seaman, and one who
 had been a whaler. I was convinced that the initials 'P.C.' upon the
 pouch were a coincidence, and not those of Peter Carey, since he
 seldom smoked, and no pipe was found in his cabin. You remember that
 I asked whether whisky and brandy were in the cabin. You said they
 were. How many landsmen are there who would drink rum when they could
 get these other spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman."

 "And how did you find him?"

 "My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it were a
 seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on the Sea
 Unicorn. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no other ship. I
 spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the end of that time I
 had ascertained the names of the crew of the Sea Unicorn in 1883.
 When I found Patrick Cairns among the harpooners my research was
 nearing its end. I argued that the man was probably in London, and
 that he would desire to leave the country for a time. I therefore
 spent some days in the East-end, devised an Arctic expedition, put
 forth tempting terms for harpooners who would serve under Captain
 Basil--and behold the result!"

 "Wonderful!" cried Hopkins. "Wonderful!"

 "You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as possible,"
 said Holmes. "I confess that I think you owe him some apology. The
 tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, the securities which
 Peter Carey has sold are lost for ever. There's the cab, Hopkins, and
 you can remove your man. If you want me for the trial, my address and
 that of Watson will be somewhere in Norway--I'll send particulars
 later."






               THE ADVENTURE OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON

 It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and yet
 it is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time, even
 with the utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been
 impossible to make the facts public; but now the principal person
 concerned is beyond the reach of human law, and with due suppression
 the story may be told in such fashion as to injure no one. It records
 an absolutely unique experience in the career both of Mr. Sherlock
 Holmes and of myself. The reader will excuse me if I conceal the date
 or any other fact by which he might trace the actual occurrence.

 We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I, and had
 returned about six o'clock on a cold, frosty winter's evening. As
 Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card on the table. He
 glanced at it, and then, with an ejaculation of disgust, threw it on
 the floor. I picked it up and read:--

                                    
                         Charles Augustus Milverton,
                                    
                              Appledore Towers,
                                    
                                 Hampstead.
                                    
                                   Agent.
                                     

 "Who is he?" I asked.

 "The worst man in London," Holmes answered, as he sat down and
 stretched his legs before the fire. "Is anything on the back of the
 card?"

 I turned it over.

 "Will call at 6.30--C.A.M.," I read.

 "Hum! He's about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking sensation,
 Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the Zoo and see the
 slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their deadly eyes and
 wicked, flattened faces? Well, that's how Milverton impresses me.
 I've had to do with fifty murderers in my career, but the worst of
 them never gave me the repulsion which I have for this fellow. And
 yet I can't get out of doing business with him--indeed, he is here at
 my invitation."

 "But who is he?"

 "I'll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers.
 Heaven help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and
 reputation come into the power of Milverton. With a smiling face and
 a heart of marble he will squeeze and squeeze until he has drained
 them dry. The fellow is a genius in his way, and would have made his
 mark in some more savoury trade. His method is as follows: He allows
 it to be known that he is prepared to pay very high sums for letters
 which compromise people of wealth or position. He receives these
 wares not only from treacherous valets or maids, but frequently from
 genteel ruffians who have gained the confidence and affection of
 trusting women. He deals with no niggard hand. I happen to know that
 he paid seven hundred pounds to a footman for a note two lines in
 length, and that the ruin of a noble family was the result.
 Everything which is in the market goes to Milverton, and there are
 hundreds in this great city who turn white at his name. No one knows
 where his grip may fall, for he is far too rich and far too cunning
 to work from hand to mouth. He will hold a card back for years in
 order to play it at the moment when the stake is best worth winning.
 I have said that he is the worst man in London, and I would ask you
 how could one compare the ruffian who in hot blood bludgeons his mate
 with this man, who methodically and at his leisure tortures the soul
 and wrings the nerves in order to add to his already swollen
 money-bags?"

 I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of feeling.

 "But surely," said I, "the fellow must be within the grasp of the
 law?"

 "Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it profit a
 woman, for example, to get him a few months' imprisonment if her own
 ruin must immediately follow? His victims dare not hit back. If ever
 he blackmailed an innocent person, then, indeed, we should have him;
 but he is as cunning as the Evil One. No, no; we must find other ways
 to fight him."

 "And why is he here?"

 "Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in my
 hands. It is the Lady Eva Brackwell, the most beautiful debutante of
 last season. She is to be married in a fortnight to the Earl of
 Dovercourt. This fiend has several imprudent letters--imprudent,
 Watson, nothing worse--which were written to an impecunious young
 squire in the country. They would suffice to break off the match.
 Milverton will send the letters to the Earl unless a large sum of
 money is paid him. I have been commissioned to meet him, and--to make
 the best terms I can."

 At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street below.
 Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the brilliant lamps
 gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble chestnuts. A footman
 opened the door, and a small, stout man in a shaggy astrachan
 overcoat descended. A minute later he was in the room.

 Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large,
 intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual frozen
 smile, and two keen grey eyes, which gleamed brightly from behind
 broad, golden-rimmed glasses. There was something of Mr. Pickwick's
 benevolence in his appearance, marred only by the insincerity of the
 fixed smile and by the hard glitter of those restless and penetrating
 eyes. His voice was as smooth and suave as his countenance, as he
 advanced with a plump little hand extended, murmuring his regret for
 having missed us at his first visit. Holmes disregarded the
 outstretched hand and looked at him with a face of granite.
 Milverton's smile broadened; he shrugged his shoulders, removed his
 overcoat, folded it with great deliberation over the back of a chair,
 and then took a seat.

 "This gentleman?" said he, with a wave in my direction. "Is it
 discreet? Is it right?"

 "Dr. Watson is my friend and partner."

 "Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only in your client's interests that I
 protested. The matter is so very delicate--"

 "Dr. Watson has already heard of it."

 "Then we can proceed to business. You say that you are acting for
 Lady Eva. Has she empowered you to accept my terms?"

 "What are your terms?"

 "Seven thousand pounds."

 "And the alternative?"

 "My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it; but if the money is
 not paid on the 14th there certainly will be no marriage on the
 18th." His insufferable smile was more complacent than ever.

 Holmes thought for a little.

 "You appear to me," he said, at last, "to be taking matters too much
 for granted. I am, of course, familiar with the contents of these
 letters. My client will certainly do what I may advise. I shall
 counsel her to tell her future husband the whole story and to trust
 to his generosity."

 Milverton chuckled.

 "You evidently do not know the Earl," said he.

 From the baffled look upon Holmes's face I could see clearly that he
 did.

 "What harm is there in the letters?" he asked.

 "They are sprightly--very sprightly," Milverton answered. "The lady
 was a charming correspondent. But I can assure you that the Earl of
 Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them. However, since you think
 otherwise, we will let it rest at that. It is purely a matter of
 business. If you think that it is in the best interests of your
 client that these letters should be placed in the hands of the Earl,
 then you would indeed be foolish to pay so large a sum of money to
 regain them." He rose and seized his astrachan coat.

 Holmes was grey with anger and mortification.

 "Wait a little," he said. "You go too fast. We would certainly make
 every effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter."

 Milverton relapsed into his chair.

 "I was sure that you would see it in that light," he purred.

 "At the same time," Holmes continued, "Lady Eva is not a wealthy
 woman. I assure you that two thousand pounds would be a drain upon
 her resources, and that the sum you name is utterly beyond her power.
 I beg, therefore, that you will moderate your demands, and that you
 will return the letters at the price I indicate, which is, I assure
 you, the highest that you can get."

 Milverton's smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.

 "I am aware that what you say is true about the lady's resources,"
 said he. "At the same time, you must admit that the occasion of a
 lady's marriage is a very suitable time for her friends and relatives
 to make some little effort upon her behalf. They may hesitate as to
 an acceptable wedding present. Let me assure them that this little
 bundle of letters would give more joy than all the candelabra and
 butter-dishes in London."

 "It is impossible," said Holmes.

 "Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!" cried Milverton, taking out a
 bulky pocket-book. "I cannot help thinking that ladies are
 ill-advised in not making an effort. Look at this!" He held up a
 little note with a coat-of-arms upon the envelope. "That belongs
 to--well, perhaps it is hardly fair to tell the name until to-morrow
 morning. But at that time it will be in the hands of the lady's
 husband. And all because she will not find a beggarly sum which she
 could get by turning her diamonds into paste. It is such a pity. Now,
 you remember the sudden end of the engagement between the Honourable
 Miss Miles and Colonel Dorking? Only two days before the wedding
 there was a paragraph in the Morning Post to say that it was all off.
 And why? It is almost incredible, but the absurd sum of twelve
 hundred pounds would have settled the whole question. Is it not
 pitiful? And here I find you, a man of sense, boggling about terms
 when your client's future and honour are at stake. You surprise me,
 Mr. Holmes."

 "What I say is true," Holmes answered. "The money cannot be found.
 Surely it is better for you to take the substantial sum which I offer
 than to ruin this woman's career, which can profit you in no way?"

 "There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes. An exposure would profit me
 indirectly to a considerable extent. I have eight or ten similar
 cases maturing. If it was circulated among them that I had made a
 severe example of the Lady Eva I should find all of them much more
 open to reason. You see my point?"

 Holmes sprang from his chair.

 "Get behind him, Watson! Don't let him out! Now, sir, let us see the
 contents of that note-book."

 Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side of the room, and
 stood with his back against the wall.

 "Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes," he said, turning the front of his coat and
 exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected from the
 inside pocket. "I have been expecting you to do something original.
 This has been done so often, and what good has ever come from it? I
 assure you that I am armed to the teeth, and I am perfectly prepared
 to use my weapons, knowing that the law will support me. Besides,
 your supposition that I would bring the letters here in a note-book
 is entirely mistaken. I would do nothing so foolish. And now,
 gentlemen, I have one or two little interviews this evening, and it
 is a long drive to Hampstead." He stepped forward, took up his coat,
 laid his hand on his revolver, and turned to the door. I picked up a
 chair, but Holmes shook his head and I laid it down again. With bow,
 a smile, and a twinkle Milverton was out of the room, and a few
 moments after we heard the slam of the carriage door and the rattle
 of the wheels as he drove away.

 Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his
 trouser pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon
 the glowing embers. For half an hour he was silent and still. Then,
 with the gesture of a man who has taken his decision, he sprang to
 his feet and passed into his bedroom. A little later a rakish young
 workman with a goatee beard and a swagger lit his clay pipe at the
 lamp before descending into the street. "I'll be back some time,
 Watson," said he, and vanished into the night. I understood that he
 had opened his campaign against Charles Augustus Milverton; but I
 little dreamed the strange shape which that campaign was destined to
 take.

 For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this attire, but
 beyond a remark that his time was spent at Hampstead, and that it was
 not wasted, I knew nothing of what he was doing. At last, however, on
 a wild, tempestuous evening, when the wind screamed and rattled
 against the windows, he returned from his last expedition, and having
 removed his disguise he sat before the fire and laughed heartily in
 his silent inward fashion.

 "You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?"

 "No, indeed!"

 "You'll be interested to hear that I am engaged."

 "My dear fellow! I congrat--"

 "To Milverton's housemaid."

 "Good heavens, Holmes!"

 "I wanted information, Watson."

 "Surely you have gone too far?"

 "It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising business,
 Escott by name. I have walked out with her each evening, and I have
 talked with her. Good heavens, those talks! However, I have got all I
 wanted. I know Milverton's house as I know the palm of my hand."

 "But the girl, Holmes?"

 He shrugged his shoulders.

 "You can't help it, my dear Watson. You must play your cards as best
 you can when such a stake is on the table. However, I rejoice to say
 that I have a hated rival who will certainly cut me out the instant
 that my back is turned. What a splendid night it is!"

 "You like this weather?"

 "It suits my purpose. Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton's house
 to-night."

 I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the words,
 which were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated resolution. As a
 flash of lightning in the night shows up in an instant every detail
 of a wide landscape, so at one glance I seemed to see every possible
 result of such an action--the detection, the capture, the honoured
 career ending in irreparable failure and disgrace, my friend himself
 lying at the mercy of the odious Milverton.

 "For Heaven's sake, Holmes, think what you are doing," I cried.

 "My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration. I am never
 precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and indeed
 so dangerous a course if any other were possible. Let us look at the
 matter clearly and fairly. I suppose that you will admit that the
 action is morally justifiable, though technically criminal. To burgle
 his house is no more than to forcibly take his pocket-book--an action
 in which you were prepared to aid me."

 I turned it over in my mind.

 "Yes," I said; "it is morally justifiable so long as our object is to
 take no articles save those which are used for an illegal purpose."

 "Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable I have only to consider the
 question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should not lay much
 stress upon this when a lady is in most desperate need of his help?"

 "You will be in such a false position."

 "Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way of
 regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the money, and
 there are none of her people in whom she could confide. To-morrow is
 the last day of grace, and unless we can get the letters to-night
 this villain will be as good as his word and will bring about her
 ruin. I must, therefore, abandon my client to her fate or I must play
 this last card. Between ourselves, Watson, it's a sporting duel
 between this fellow Milverton and me. He had, as you saw, the best of
 the first exchanges; but my self-respect and my reputation are
 concerned to fight it to a finish."

 "Well, I don't like it; but I suppose it must be," said I. "When do
 we start?"

 "You are not coming."

 "Then you are not going," said I. "I give you my word of honour--and
 I never broke it in my life--that I will take a cab straight to the
 police-station and give you away unless you let me share this
 adventure with you."

 "You can't help me."

 "How do you know that? You can't tell what may happen. Anyway, my
 resolution is taken. Other people beside you have self-respect and
 even reputations."

 Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped me on
 the shoulder.

 "Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared the same room
 for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the
 same cell. You know, Watson, I don't mind confessing to you that I
 have always had an idea that I would have made a highly efficient
 criminal. This is the chance of my lifetime in that direction. See
 here!" He took a neat little leather case out of a drawer, and
 opening it he exhibited a number of shining instruments. "This is a
 first-class, up-to-date burgling kit, with nickel-plated jemmy,
 diamond-tipped glass-cutter, adaptable keys, and every modern
 improvement which the march of civilization demands. Here, too, is my
 dark lantern. Everything is in order. Have you a pair of silent
 shoes?"

 "I have rubber-soled tennis shoes."

 "Excellent. And a mask?"

 "I can make a couple out of black silk."

 "I can see that you have a strong natural turn for this sort of
 thing. Very good; do you make the masks. We shall have some cold
 supper before we start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we shall
 drive as far as Church Row. It is a quarter of an hour's walk from
 there to Appledore Towers. We shall be at work before midnight.
 Milverton is a heavy sleeper and retires punctually at ten-thirty.
 With any luck we should be back here by two, with the Lady Eva's
 letters in my pocket."

 Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear to be
 two theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford Street we picked up a
 hansom and drove to an address in Hampstead. Here we paid off our
 cab, and with our great-coats buttoned up, for it was bitterly cold
 and the wind seemed to blow through us, we walked along the edge of
 the Heath.

 "It's a business that needs delicate treatment," said Holmes. "These
 documents are contained in a safe in the fellow's study, and the
 study is the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other hand, like
 all these stout, little men who do themselves well, he is a plethoric
 sleeper. Agatha--that's my fiancee--says it is a joke in the
 servants' hall that it's impossible to wake the master. He has a
 secretary who is devoted to his interests and never budges from the
 study all day. That's why we are going at night. Then he has a beast
 of a dog which roams the garden. I met Agatha late the last two
 evenings, and she locks the brute up so as to give me a clear run.
 This is the house, this big one in its own grounds. Through the
 gate--now to the right among the laurels. We might put on our masks
 here, I think. You see, there is not a glimmer of light in any of the
 windows, and everything is working splendidly."

 With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two of the
 most truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent, gloomy
 house. A sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of it, lined
 by several windows and two doors.

 "That's his bedroom," Holmes whispered. "This door opens straight
 into the study. It would suit us best, but it is bolted as well as
 locked, and we should make too much noise getting in. Come round
 here. There's a greenhouse which opens into the drawing-room."

 The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass and turned
 the key from the inside. An instant afterwards he had closed the door
 behind us, and we had become felons in the eyes of the law. The
 thick, warm air of the conservatory and the rich, choking fragrance
 of exotic plants took us by the throat. He seized my hand in the
 darkness and led me swiftly past banks of shrubs which brushed
 against our faces. Holmes had remarkable powers, carefully
 cultivated, of seeing in the dark. Still holding my hand in one of
 his he opened a door, and I was vaguely conscious that we had entered
 a large room in which a cigar had been smoked not long before. He
 felt his way among the furniture, opened another door, and closed it
 behind us. Putting out my hand I felt several coats hanging from the
 wall, and I understood that I was in a passage. We passed along it,
 and Holmes very gently opened a door upon the right-hand side.
 Something rushed out at us and my heart sprang into my mouth, but I
 could have laughed when I realized that it was the cat. A fire was
 burning in this new room, and again the air was heavy with tobacco
 smoke. Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to follow, and then
 very gently closed the door. We were in Milverton's study, and a
 portiere at the farther side showed the entrance to his bedroom.

 It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near the door
 I saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was unnecessary, even
 if it had been safe, to turn it on. At one side of the fireplace was
 a heavy curtain, which covered the bay window we had seen from
 outside. On the other side was the door which communicated with the
 veranda. A desk stood in the centre, with a turning chair of shining
 red leather. Opposite was a large bookcase, with a marble bust of
 Athene on the top. In the corner between the bookcase and the wall
 there stood a tall green safe, the firelight flashing back from the
 polished brass knobs upon its face. Holmes stole across and looked at
 it. Then he crept to the door of the bedroom, and stood with slanting
 head listening intently. No sound came from within. Meanwhile it had
 struck me that it would be wise to secure our retreat through the
 outer door, so I examined it. To my amazement it was neither locked
 nor bolted! I touched Holmes on the arm, and he turned his masked
 face in that direction. I saw him start, and he was evidently as
 surprised as I.

 "I don't like it," he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear. "I
 can't quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose."

 "Can I do anything?"

 "Yes; stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the
 inside, and we can get away as we came. If they come the other way,
 we can get through the door if our job is done, or hide behind these
 window curtains if it is not. Do you understand?"

 I nodded and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had passed
 away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had ever enjoyed
 when we were the defenders of the law instead of its defiers. The
 high object of our mission, the consciousness that it was unselfish
 and chivalrous, the villainous character of our opponent, all added
 to the sporting interest of the adventure. Far from feeling guilty, I
 rejoiced and exulted in our dangers. With a glow of admiration I
 watched Holmes unrolling his case of instruments and choosing his
 tool with the calm, scientific accuracy of a surgeon who performs a
 delicate operation. I knew that the opening of safes was a particular
 hobby with him, and I understood the joy which it gave him to be
 confronted with this green and gold monster, the dragon which held in
 its maw the reputations of many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs of
 his dress-coat--he had placed his overcoat on a chair--Holmes laid
 out two drills, a jemmy, and several skeleton keys. I stood at the
 centre door with my eyes glancing at each of the others, ready for
 any emergency; though, indeed, my plans were somewhat vague as to
 what I should do if we were interrupted. For half an hour Holmes
 worked with concentrated energy, laying down one tool, picking up
 another, handling each with the strength and delicacy of the trained
 mechanic. Finally I heard a click, the broad green door swung open,
 and inside I had a glimpse of a number of paper packets, each tied,
 sealed, and inscribed. Holmes picked one out, but it was hard to read
 by the flickering fire, and he drew out his little dark lantern, for
 it was too dangerous, with Milverton in the next room, to switch on
 the electric light. Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently, and
 then in an instant he had swung the door of the safe to, picked up
 his coat, stuffed his tools into the pockets, and darted behind the
 window curtain, motioning me to do the same.

 It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had alarmed
 his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within the house. A
 door slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull murmur broke
 itself into the measured thud of heavy footsteps rapidly approaching.
 They were in the passage outside the room. They paused at the door.
 The door opened. There was a sharp snick as the electric light was
 turned on. The door closed once more, and the pungent reek of a
 strong cigar was borne to our nostrils. Then the footsteps continued
 backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, within a few yards of
 us. Finally, there was a creak from a chair, and the footsteps
 ceased. Then a key clicked in a lock and I heard the rustle of
 papers.

 So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the
 division of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From the
 pressure of Holmes's shoulder against mine I knew that he was sharing
 my observations. Right in front of us, and almost within our reach,
 was the broad, rounded back of Milverton. It was evident that we had
 entirely miscalculated his movements, that he had never been to his
 bedroom, but that he had been sitting up in some smoking or billiard
 room in the farther wing of the house, the windows of which we had
 not seen. His broad, grizzled head, with its shining patch of
 baldness, was in the immediate foreground of our vision. He was
 leaning far back in the red leather chair, his legs outstretched, a
 long black cigar projecting at an angle from his mouth. He wore a
 semi-military smoking jacket, claret-coloured, with a black velvet
 collar. In his hand he held a long legal document, which he was
 reading in an indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco smoke from
 his lips as he did so. There was no promise of a speedy departure in
 his composed bearing and his comfortable attitude.

 I felt Holmes's hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring shake,
 as if to say that the situation was within his powers and that he was
 easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had seen what was only
 too obvious from my position, that the door of the safe was
 imperfectly closed, and that Milverton might at any moment observe
 it. In my own mind I had determined that if I were sure, from the
 rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught his eye, I would at once
 spring out, throw my great-coat over his head, pinion him, and leave
 the rest to Holmes. But Milverton never looked up. He was languidly
 interested by the papers in his hand, and page after page was turned
 as he followed the argument of the lawyer. At least, I thought, when
 he has finished the document and the cigar he will go to his room;
 but before he had reached the end of either there came a remarkable
 development which turned our thoughts into quite another channel.

 Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch, and
 once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of impatience.
 The idea, however, that he might have an appointment at so strange an
 hour never occurred to me until a faint sound reached my ears from
 the veranda outside. Milverton dropped his papers and sat rigid in
 his chair. The sound was repeated, and then there came a gentle tap
 at the door. Milverton rose and opened it.

 "Well," said he, curtly, "you are nearly half an hour late."

 So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the nocturnal
 vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a woman's dress. I
 had closed the slit between the curtains as Milverton's face had
 turned in our direction, but now I ventured very carefully to open it
 once more. He had resumed his seat, the cigar still projecting at an
 insolent angle from the corner of his mouth. In front of him, in the
 full glare of the electric light, there stood a tall, slim, dark
 woman, a veil over her face, a mantle drawn round her chin. Her
 breath came quick and fast, and every inch of the lithe figure was
 quivering with strong emotion.

 "Well," said Milverton, "you've made me lose a good night's rest, my
 dear. I hope you'll prove worth it. You couldn't come any other
 time--eh?"

 The woman shook her head.

 "Well, if you couldn't you couldn't. If the Countess is a hard
 mistress you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless the
 girl, what are you shivering about? That's right! Pull yourself
 together! Now, let us get down to business." He took a note from the
 drawer of his desk. "You say that you have five letters which
 compromise the Countess d'Albert. You want to sell them. I want to
 buy them. So far so good. It only remains to fix a price. I should
 want to inspect the letters, of course. If they are really good
 specimens--Great heavens, is it you?"

 The woman without a word had raised her veil and dropped the mantle
 from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face which
 confronted Milverton, a face with a curved nose, strong, dark
 eyebrows shading hard, glittering eyes, and a straight, thin-lipped
 mouth set in a dangerous smile.

 "It is I," she said; "the woman whose life you have ruined."

 Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. "You were so very
 obstinate," said he. "Why did you drive me to such extremities? I
 assure you I wouldn't hurt a fly of my own accord, but every man has
 his business, and what was I to do? I put the price well within your
 means. You would not pay."

 "So you sent the letters to my husband, and he--the noblest gentleman
 that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy to lace--he
 broke his gallant heart and died. You remember that last night when I
 came through that door I begged and prayed you for mercy, and you
 laughed in my face as you are trying to laugh now, only your coward
 heart cannot keep your lips from twitching? Yes, you never thought to
 see me here again, but it was that night which taught me how I could
 meet you face to face, and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have
 you to say?"

 "Don't imagine that you can bully me," said he, rising to his feet.
 "I have only to raise my voice, and I could call my servants and have
 you arrested. But I will make allowance for your natural anger. Leave
 the room at once as you came, and I will say no more."

 The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same
 deadly smile on her thin lips.

 "You will ruin no more lives as you ruined mine. You will wring no
 more hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of a poisonous
 thing. Take that, you hound, and that!--and that!--and that!"

 She had drawn a little, gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel after
 barrel into Milverton's body, the muzzle within two feet of his shirt
 front. He shrank away and then fell forward upon the table, coughing
 furiously and clawing among the papers. Then he staggered to his
 feet, received another shot, and rolled upon the floor. "You've done
 me," he cried, and lay still. The woman looked at him intently and
 ground her heel into his upturned face. She looked again, but there
 was no sound or movement. I heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew
 into the heated room, and the avenger was gone.

 No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his fate;
 but as the woman poured bullet after bullet into Milverton's
 shrinking body I was about to spring out, when I felt Holmes's cold,
 strong grasp upon my wrist. I understood the whole argument of that
 firm, restraining grip--that it was no affair of ours; that justice
 had overtaken a villain; that we had our own duties and our own
 objects which were not to be lost sight of. But hardly had the woman
 rushed from the room when Holmes, with swift, silent steps, was over
 at the other door. He turned the key in the lock. At the same instant
 we heard voices in the house and the sound of hurrying feet. The
 revolver shots had roused the household. With perfect coolness Holmes
 slipped across to the safe, filled his two arms with bundles of
 letters, and poured them all into the fire. Again and again he did
 it, until the safe was empty. Someone turned the handle and beat upon
 the outside of the door. Holmes looked swiftly round. The letter
 which had been the messenger of death for Milverton lay, all mottled
 with his blood, upon the table. Holmes tossed it in among the blazing
 papers. Then he drew the key from the outer door, passed through
 after me, and locked it on the outside. "This way, Watson," said he;
 "we can scale the garden wall in this direction."

 I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so swiftly.
 Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. The front door
 was open, and figures were rushing down the drive. The whole garden
 was alive with people, and one fellow raised a view-halloa as we
 emerged from the veranda and followed hard at our heels. Holmes
 seemed to know the ground perfectly, and he threaded his way swiftly
 among a plantation of small trees, I close at his heels, and our
 foremost pursuer panting behind us. It was a six-foot wall which
 barred our path, but he sprang to the top and over. As I did the same
 I felt the hand of the man behind me grab at my ankle; but I kicked
 myself free and scrambled over a glass-strewn coping. I fell upon my
 face among some bushes; but Holmes had me on my feet in an instant,
 and together we dashed away across the huge expanse of Hampstead
 Heath. We had run two miles, I suppose, before Holmes at last halted
 and listened intently. All was absolute silence behind us. We had
 shaken off our pursuers and were safe.

 We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day after
 the remarkable experience which I have recorded when Mr. Lestrade, of
 Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive, was ushered into our
 modest sitting-room.

 "Good morning, Mr. Holmes," said he; "good morning. May I ask if you
 are very busy just now?"

 "Not too busy to listen to you."

 "I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand, you
 might care to assist us in a most remarkable case which occurred only
 last night at Hampstead."

 "Dear me!" said Holmes. "What was that?"

 "A murder--a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know how keen you
 are upon these things, and I would take it as a great favour if you
 would step down to Appledore Towers and give us the benefit of your
 advice. It is no ordinary crime. We have had our eyes upon this Mr.
 Milverton for some time, and, between ourselves, he was a bit of a
 villain. He is known to have held papers which he used for
 blackmailing purposes. These papers have all been burned by the
 murderers. No article of value was taken, as it is probable that the
 criminals were men of good position, whose sole object was to prevent
 social exposure."

 "Criminals!" said Holmes. "Plural!"

 "Yes, there were two of them. They were, as nearly as possible,
 captured red-handed. We have their foot-marks, we have their
 description; it's ten to one that we trace them. The first fellow was
 a bit too active, but the second was caught by the under-gardener and
 only got away after a struggle. He was a middle-sized, strongly-built
 man--square jaw, thick neck, moustache, a mask over his eyes."

 "That's rather vague," said Sherlock Holmes. "Why, it might be a
 description of Watson!"

 "It's true," said the inspector, with much amusement. "It might be a
 description of Watson."

 "Well, I am afraid I can't help you, Lestrade," said Holmes. "The
 fact is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him one
 of the most dangerous men in London, and that I think there are
 certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to
 some extent, justify private revenge. No, it's no use arguing. I have
 made up my mind. My sympathies are with the criminals rather than
 with the victim, and I will not handle this case."

 Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had
 witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most
 thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant eyes
 and his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to recall
 something to his memory. We were in the middle of our lunch when he
 suddenly sprang to his feet. "By Jove, Watson; I've got it!" he
 cried. "Take your hat! Come with me!" He hurried at his top speed
 down Baker Street and along Oxford Street, until we had almost
 reached Regent Circus. Here on the left hand there stands a shop
 window filled with photographs of the celebrities and beauties of the
 day. Holmes's eyes fixed themselves upon one of them, and following
 his gaze I saw the picture of a regal and stately lady in Court
 dress, with a high diamond tiara upon her noble head. I looked at
 that delicately-curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight
 mouth, and the strong little chin beneath it. Then I caught my breath
 as I read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman and statesman
 whose wife she had been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and he put his
 finger to his lips as we turned away from the window.






                   THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS

 It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, to
 look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to
 Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all that
 was going on at the police head-quarters. In return for the news
 which Lestrade would bring, Holmes was always ready to listen with
 attention to the details of any case upon which the detective was
 engaged, and was able occasionally, without any active interference,
 to give some hint or suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge and
 experience.

 On this particular evening Lestrade had spoken of the weather and the
 newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully at his
 cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.

 "Anything remarkable on hand?" he asked.

 "Oh, no, Mr. Holmes, nothing very particular."

 "Then tell me about it."

 Lestrade laughed.

 "Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there is something on
 my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business that I hesitated to
 bother you about it. On the other hand, although it is trivial, it is
 undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have a taste for all that is
 out of the common. But in my opinion it comes more in Dr. Watson's
 line than ours."

 "Disease?" said I.

 "Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness too! You wouldn't think there
 was anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred of
 Napoleon the First that he would break any image of him that he could
 see."

 Holmes sank back in his chair.

 "That's no business of mine," said he.

 "Exactly. That's what I said. But then, when the man commits burglary
 in order to break images which are not his own, that brings it away
 from the doctor and on to the policeman."

 Holmes sat up again.

 "Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details."

 Lestrade took out his official note-book and refreshed his memory
 from its pages.

 "The first case reported was four days ago," said he. "It was at the
 shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of pictures and
 statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had left the front shop
 for an instant when he heard a crash, and hurrying in he found a
 plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood with several other works of art
 upon the counter, lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into
 the road, but, although several passers-by declared that they had
 noticed a man run out of the shop, he could neither see anyone nor
 could he find any means of identifying the rascal. It seemed to be
 one of those senseless acts of Hooliganism which occur from time to
 time, and it was reported to the constable on the beat as such. The
 plaster cast was not worth more than a few shillings, and the whole
 affair appeared to be too childish for any particular investigation.

 "The second case, however, was more serious and also more singular.
 It occurred only last night.

 "In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse Hudson's
 shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner, named Dr.
 Barnicot, who has one of the largest practices upon the south side of
 the Thames. His residence and principal consulting-room is at
 Kennington Road, but he has a branch surgery and dispensary at Lower
 Brixton Road, two miles away. This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic
 admirer of Napoleon, and his house is full of books, pictures, and
 relics of the French Emperor. Some little time ago he purchased from
 Morse Hudson two duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of
 Napoleon by the French sculptor, Devine. One of these he placed in
 his hall in the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the
 mantelpiece of the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot
 came down this morning he was astonished to find that his house had
 been burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save
 the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and had been
 dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its splintered
 fragments were discovered."

 Holmes rubbed his hands.

 "This is certainly very novel," said he.

 "I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end yet.
 Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o'clock, and you can
 imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he found that the
 window had been opened in the night, and that the broken pieces of
 his second bust were strewn all over the room. It had been smashed to
 atoms where it stood. In neither case were there any signs which
 could give us a clue as to the criminal or lunatic who had done the
 mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have got the facts."

 "They are singular, not to say grotesque," said Holmes. "May I ask
 whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot's rooms were the exact
 duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse Hudson's shop?"

 "They were taken from the same mould."

 "Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks
 them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering how
 many hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in London,
 it is too much to suppose such a coincidence as that a promiscuous
 iconoclast should chance to begin upon three specimens of the same
 bust."

 "Well, I thought as you do," said Lestrade. "On the other hand, this
 Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of London, and
 these three were the only ones which had been in his shop for years.
 So, although, as you say, there are many hundreds of statues in
 London, it is very probable that these three were the only ones in
 that district. Therefore, a local fanatic would begin with them. What
 do you think, Dr. Watson?"

 "There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania," I answered.
 "There is the condition which the modern French psychologists have
 called the 'idÃ©e fixe,' which may be trifling in character, and
 accompanied by complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read
 deeply about Napoleon, or who had possibly received some hereditary
 family injury through the great war, might conceivably form such an
 idÃ©e fixe and under its influence be capable of any fantastic
 outrage."

 "That won't do, my dear Watson," said Holmes, shaking his head; "for
 no amount of idÃ©e fixe would enable your interesting monomaniac to
 find out where these busts were situated."

 "Well, how do you explain it?"

 "I don't attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a
 certain method in the gentleman's eccentric proceedings. For example,
 in Dr. Barnicot's hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the
 bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery,
 where there was less danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it
 stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, and yet I dare call
 nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my most classic cases
 have had the least promising commencement. You will remember, Watson,
 how the dreadful business of the Abernetty family was first brought
 to my notice by the depth which the parsley had sunk into the butter
 upon a hot day. I can't afford, therefore, to smile at your three
 broken busts, Lestrade, and I shall be very much obliged to you if
 you will let me hear of any fresh developments of so singular a chain
 of events."

 The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and
 an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I was
 still dressing in my bedroom next morning when there was a tap at the
 door and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud:

 "Come instantly, 131, Pitt Street, Kensington.
 "Lestrade."

 "What is it, then?" I asked.

 "Don't know--may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of the
 story of the statues. In that case our friend, the image-breaker, has
 begun operations in another quarter of London. There's coffee on the
 table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door."

 In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwater
 just beside one of the briskest currents of London life. No. 131 was
 one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic
 dwellings. As we drove up we found the railings in front of the house
 lined by a curious crowd. Holmes whistled.

 "By George! it's attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will
 hold the London message-boy. There's a deed of violence indicated in
 that fellow's round shoulders and outstretched neck. What's this,
 Watson? The top steps swilled down and the other ones dry. Footsteps
 enough, anyhow! Well, well, there's Lestrade at the front window, and
 we shall soon know all about it."

 The official received us with a very grave face and showed us into a
 sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated elderly man,
 clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and down. He was
 introduced to us as the owner of the house--Mr. Horace Harker, of the
 Central Press Syndicate.

 "It's the Napoleon bust business again," said Lestrade. "You seemed
 interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps you would be
 glad to be present now that the affair has taken a very much graver
 turn."

 "What has it turned to, then?"

 "To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what
 has occurred?"

 The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most melancholy
 face.

 "It's an extraordinary thing," said he, "that all my life I have been
 collecting other people's news, and now that a real piece of news has
 come my own way I am so confused and bothered that I can't put two
 words together. If I had come in here as a journalist I should have
 interviewed myself and had two columns in every evening paper. As it
 is I am giving away valuable copy by telling my story over and over
 to a string of different people, and I can make no use of it myself.
 However, I've heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you'll
 only explain this queer business I shall be paid for my trouble in
 telling you the story."

 Holmes sat down and listened.

 "It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I bought
 for this very room about four months ago. I picked it up cheap from
 Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street Station. A great
 deal of my journalistic work is done at night, and I often write
 until the early morning. So it was to-day. I was sitting in my den,
 which is at the back of the top of the house, about three o'clock,
 when I was convinced that I heard some sounds downstairs. I listened,
 but they were not repeated, and I concluded that they came from
 outside. Then suddenly, about five minutes later, there came a most
 horrible yell--the most dreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I
 heard. It will ring in my ears as long as I live. I sat frozen with
 horror for a minute or two. Then I seized the poker and went
 downstairs. When I entered this room I found the window wide open,
 and I at once observed that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece.
 Why any burglar should take such a thing passes my understanding, for
 it was only a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.

 "You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open
 window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride. This
 was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the
 door. Stepping out into the dark I nearly fell over a dead man who
 was lying there. I ran back for a light, and there was the poor
 fellow, a great gash in his throat and the whole place swimming in
 blood. He lay on his back, his knees drawn up, and his mouth horribly
 open. I shall see him in my dreams. I had just time to blow on my
 police-whistle, and then I must have fainted, for I knew nothing more
 until I found the policeman standing over me in the hall."

 "Well, who was the murdered man?" asked Holmes.

 "There's nothing to show who he was," said Lestrade. "You shall see
 the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up to now.
 He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty. He
 is poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer. A
 horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool of blood beside him.
 Whether it was the weapon which did the deed, or whether it belonged
 to the dead man, I do not know. There was no name on his clothing,
 and nothing in his pockets save an apple, some string, a shilling map
 of London, and a photograph. Here it is."

 It was evidently taken by a snap-shot from a small camera. It
 represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man with thick eyebrows,
 and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the face like the
 muzzle of a baboon.

 "And what became of the bust?" asked Holmes, after a careful study of
 this picture.

 "We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the
 front garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was broken
 into fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you come?"

 "Certainly. I must just take one look round." He examined the carpet
 and the window. "The fellow had either very long legs or was a most
 active man," said he. "With an area beneath, it was no mean feat to
 reach that window-ledge and open that window. Getting back was
 comparatively simple. Are you coming with us to see the remains of
 your bust, Mr. Harker?"

 The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing-table.

 "I must try and make something of it," said he, "though I have no
 doubt that the first editions of the evening papers are out already
 with full details. It's like my luck! You remember when the stand
 fell at Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in the stand, and
 my journal the only one that had no account of it, for I was too
 shaken to write it. And now I'll be too late with a murder done on my
 own doorstep."

 As we left the room we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the
 foolscap.

 The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was only a
 few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon this
 presentment of the great Emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic
 and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay scattered
 in splintered shards upon the grass. Holmes picked up several of them
 and examined them carefully. I was convinced from his intent face and
 his purposeful manner that at last he was upon a clue.

 "Well?" asked Lestrade.

 Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

 "We have a long way to go yet," said he. "And yet--and yet--well, we
 have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this
 trifling bust was worth more in the eyes of this strange criminal
 than a human life. That is one point. Then there is the singular fact
 that he did not break it in the house, or immediately outside the
 house, if to break it was his sole object."

 "He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He hardly
 knew what he was doing."

 "Well, that's likely enough. But I wish to call your attention very
 particularly to the position of this house in the garden of which the
 bust was destroyed."

 Lestrade looked about him.

 "It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be disturbed
 in the garden."

 "Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street which he
 must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he not break it
 there, since it is evident that every yard that he carried it
 increased the risk of someone meeting him?"

 "I give it up," said Lestrade.

 Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

 "He could see what he was doing here and he could not there. That was
 his reason."

 "By Jove! that's true," said the detective. "Now that I come to think
 of it, Dr. Barnicot's bust was broken not far from his red lamp.
 Well, Mr. Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?"

 "To remember it--to docket it. We may come on something later which
 will bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now, Lestrade?"

 "The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to
 identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that. When
 we have found who he is and who his associates are, we should have a
 good start in learning what he was doing in Pitt Street last night,
 and who it was who met him and killed him on the doorstep of Mr.
 Horace Harker. Don't you think so?"

 "No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should approach
 the case."

 "What would you do, then?"

 "Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way! I suggest that you
 go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes afterwards, and
 each will supplement the other."

 "Very good," said Lestrade.

 "If you are going back to Pitt Street you might see Mr. Horace
 Harker. Tell him from me that I have quite made up my mind, and that
 it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic with Napoleonic
 delusions was in his house last night. It will be useful for his
 article."

 Lestrade stared.

 "You don't seriously believe that?"

 Holmes smiled.

 "Don't I? Well, perhaps I don't. But I am sure that it will interest
 Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central Press Syndicate.
 Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we have a long and
 rather complex day's work before us. I should be glad, Lestrade, if
 you could make it convenient to meet us at Baker Street at six
 o'clock this evening. Until then I should like to keep this
 photograph found in the dead man's pocket. It is possible that I may
 have to ask your company and assistance upon a small expedition which
 will have be undertaken to-night, if my chain of reasoning should
 prove to be correct. Until then, good-bye and good luck!"

 Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where he
 stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had been
 purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be
 absent until after noon, and that he was himself a newcomer who could
 give us no information. Holmes's face showed his disappointment and
 annoyance.

 "Well, well, we can't expect to have it all our own way, Watson," he
 said, at last. "We must come back in the afternoon if Mr. Harding
 will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt surmised,
 endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, in order to find
 if there is not something peculiar which may account for their
 remarkable fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse Hudson, of the Kennington
 Road, and see if he can throw any light upon the problem."

 A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer's establishment.
 He was a small, stout man with a red face and a peppery manner.

 "Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir," said he. "What we pay rates and
 taxes for I don't know, when any ruffian can come in and break one's
 goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his two statues.
 Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot, that's what I make it. No one but
 an Anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red republicans, that's
 what I call 'em. Who did I get the statues from? I don't see what
 that has to do with it. Well, if you really want to know, I got them
 from Gelder & Co., in Church Street, Stepney. They are a well-known
 house in the trade, and have been this twenty years. How many had I?
 Three--two and one are three--two of Dr. Barnicot's and one smashed
 in broad daylight on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I
 don't. Yes, I do, though. Why, it's Beppo. He was a kind of Italian
 piece-work man, who made himself useful in the shop. He could carve a
 bit and gild and frame, and do odd jobs. The fellow left me last
 week, and I've heard nothing of him since. No, I don't know where he
 came from nor where he went to. I have nothing against him while he
 was here. He was gone two days before the bust was smashed."

 "Well, that's all we could reasonably expect to get from Morse
 Hudson," said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. "We have this
 Beppo as a common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so
 that is worth a ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder &
 Co., of Stepney, the source and origin of busts. I shall be surprised
 if we don't get some help down there."

 In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable
 London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London, commercial
 London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came to a riverside
 city of a hundred thousand souls, where the tenement houses swelter
 and reek with the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a broad thoroughfare,
 once the abode of wealthy City merchants, we found the sculpture
 works for which we searched. Outside was a considerable yard full of
 monumental masonry. Inside was a large room in which fifty workers
 were carving or moulding. The manager, a big blond German, received
 us civilly, and gave a clear answer to all Holmes's questions. A
 reference to his books showed that hundreds of casts had been taken
 from a marble copy of Devine's head of Napoleon, but that the three
 which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year or so before had been half
 of a batch of six, the other three being sent to Harding Brothers, of
 Kensington. There was no reason why those six should be different to
 any of the other casts. He could suggest no possible cause why anyone
 should wish to destroy them--in fact, he laughed at the idea. Their
 wholesale price was six shillings, but the retailer would get twelve
 or more. The cast was taken in two moulds from each side of the face,
 and then these two profiles of plaster of Paris were joined together
 to make the complete bust. The work was usually done by Italians in
 the room we were in. When finished the busts were put on a table in
 the passage to dry, and afterwards stored. That was all he could tell
 us.

 But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon the
 manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted over his
 blue Teutonic eyes.

 "Ah, the rascal!" he cried. "Yes, indeed, I know him very well. This
 has always been a respectable establishment, and the only time that
 we have ever had the police in it was over this very fellow. It was
 more than a year ago now. He knifed another Italian in the street,
 and then he came to the works with the police on his heels, and he
 was taken here. Beppo was his name--his second name I never knew.
 Serve me right for engaging a man with such a face. But he was a good
 workman, one of the best."

 "What did he get?"

 "The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is out
 now; but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a cousin of
 his here, and I dare say he could tell you where he is."

 "No, no," cried Holmes, "not a word to the cousin--not a word, I beg
 you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go with it the
 more important it seems to grow. When you referred in your ledger to
 the sale of those casts I observed that the date was June 3rd of last
 year. Could you give me the date when Beppo was arrested?"

 "I could tell you roughly by the pay-list," the manager answered.
 "Yes," he continued, after some turning over of pages, "he was paid
 last on May 20th."

 "Thank you," said Holmes. "I don't think that I need intrude upon
 your time and patience any more." With a last word of caution that he
 should say nothing as to our researches we turned our faces westward
 once more.

 The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a hasty
 luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance announced
 "Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman," and the contents of the
 paper showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his account into print
 after all. Two columns were occupied with a highly sensational and
 flowery rendering of the whole incident. Holmes propped it against
 the cruet-stand and read it while he ate. Once or twice he chuckled.

 "This is all right, Watson," said he. "Listen to this:

 "It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of
 opinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most
 experienced members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
 the well-known consulting expert, have each come to the conclusion
 that the grotesque series of incidents, which have ended in so tragic
 a fashion, arise from lunacy rather than from deliberate crime. No
 explanation save mental aberration can cover the facts.

 "The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution if you only know
 how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will hark back
 to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding Brothers has to say
 to the matter."

 The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp little
 person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a ready tongue.

 "Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers. Mr.
 Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the bust
 some months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from Gelder &
 Co., of Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I dare say by
 consulting our sales book we could very easily tell you. Yes, we have
 the entries here. One to Mr. Harker, you see, and one to Mr. Josiah
 Brown, of Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale, Chiswick, and one to Mr.
 Sandeford, of Lower Grove Road, Reading. No, I have never seen this
 face which you show me in the photograph. You would hardly forget it,
 would you, sir, for I've seldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians
 on the staff? Yes, sir, we have several among our workpeople and
 cleaners. I dare say they might get a peep at that sales book if they
 wanted to. There is no particular reason for keeping a watch upon
 that book. Well, well, it's a very strange business, and I hope that
 you'll let me know if anything comes of your inquiries."

 Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding's evidence, and I
 could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which affairs
 were taking. He made no remark, however, save that, unless we
 hurried, we should be late for our appointment with Lestrade. Sure
 enough, when we reached Baker Street the detective was already there,
 and we found him pacing up and down in a fever of impatience. His
 look of importance showed that his day's work had not been in vain.

 "Well?" he asked. "What luck, Mr. Holmes?"

 "We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one," my
 friend explained. "We have seen both the retailers and also the
 wholesale manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from the
 beginning."

 "The busts!" cried Lestrade. "Well, well, you have your own methods,
 Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word against them,
 but I think I have done a better day's work than you. I have
 identified the dead man."

 "You don't say so?"

 "And found a cause for the crime."

 "Splendid!"

 "We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and the
 Italian quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem round
 his neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he was from
 the South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught sight of him.
 His name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is one of the
 greatest cut-throats in London. He is connected with the Mafia,
 which, as you know, is a secret political society, enforcing its
 decrees by murder. Now you see how the affair begins to clear up. The
 other fellow is probably an Italian also, and a member of the Mafia.
 He has broken the rules in some fashion. Pietro is set upon his
 track. Probably the photograph we found in his pocket is the man
 himself, so that he may not knife the wrong person. He dogs the
 fellow, he sees him enter a house, he waits outside for him, and in
 the scuffle he receives his own death-wound. How is that, Mr.
 Sherlock Holmes?"

 Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

 "Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!" he cried. "But I didn't quite
 follow your explanation of the destruction of the busts."

 "The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After
 all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It is
 the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell you that I am
 gathering all the threads into my hands."

 "And the next stage?"

 "Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian
 quarter, find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest him on
 the charge of murder. Will you come with us?"

 "I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I can't
 say for certain, because it all depends--well, it all depends upon a
 factor which is completely outside our control. But I have great
 hopes--in fact, the betting is exactly two to one--that if you will
 come with us to-night I shall be able to help you to lay him by the
 heels."

 "In the Italian quarter?"

 "No; I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find him.
 If you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade, I'll promise
 to go to the Italian quarter with you to-morrow, and no harm will be
 done by the delay. And now I think that a few hours' sleep would do
 us all good, for I do not propose to leave before eleven o'clock, and
 it is unlikely that we shall be back before morning. You'll dine with
 us, Lestrade, and then you are welcome to the sofa until it is time
 for us to start. In the meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you
 would ring for an express messenger, for I have a letter to send, and
 it is important that it should go at once."

 Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old
 daily papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When at
 last he descended it was with triumph in his eyes, but he said
 nothing to either of us as to the result of his researches. For my
 own part, I had followed step by step the methods by which he had
 traced the various windings of this complex case, and, though I could
 not yet perceive the goal which we would reach, I understood clearly
 that Holmes expected this grotesque criminal to make an attempt upon
 the two remaining busts, one of which, I remembered, was at Chiswick.
 No doubt the object of our journey was to catch him in the very act,
 and I could not but admire the cunning with which my friend had
 inserted a wrong clue in the evening paper, so as to give the fellow
 the idea that he could continue his scheme with impunity. I was not
 surprised when Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver with
 me. He had himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop which was his
 favourite weapon.

 A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a
 spot at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was
 directed to wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road fringed
 with pleasant houses, each standing in its own grounds. In the light
 of a street lamp we read "Laburnum Villa" upon the gate-post of one
 of them. The occupants had evidently retired to rest, for all was
 dark save for a fanlight over the hall door, which shed a single
 blurred circle on to the garden path. The wooden fence which
 separated the grounds from the road threw a dense black shadow upon
 the inner side, and here it was that we crouched.

 "I fear that you'll have a long wait," Holmes whispered. "We may
 thank our stars that it is not raining. I don't think we can even
 venture to smoke to pass the time. However, it's a two to one chance
 that we get something to pay us for our trouble."

 It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as Holmes
 had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and singular
 fashion. In an instant, without the least sound to warn us of his
 coming, the garden gate swung open, and a lithe, dark figure, as
 swift and active as an ape, rushed up the garden path. We saw it
 whisk past the light thrown from over the door and disappear against
 the black shadow of the house. There was a long pause, during which
 we held our breath, and then a very gentle creaking sound came to our
 ears. The window was being opened. The noise ceased, and again there
 was a long silence. The fellow was making his way into the house. We
 saw the sudden flash of a dark lantern inside the room. What he
 sought was evidently not there, for again we saw the flash through
 another blind, and then through another.

 "Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbs out,"
 Lestrade whispered.

 But before we could move the man had emerged again. As he came out
 into the glimmering patch of light we saw that he carried something
 white under his arm. He looked stealthily all round him. The silence
 of the deserted street reassured him. Turning his back upon us he
 laid down his burden, and the next instant there was the sound of a
 sharp tap, followed by a clatter and rattle. The man was so intent
 upon what he was doing that he never heard our steps as we stole
 across the grass plot. With the bound of a tiger Holmes was on his
 back, and an instant later Lestrade and I had him by either wrist and
 the handcuffs had been fastened. As we turned him over I saw a
 hideous, sallow face, with writhing, furious features, glaring up at
 us, and I knew that it was indeed the man of the photograph whom we
 had secured.

 But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his attention.
 Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most carefully examining
 that which the man had brought from the house. It was a bust of
 Napoleon like the one which we had seen that morning, and it had been
 broken into similar fragments. Carefully Holmes held each separate
 shard to the light, but in no way did it differ from any other
 shattered piece of plaster. He had just completed his examination
 when the hall lights flew up, the door opened, and the owner of the
 house, a jovial, rotund figure in shirt and trousers, presented
 himself.

 "Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?" said Holmes.

 "Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the note
 which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly what you
 told me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited developments.
 Well, I'm very glad to see that you have got the rascal. I hope,
 gentlemen, that you will come in and have some refreshment."

 However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters, so
 within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all four
 upon our way to London. Not a word would our captive say; but he
 glared at us from the shadow of his matted hair, and once, when my
 hand seemed within his reach, he snapped at it like a hungry wolf. We
 stayed long enough at the police-station to learn that a search of
 his clothing revealed nothing save a few shillings and a long sheath
 knife, the handle of which bore copious traces of recent blood.

 "That's all right," said Lestrade, as we parted. "Hill knows all
 these gentry, and he will give a name to him. You'll find that my
 theory of the Mafia will work out all right. But I'm sure I am
 exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way in
 which you laid hands upon him. I don't quite understand it all yet."

 "I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations," said Holmes.
 "Besides, there are one or two details which are not finished off,
 and it is one of those cases which are worth working out to the very
 end. If you will come round once more to my rooms at six o'clock
 to-morrow I think I shall be able to show you that even now you have
 not grasped the entire meaning of this business, which presents some
 features which make it absolutely original in the history of crime.
 If ever I permit you to chronicle any more of my little problems,
 Watson, I foresee that you will enliven your pages by an account of
 the singular adventure of the Napoleonic busts."

 When we met again next evening Lestrade was furnished with much
 information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was
 Beppo, second name unknown. He was a well-known ne'er-do-well among
 the Italian colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor and had
 earned an honest living, but he had taken to evil courses and had
 twice already been in jail--once for a petty theft and once, as we
 had already heard, for stabbing a fellow-countryman. He could talk
 English perfectly well. His reasons for destroying the busts were
 still unknown, and he refused to answer any questions upon the
 subject; but the police had discovered that these same busts might
 very well have been made by his own hands, since he was engaged in
 this class of work at the establishment of Gelder & Co. To all this
 information, much of which we already knew, Holmes listened with
 polite attention; but I, who knew him so well, could clearly see that
 his thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a mixture of mingled
 uneasiness and expectation beneath that mask which he was wont to
 assume. At last he started in his chair and his eyes brightened.
 There had been a ring at the bell. A minute later we heard steps upon
 the stairs, and an elderly, red-faced man with grizzled side-whiskers
 was ushered in. In his right hand he carried an old-fashioned
 carpet-bag, which he placed upon the table.

 "Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?"

 My friend bowed and smiled. "Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?"
 said he.

 "Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late; but the trains were
 awkward. You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession."

 "Exactly."

 "I have your letter here. You said, 'I desire to possess a copy of
 Devine's Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the one
 which is in your possession.' Is that right?"

 "Certainly."

 "I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not imagine
 how you knew that I owned such a thing."

 "Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is very
 simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had sold you
 their last copy, and he gave me your address."

 "Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?"

 "No, he did not."

 "Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only gave
 fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know that
 before I take ten pounds from you."

 "I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have
 named that price, so I intend to stick to it."

 "Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust up
 with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!" He opened his bag, and
 at last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen of that bust
 which we had already seen more than once in fragments.

 Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note upon
 the table.

 "You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence of
 these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every possible
 right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you
 see, and you never know what turn events might take afterwards. Thank
 you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your money, and I wish you a very good
 evening."

 When our visitor had disappeared Sherlock Holmes's movements were
 such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean white
 cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he placed his
 newly-acquired bust in the centre of the cloth. Finally, he picked up
 his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a sharp blow on the top of the
 head. The figure broke into fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over
 the shattered remains. Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph, he
 held up one splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a
 plum in a pudding.

 "Gentlemen," he cried, "let me introduce you to the famous black
 pearl of the Borgias."

 Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous
 impulse, we both broke out clapping as at the well-wrought crisis of
 a play. A flush of colour sprang to Holmes's pale cheeks, and he
 bowed to us like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his
 audience. It was at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be
 a reasoning machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration and
 applause. The same singularly proud and reserved nature which turned
 away with disdain from popular notoriety was capable of being moved
 to its depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.

 "Yes, gentlemen," said he, "it is the most famous pearl now existing
 in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a connected chain
 of inductive reasoning, to trace it from the Prince of Colonna's
 bedroom at the Dacre Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of
 this, the last of the six busts of Napoleon which were manufactured
 by Gelder & Co., of Stepney. You will remember, Lestrade, the
 sensation caused by the disappearance of this valuable jewel, and the
 vain efforts of the London police to recover it. I was myself
 consulted upon the case; but I was unable to throw any light upon it.
 Suspicion fell upon the maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and
 it was proved that she had a brother in London, but we failed to
 trace any connection between them. The maid's name was Lucretia
 Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this Pietro who was
 murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been looking up the
 dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the
 disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of
 Beppo for some crime of violence, an event which took place in the
 factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts were
 being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events, though you
 see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way in which they
 presented themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession. He
 may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have been Pietro's
 confederate, he may have been the go-between of Pietro and his
 sister. It is of no consequence to us which is the correct solution.

 "The main fact is that he had the pearl, and at that moment, when it
 was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the
 factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few
 minutes in which to conceal this enormously valuable prize, which
 would otherwise be found on him when he was searched. Six plaster
 casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of them was still
 soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful workman, made a small hole in
 the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and with a few touches covered
 over the aperture once more. It was an admirable hiding-place. No one
 could possibly find it. But Beppo was condemned to a year's
 imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his six busts were scattered over
 London. He could not tell which contained his treasure. Only by
 breaking them could he see. Even shaking would tell him nothing, for
 as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl would adhere to
 it--as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and he conducted
 his search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through a
 cousin who works with Gelder he found out the retail firms who had
 bought the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson,
 and in that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there.
 Then, with the help of some Italian employe, he succeeded in finding
 out where the other three busts had gone. The first was at Harker's.
 There he was dogged by his confederate, who held Beppo responsible
 for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him in the scuffle which
 followed."

 "If he was his confederate why should he carry his photograph?" I
 asked.

 "As a means of tracing him if he wished to inquire about him from any
 third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder I
 calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his
 movements. He would fear that the police would read his secret, and
 so he hastened on before they should get ahead of him. Of course, I
 could not say that he had not found the pearl in Harker's bust. I had
 not even concluded for certain that it was the pearl; but it was
 evident to me that he was looking for something, since he carried the
 bust past the other houses in order to break it in the garden which
 had a lamp overlooking it. Since Harker's bust was one in three the
 chances were exactly as I told you, two to one against the pearl
 being inside it. There remained two busts, and it was obvious that he
 would go for the London one first. I warned the inmates of the house,
 so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went down with the happiest
 results. By that time, of course, I knew for certain that it was the
 Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the murdered man linked
 the one event with the other. There only remained a single bust--the
 Reading one--and the pearl must be there. I bought it in your
 presence from the owner--and there it lies."

 We sat in silence for a moment.

 "Well," said Lestrade, "I've seen you handle a good many cases, Mr.
 Holmes, but I don't know that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than
 that. We're not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very
 proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow there's not a man, from
 the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn't be glad
 to shake you by the hand."

 "Thank you!" said Holmes. "Thank you!" and as he turned away it
 seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human
 emotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and
 practical thinker once more. "Put the pearl in the safe, Watson,"
 said he, "and get out the papers of the Conk-Singleton forgery case.
 Good-bye, Lestrade. If any little problem comes your way I shall be
 happy, if I can, to give you a hint or two as to its solution."






                   THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE STUDENTS

 It was in the year '95 that a combination of events, into which I
 need not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some
 weeks in one of our great University towns, and it was during this
 time that the small but instructive adventure which I am about to
 relate befell us. It will be obvious that any details which would
 help the reader to exactly identify the college or the criminal would
 be injudicious and offensive. So painful a scandal may well be
 allowed to die out. With due discretion the incident itself may,
 however, be described, since it serves to illustrate some of those
 qualities for which my friend was remarkable. I will endeavour in my
 statement to avoid such terms as would serve to limit the events to
 any particular place, or give a clue as to the people concerned.

 We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a library
 where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious researches in early
 English charters--researches which led to results so striking that
 they may be the subject of one of my future narratives. Here it was
 that one evening we received a visit from an acquaintance, Mr. Hilton
 Soames, tutor and lecturer at the College of St. Luke's. Mr. Soames
 was a tall, spare man, of a nervous and excitable temperament. I had
 always known him to be restless in his manner, but on this particular
 occasion he was in such a state of uncontrollable agitation that it
 was clear something very unusual had occurred.

 "I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of your
 valuable time. We have had a very painful incident at St. Luke's, and
 really, but for the happy chance of your being in the town, I should
 have been at a loss what to do."

 "I am very busy just now, and I desire no distractions," my friend
 answered. "I should much prefer that you called in the aid of the
 police."

 "No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible. When once
 the law is evoked it cannot be stayed again, and this is just one of
 those cases where, for the credit of the college, it is most
 essential to avoid scandal. Your discretion is as well known as your
 powers, and you are the one man in the world who can help me. I beg
 you, Mr. Holmes, to do what you can."

 My friend's temper had not improved since he had been deprived of the
 congenial surroundings of Baker Street. Without his scrap-books, his
 chemicals, and his homely untidiness, he was an uncomfortable man. He
 shrugged his shoulders in ungracious acquiescence, while our visitor
 in hurried words and with much excitable gesticulation poured forth
 his story.

 "I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow is the first day
 of the examination for the Fortescue Scholarship. I am one of the
 examiners. My subject is Greek, and the first of the papers consists
 of a large passage of Greek translation which the candidate has not
 seen. This passage is printed on the examination paper, and it would
 naturally be an immense advantage if the candidate could prepare it
 in advance. For this reason great care is taken to keep the paper
 secret.

 "To-day about three o'clock the proofs of this paper arrived from the
 printers. The exercise consists of half a chapter of Thucydides. I
 had to read it over carefully, as the text must be absolutely
 correct. At four-thirty my task was not yet completed. I had,
 however, promised to take tea in a friend's rooms, so I left the
 proof upon my desk. I was absent rather more than an hour.

 "You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are double--a
 green baize one within and a heavy oak one without. As I approached
 my outer door I was amazed to see a key in it. For an instant I
 imagined that I had left my own there, but on feeling in my pocket I
 found that it was all right. The only duplicate which existed, so far
 as I knew, was that which belonged to my servant, Bannister, a man
 who has looked after my room for ten years, and whose honesty is
 absolutely above suspicion. I found that the key was indeed his, that
 he had entered my room to know if I wanted tea, and that he had very
 carelessly left the key in the door when he came out. His visit to my
 room must have been within a very few minutes of my leaving it. His
 forgetfulness about the key would have mattered little upon any other
 occasion, but on this one day it has produced the most deplorable
 consequences.

 "The moment I looked at my table I was aware that someone had
 rummaged among my papers. The proof was in three long slips. I had
 left them all together. Now, I found that one of them was lying on
 the floor, one was on the side table near the window, and the third
 was where I had left it."

 Holmes stirred for the first time.

 "The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the third
 where you left it," said he.

 "Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me. How could you possibly know
 that?"

 "Pray continue your very interesting statement."

 "For an instant I imagined that Bannister had taken the unpardonable
 liberty of examining my papers. He denied it, however, with the
 utmost earnestness, and I am convinced that he was speaking the
 truth. The alternative was that someone passing had observed the key
 in the door, had known that I was out, and had entered to look at the
 papers. A large sum of money is at stake, for the scholarship is a
 very valuable one, and an unscrupulous man might very well run a risk
 in order to gain an advantage over his fellows.

 "Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He had nearly fainted
 when we found that the papers had undoubtedly been tampered with. I
 gave him a little brandy and left him collapsed in a chair while I
 made a most careful examination of the room. I soon saw that the
 intruder had left other traces of his presence besides the rumpled
 papers. On the table in the window were several shreds from a pencil
 which had been sharpened. A broken tip of lead was lying there also.
 Evidently the rascal had copied the paper in a great hurry, had
 broken his pencil, and had been compelled to put a fresh point to
 it."

 "Excellent!" said Holmes, who was recovering his good-humour as his
 attention became more engrossed by the case. "Fortune has been your
 friend."

 "This was not all. I have a new writing-table with a fine surface of
 red leather. I am prepared to swear, and so is Bannister, that it was
 smooth and unstained. Now I found a clean cut in it about three
 inches long--not a mere scratch, but a positive cut. Not only this,
 but on the table I found a small ball of black dough, or clay, with
 specks of something which looks like sawdust in it. I am convinced
 that these marks were left by the man who rifled the papers. There
 were no footmarks and no other evidence as to his identity. I was at
 my wits' ends, when suddenly the happy thought occurred to me that
 you were in the town, and I came straight round to put the matter
 into your hands. Do help me, Mr. Holmes! You see my dilemma. Either I
 must find the man or else the examination must be postponed until
 fresh papers are prepared, and since this cannot be done without
 explanation there will ensue a hideous scandal, which will throw a
 cloud not only on the college, but on the University. Above all
 things I desire to settle the matter quietly and discreetly."

 "I shall be happy to look into it and to give you such advice as I
 can," said Holmes, rising and putting on his overcoat. "The case is
 not entirely devoid of interest. Had anyone visited you in your room
 after the papers came to you?"

 "Yes; young Daulat Ras, an Indian student who lives on the same
 stair, came in to ask me some particulars about the examination."

 "For which he was entered?"

 "Yes."

 "And the papers were on your table?"

 "To the best of my belief they were rolled up."

 "But might be recognised as proofs?"

 "Possibly."

 "No one else in your room?"

 "No."

 "Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?"

 "No one save the printer."

 "Did this man Bannister know?"

 "No, certainly not. No one knew."

 "Where is Bannister now?"

 "He was very ill, poor fellow. I left him collapsed in the chair. I
 was in such a hurry to come to you."

 "You left your door open?"

 "I locked up the papers first."

 "Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames, that unless the Indian student
 recognised the roll as being proofs, the man who tampered with them
 came upon them accidentally without knowing that they were there."

 "So it seems to me."

 Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.

 "Well," said he, "let us go round. Not one of your cases,
 Watson--mental, not physical. All right; come if you want to. Now,
 Mr. Soames--at your disposal!"

  The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed
 window on to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college. A
 Gothic arched door led to a worn stone staircase. On the ground floor
 was the tutor's room. Above were three students, one on each story.
 It was already twilight when we reached the scene of our problem.
 Holmes halted and looked earnestly at the window. Then he approached
 it, and, standing on tiptoe with his neck craned, he looked into the
 room.

 "He must have entered through the door. There is no opening except
 the one pane," said our learned guide.

 "Dear me!" said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he glanced
 at our companion. "Well, if there is nothing to be learned here we
 had best go inside."

 The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his room. We
 stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examination of the carpet.

 "I am afraid there are no signs here," said he. "One could hardly
 hope for any upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to have quite
 recovered. You left him in a chair, you say; which chair?"

 "By the window there."

 "I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have finished
 with the carpet. Let us take the little table first. Of course, what
 has happened is very clear. The man entered and took the papers,
 sheet by sheet, from the central table. He carried them over to the
 window table, because from there he could see if you came across the
 courtyard, and so could effect an escape."

 "As a matter of fact he could not," said Soames, "for I entered by
 the side door."

 "Ah, that's good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let me see the
 three strips. No finger impressions--no! Well, he carried over this
 one first and he copied it. How long would it take him to do that,
 using every possible contraction? A quarter of an hour, not less.
 Then he tossed it down and seized the next. He was in the midst of
 that when your return caused him to make a very hurried retreat--very
 hurried, since he had not time to replace the papers which would tell
 you that he had been there. You were not aware of any hurrying feet
 on the stair as you entered the outer door?"

 "No, I can't say I was."

 "Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had, as
 you observe, to sharpen it again. This is of interest, Watson. The
 pencil was not an ordinary one. It was above the usual size, with a
 soft lead; the outer colour was dark blue, the maker's name was
 printed in silver lettering, and the piece remaining is only about an
 inch and a half long. Look for such a pencil, Mr. Soames, and you
 have got your man. When I add that he possesses a large and very
 blunt knife, you have an additional aid."

 Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of information. "I
 can follow the other points," said he, "but really, in this matter of
 the length--"

 Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of clear
 wood after them.

 "You see?"

 "No, I fear that even now--"

 "Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are others. What
 could this NN be? It is at the end of a word. You are aware that
 Johann Faber is the most common maker's name. Is it not clear that
 there is just as much of the pencil left as usually follows the
 Johann?" He held the small table sideways to the electric light. "I
 was hoping that if the paper on which he wrote was thin some trace of
 it might come through upon this polished surface. No, I see nothing.
 I don't think there is anything more to be learned here. Now for the
 central table. This small pellet is, I presume, the black, doughy
 mass you spoke of. Roughly pyramidal in shape and hollowed out, I
 perceive. As you say, there appear to be grains of sawdust in it.
 Dear me, this is very interesting. And the cut--a positive tear, I
 see. It began with a thin scratch and ended in a jagged hole. I am
 much indebted to you for directing my attention to this case, Mr.
 Soames. Where does that door lead to?"

 "To my bedroom."

 "Have you been in it since your adventure?"

 "No; I came straight away for you."

 "I should like to have a glance round. What a charming, old-fashioned
 room! Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute until I have examined the
 floor. No, I see nothing. What about this curtain? You hang your
 clothes behind it. If anyone were forced to conceal himself in this
 room he must do it there, since the bed is too low and the wardrobe
 too shallow. No one there, I suppose?"

 As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little rigidity and
 alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for an emergency. As
 a matter of fact the drawn curtain disclosed nothing but three or
 four suits of clothes hanging from a line of pegs. Holmes turned away
 and stooped suddenly to the floor.

 "Halloa! What's this?" said he.

 It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like the
 one upon the table of the study. Holmes held it out on his open palm
 in the glare of the electric light.

 "Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as well as in
 your sitting-room, Mr. Soames."

 "What could he have wanted there?"

 "I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected way, and
 so he had no warning until you were at the very door. What could he
 do? He caught up everything which would betray him and he rushed into
 your bedroom to conceal himself."

 "Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that all the time
 I was talking to Bannister in this room we had the man prisoner if we
 had only known it?"

 "So I read it."

 "Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes. I don't know
 whether you observed my bedroom window?"

 "Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one swinging
 on hinge and large enough to admit a man."

 "Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to be
 partly invisible. The man might have effected his entrance there,
 left traces as he passed through the bedroom, and, finally, finding
 the door open have escaped that way."

 Holmes shook his head impatiently.

 "Let us be practical," said he. "I understand you to say that there
 are three students who use this stair and are in the habit of passing
 your door?"

 "Yes, there are."

 "And they are all in for this examination?"

 "Yes."

 "Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the
 others?"

 Soames hesitated.

 "It is a very delicate question," said he. "One hardly likes to throw
 suspicion where there are no proofs."

 "Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs."

 "I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three men
 who inhabit these rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist, a fine
 scholar and athlete; plays in the Rugby team and the cricket team for
 the college, and got his Blue for the hurdles and the long jump. He
 is a fine, manly fellow. His father was the notorious Sir Jabez
 Gilchrist, who ruined himself on the turf. My scholar has been left
 very poor, but he is hard-working and industrious. He will do well.

 "The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a
 quiet, inscrutable fellow, as most of those Indians are. He is well
 up in his work, though his Greek is his weak subject. He is steady
 and methodical.

 "The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant fellow
 when he chooses to work--one of the brightest intellects of the
 University, but he is wayward, dissipated, and unprincipled. He was
 nearly expelled over a card scandal in his first year. He has been
 idling all this term, and he must look forward with dread to the
 examination."

 "Then it is he whom you suspect?"

 "I dare not go so far as that. But of the three he is perhaps the
 least unlikely."

 "Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant,
 Bannister."

 He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fellow of
 fifty. He was still suffering from this sudden disturbance of the
 quiet routine of his life. His plump face was twitching with his
 nervousness, and his fingers could not keep still.

 "We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister," said his
 master.

 "Yes, sir."

 "I understand," said Holmes, "that you left your key in the door?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the very
 day when there were these papers inside?"

 "It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the same
 thing at other times."

 "When did you enter the room?"

 "It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames's tea time."

 "How long did you stay?"

 "When I saw that he was absent I withdrew at once."

 "Did you look at these papers on the table?"

 "No, sir; certainly not."

 "How came you to leave the key in the door?"

 "I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for the
 key. Then I forgot."

 "Has the outer door a spring lock?"

 "No, sir."

 "Then it was open all the time?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "Anyone in the room could get out?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much
 disturbed?"

 "Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many years that
 I have been here. I nearly fainted, sir."

 "So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel bad?"

 "Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door."

 "That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over yonder
 near the corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?"

 "I don't know, sir. It didn't matter to me where I sat."

 "I really don't think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He was
 looking very bad--quite ghastly."

 "You stayed here when your master left?"

 "Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to my
 room."

 "Whom do you suspect?"

 "Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don't believe there is any
 gentleman in this University who is capable of profiting by such an
 action. No, sir, I'll not believe it."

 "Thank you; that will do," said Holmes. "Oh, one more word. You have
 not mentioned to any of the three gentlemen whom you attend that
 anything is amiss?"

 "No, sir; not a word."

 "You haven't seen any of them?"

 "No, sir."

 "Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the quadrangle,
 if you please."

 Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering gloom.

 "Your three birds are all in their nests," said Holmes, looking up.
 "Halloa! What's that? One of them seems restless enough."

 It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon his
 blind. He was pacing swiftly up and down his room.

 "I should like to have a peep at each of them," said Holmes. "Is it
 possible?"

 "No difficulty in the world," Soames answered. "This set of rooms is
 quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for visitors
 to go over them. Come along, and I will personally conduct you."

 "No names, please!" said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist's door. A
 tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and made us welcome
 when he understood our errand. There were some really curious pieces
 of mediaeval domestic architecture within. Holmes was so charmed with
 one of them that he insisted on drawing it on his note-book, broke
 his pencil, had to borrow one from our host, and finally borrowed a
 knife to sharpen his own. The same curious accident happened to him
 in the rooms of the Indian--a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who
 eyed us askance and was obviously glad when Holmes's architectural
 studies had come to an end. I could not see that in either case
 Holmes had come upon the clue for which he was searching. Only at the
 third did our visit prove abortive. The outer door would not open to
 our knock, and nothing more substantial than a torrent of bad
 language came from behind it. "I don't care who you are. You can go
 to blazes!" roared the angry voice. "To-morrow's the exam, and I
 won't be drawn by anyone."

 "A rude fellow," said our guide, flushing with anger as we withdrew
 down the stair. "Of course, he did not realize that it was I who was
 knocking, but none the less his conduct was very uncourteous, and,
 indeed, under the circumstances rather suspicious."

 Holmes's response was a curious one.

 "Can you tell me his exact height?" he asked.

 "Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller than the
 Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot six would be
 about it."

 "That is very important," said Holmes. "And now, Mr. Soames, I wish
 you good-night."

 Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. "Good gracious,
 Mr. Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in this abrupt
 fashion! You don't seem to realize the position. To-morrow is the
 examination. I must take some definite action to-night. I cannot
 allow the examination to be held if one of the papers has been
 tampered with. The situation must be faced."

 "You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow
 morning and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in a
 position then to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile you change
 nothing--nothing at all."

 "Very good, Mr. Holmes."

 "You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find some
 way out of your difficulties. I will take the black clay with me,
 also the pencil cuttings. Good-bye."

 When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle we again looked up
 at the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The others were
 invisible.

 "Well, Watson, what do you think of it?" Holmes asked, as we came out
 into the main street. "Quite a little parlour game--sort of
 three-card trick, is it not? There are your three men. It must be one
 of them. You take your choice. Which is yours?"

 "The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst
 record. And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why should he be
 pacing his room all the time?"

 "There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to
 learn anything by heart."

 "He looked at us in a queer way."

 "So would you if a flock of strangers came in on you when you were
 preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was of value.
 No, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives--all was
 satisfactory. But that fellow does puzzle me."

 "Who?"

 "Why, Bannister, the servant. What's his game in the matter?"

 "He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man."

 "So he did me. That's the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly
 honest man--well, well, here's a large stationer's. We shall begin
 our researches here."

 There were only four stationers of any consequence in the town, and
 at each Holmes produced his pencil chips and bid high for a
 duplicate. All were agreed that one could be ordered, but that it was
 not a usual size of pencil and that it was seldom kept in stock. My
 friend did not appear to be depressed by his failure, but shrugged
 his shoulders in half-humorous resignation.

 "No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue, has run
 to nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can build up a
 sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear fellow, it is nearly
 nine, and the landlady babbled of green peas at seven-thirty. What
 with your eternal tobacco, Watson, and your irregularity at meals, I
 expect that you will get notice to quit and that I shall share your
 downfall--not, however, before we have solved the problem of the
 nervous tutor, the careless servant, and the three enterprising
 students."

  Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though he
 sat lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At
 eight in the morning he came into my room just as I finished my
 toilet.

 "Well, Watson," said he, "it is time we went down to St. Luke's. Can
 you do without breakfast?"

 "Certainly."

 "Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell him
 something positive."

 "Have you anything positive to tell him?"

 "I think so."

 "You have formed a conclusion?"

 "Yes, my dear Watson; I have solved the mystery."

 "But what fresh evidence could you have got?"

 "Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed at
 the untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours' hard work and
 covered at least five miles, with something to show for it. Look at
 that!"

 He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids of
 black, doughy clay.

 "Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday!"

 "And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that wherever No. 3
 came from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson? Well, come
 along and put friend Soames out of his pain."

  The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable agitation
 when we found him in his chambers. In a few hours the examination
 would commence, and he was still in the dilemma between making the
 facts public and allowing the culprit to compete for the valuable
 scholarship. He could hardly stand still, so great was his mental
 agitation, and he ran towards Holmes with two eager hands
 outstretched.

 "Thank Heaven that you have come! I feared that you had given it up
 in despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination proceed?"

 "Yes; let it proceed by all means."

 "But this rascal--?"

 "He shall not compete."

 "You know him?"

 "I think so. If this matter is not to become public we must give
 ourselves certain powers, and resolve ourselves into a small private
 court-martial. You there, if you please, Soames! Watson, you here!
 I'll take the arm-chair in the middle. I think that we are now
 sufficiently imposing to strike terror into a guilty breast. Kindly
 ring the bell!"

 Bannister entered, and shrunk back in evident surprise and fear at
 our judicial appearance.

 "You will kindly close the door," said Holmes. "Now, Bannister, will
 you please tell us the truth about yesterday's incident?"

 The man turned white to the roots of his hair.

 "I have told you everything, sir."

 "Nothing to add?"

 "Nothing at all, sir."

 "Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you sat down
 on that chair yesterday, did you do so in order to conceal some
 object which would have shown who had been in the room?"

 Bannister's face was ghastly.

 "No, sir; certainly not."

 "It is only a suggestion," said Holmes, suavely. "I frankly admit
 that I am unable to prove it. But it seems probable enough, since the
 moment that Mr. Soames's back was turned you released the man who was
 hiding in that bedroom."

 Bannister licked his dry lips.

 "There was no man, sir."

 "Ah, that's a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have spoken the
 truth, but now I know that you have lied."

 The man's face set in sullen defiance.

 "There was no man, sir."

 "Come, come, Bannister!"

 "No, sir; there was no one."

 "In that case you can give us no further information. Would you
 please remain in the room? Stand over there near the bedroom door.
 Now, Soames, I am going to ask you to have the great kindness to go
 up to the room of young Gilchrist, and to ask him to step down into
 yours."

 An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the student.
 He was a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile, with a springy
 step and a pleasant, open face. His troubled blue eyes glanced at
 each of us, and finally rested with an expression of blank dismay
 upon Bannister in the farther corner.

 "Just close the door," said Holmes. "Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we are all
 quite alone here, and no one need ever know one word of what passes
 between us. We can be perfectly frank with each other. We want to
 know, Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honourable man, ever came to commit
 such an action as that of yesterday?"

 The unfortunate young man staggered back and cast a look full of
 horror and reproach at Bannister.

 "No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir; I never said a word--never one word!"
 cried the servant.

 "No, but you have now," said Holmes. "Now, sir, you must see that
 after Bannister's words your position is hopeless, and that your only
 chance lies in a frank confession."

 For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control his
 writhing features. The next he had thrown himself on his knees beside
 the table and, burying his face in his hands, he had burst into a
 storm of passionate sobbing.

 "Come, come," said Holmes, kindly; "it is human to err, and at least
 no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps it would
 be easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames what occurred, and you
 can check me where I am wrong. Shall I do so? Well, well, don't
 trouble to answer. Listen, and see that I do you no injustice.

 "From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no one, not
 even Bannister, could have told that the papers were in your room,
 the case began to take a definite shape in my mind. The printer one
 could, of course, dismiss. He could examine the papers in his own
 office. The Indian I also thought nothing of. If the proofs were in a
 roll he could not possibly know what they were. On the other hand, it
 seemed an unthinkable coincidence that a man should dare to enter the
 room, and that by chance on that very day the papers were on the
 table. I dismissed that. The man who entered knew that the papers
 were there. How did he know?

 "When I approached your room I examined the window. You amused me by
 supposing that I was contemplating the possibility of someone having
 in broad daylight, under the eyes of all these opposite rooms, forced
 himself through it. Such an idea was absurd. I was measuring how tall
 a man would need to be in order to see as he passed what papers were
 on the central table. I am six feet high, and I could do it with an
 effort. No one less than that would have a chance. Already you see I
 had reason to think that if one of your three students was a man of
 unusual height he was the most worth watching of the three.

 "I entered and I took you into my confidence as to the suggestions of
 the side table. Of the centre table I could make nothing, until in
 your description of Gilchrist you mentioned that he was a
 long-distance jumper. Then the whole thing came to me in an instant,
 and I only needed certain corroborative proofs, which I speedily
 obtained.

 "What happened was this. This young fellow had employed his afternoon
 at the athletic grounds, where he had been practising the jump. He
 returned carrying his jumping shoes, which are provided, as you are
 aware, with several sharp spikes. As he passed your window he saw, by
 means of his great height, these proofs upon your table, and
 conjectured what they were. No harm would have been done had it not
 been that as he passed your door he perceived the key which had been
 left by the carelessness of your servant. A sudden impulse came over
 him to enter and see if they were indeed the proofs. It was not a
 dangerous exploit, for he could always pretend that he had simply
 looked in to ask a question.

 "Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was then that
 he yielded to temptation. He put his shoes on the table. What was it
 you put on that chair near the window?"

 "Gloves," said the young man.

 Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. "He put his gloves on the
 chair, and he took the proofs, sheet by sheet, to copy them. He
 thought the tutor must return by the main gate, and that he would see
 him. As we know, he came back by the side gate. Suddenly he heard him
 at the very door. There was no possible escape. He forgot his gloves,
 but he caught up his shoes and darted into the bedroom. You observe
 that the scratch on that table is slight at one side, but deepens in
 the direction of the bedroom door. That in itself is enough to show
 us that the shoe had been drawn in that direction and that the
 culprit had taken refuge there. The earth round the spike had been
 left on the table, and a second sample was loosened and fell in the
 bedroom. I may add that I walked out to the athletic grounds this
 morning, saw that tenacious black clay is used in the jumping-pit,
 and carried away a specimen of it, together with some of the fine tan
 or sawdust which is strewn over it to prevent the athlete from
 slipping. Have I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?"

 The student had drawn himself erect.

 "Yes, sir, it is true," said he.

 "Good heavens, have you nothing to add?" cried Soames.

 "Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure has
 bewildered me. I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I wrote to you
 early this morning in the middle of a restless night. It was before I
 knew that my sin had found me out. Here it is, sir. You will see that
 I have said, 'I have determined not to go in for the examination. I
 have been offered a commission in the Rhodesian Police, and I am
 going out to South Africa at once.'"

 "I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit by
 your unfair advantage," said Soames. "But why did you change your
 purpose?"

 Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.

 "There is the man who set me in the right path," said he.

 "Come now, Bannister," said Holmes. "It will be clear to you from
 what I have said that only you could have let this young man out,
 since you were left in the room, and must have locked the door when
 you went out. As to his escaping by that window, it was incredible.
 Can you not clear up the last point in this mystery, and tell us the
 reasons for your action?"

 "It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known; but with all your
 cleverness it was impossible that you could know. Time was, sir, when
 I was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young gentleman's
 father. When he was ruined I came to the college as servant, but I
 never forgot my old employer because he was down in the world. I
 watched his son all I could for the sake of the old days. Well, sir,
 when I came into this room yesterday when the alarm was given, the
 very first thing I saw was Mr. Gilchrist's tan gloves a-lying in that
 chair. I knew those gloves well, and I understood their message. If
 Mr. Soames saw them the game was up. I flopped down into that chair,
 and nothing would budge me until Mr. Soames he went for you. Then out
 came my poor young master, whom I had dandled on my knee, and
 confessed it all to me. Wasn't it natural, sir, that I should save
 him, and wasn't it natural also that I should try to speak to him as
 his dead father would have done, and make him understand that he
 could not profit by such a deed? Could you blame me, sir?"

 "No, indeed," said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet. "Well,
 Soames, I think we have cleared your little problem up, and our
 breakfast awaits us at home. Come, Watson! As to you, sir, I trust
 that a bright future awaits you in Rhodesia. For once you have fallen
 low. Let us see in the future how high you can rise."






                  THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ

 When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain our
 work for the year 1894 I confess that it is very difficult for me,
 out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases which are most
 interesting in themselves and at the same time most conducive to a
 display of those peculiar powers for which my friend was famous. As I
 turn over the pages I see my notes upon the repulsive story of the
 red leech and the terrible death of Crosby the banker. Here also I
 find an account of the Addleton tragedy and the singular contents of
 the ancient British barrow. The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case
 comes also within this period, and so does the tracking and arrest of
 Huret, the Boulevard assassin--an exploit which won for Holmes an
 autograph letter of thanks from the French President and the Order of
 the Legion of Honour. Each of these would furnish a narrative, but on
 the whole I am of opinion that none of them unite so many singular
 points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes
 not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith, but also
 those subsequent developments which threw so curious a light upon the
 causes of the crime.

 It was a wild, tempestuous night towards the close of November.
 Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged with
 a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription
 upon a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon surgery. Outside
 the wind howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely
 against the windows. It was strange there in the very depths of the
 town, with ten miles of man's handiwork on every side of us, to feel
 the iron grip of Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge
 elemental forces all London was no more than the molehills that dot
 the fields. I walked to the window and looked out on the deserted
 street. The occasional lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and
 shining pavement. A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford
 Street end.

 "Well, Watson, it's as well we have not to turn out to-night," said
 Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest. "I've
 done enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the eyes. So far
 as I can make out it is nothing more exciting than an Abbey's
 accounts dating from the second half of the fifteenth century.
 Halloa! halloa! halloa! What's this?"

 Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a horse's
 hoofs and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against the kerb.
 The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.

 "What can he want?" I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

 "Want! He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and
 cravats and galoshes, and every aid that man ever invented to fight
 the weather. Wait a bit, though! There's the cab off again! There's
 hope yet. He'd have kept it if he had wanted us to come. Run down, my
 dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous folk have been long
 in bed."

 When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor I had
 no difficulty in recognising him. It was young Stanley Hopkins, a
 promising detective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a
 very practical interest.

 "Is he in?" he asked, eagerly.

 "Come up, my dear sir," said Holmes's voice from above. "I hope you
 have no designs upon us on such a night as this."

 The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his
 shining waterproof. I helped him out of it while Holmes knocked a
 blaze out of the logs in the grate.

 "Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes," said he. "Here's
 a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot water and a
 lemon which is good medicine on a night like this. It must be
 something important which has brought you out in such a gale."

 "It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I've had a bustling afternoon, I promise
 you. Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the latest editions?"

 "I've seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day."

 "Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you have
 not missed anything. I haven't let the grass grow under my feet. It's
 down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from the railway
 line. I was wired for at three-fifteen, reached Yoxley Old Place at
 five, conducted my investigation, was back at Charing Cross by the
 last train, and straight to you by cab."

 "Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your
 case?"

 "It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as I
 can see it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled, and yet
 at first it seemed so simple that one couldn't go wrong. There's no
 motive, Mr. Holmes. That's what bothers me--I can't put my hand on a
 motive. Here's a man dead--there's no denying that--but, so far as I
 can see, no reason on earth why anyone should wish him harm."

 Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

 "Let us hear about it," said he.

 "I've got my facts pretty clear," said Stanley Hopkins. "All I want
 now is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I can make it
 out, is like this. Some years ago this country house, Yoxley Old
 Place, was taken by an elderly man, who gave the name of Professor
 Coram. He was an invalid, keeping his bed half the time, and the
 other half hobbling round the house with a stick or being pushed
 about the grounds by the gardener in a bath-chair. He was well liked
 by the few neighbours who called upon him, and he has the reputation
 down there of being a very learned man. His household used to consist
 of an elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarlton.
 These have both been with him since his arrival, and they seem to be
 women of excellent character. The Professor is writing a learned
 book, and he found it necessary about a year ago to engage a
 secretary. The first two that he tried were not successes; but the
 third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from the
 University, seems to have been just what his employer wanted. His
 work consisted in writing all the morning to the Professor's
 dictation, and he usually spent the evening in hunting up references
 and passages which bore upon the next day's work. This Willoughby
 Smith has nothing against him either as a boy at Uppingham or as a
 young man at Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials, and from the
 first he was a decent, quiet, hardworking fellow, with no weak spot
 in him at all. And yet this is the lad who has met his death this
 morning in the Professor's study under circumstances which can point
 only to murder."

 The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew closer
 to the fire while the young inspector slowly and point by point
 developed his singular narrative.

 "If you were to search all England," said he, "I don't suppose you
 could find a household more self-contained or free from outside
 influences. Whole weeks would pass and not one of them go past the
 garden gate. The Professor was buried in his work and existed for
 nothing else. Young Smith knew nobody in the neighbourhood, and lived
 very much as his employer did. The two women had nothing to take them
 from the house. Mortimer the gardener, who wheels the bath-chair, is
 an Army pensioner--an old Crimean man of excellent character. He does
 not live in the house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end
 of the garden. Those are the only people that you would find within
 the grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the
 garden is a hundred yards from the main London to Chatham road. It
 opens with a latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone from
 walking in.

 "Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the only
 person who can say anything positive about the matter. It was in the
 forenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was engaged at the moment in
 hanging some curtains in the upstairs front bedroom. Professor Coram
 was still in bed, for when the weather is bad he seldom rises before
 midday. The housekeeper was busied with some work in the back of the
 house. Willoughby Smith had been in his bedroom, which he uses as a
 sitting-room; but the maid heard him at that moment pass along the
 passage and descend to the study immediately below her. She did not
 see him, but she says that she could not be mistaken in his quick,
 firm tread. She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so
 later there was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild,
 hoarse scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come
 either from a man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy
 thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence. The maid
 stood petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her courage, she
 ran downstairs. The study door was shut, and she opened it. Inside
 young Mr. Willoughby Smith was stretched upon the floor. At first she
 could see no injury, but as she tried to raise him she saw that blood
 was pouring from the underside of his neck. It was pierced by a very
 small but very deep wound, which had divided the carotid artery. The
 instrument with which the injury had been inflicted lay upon the
 carpet beside him. It was one of those small sealing-wax knives to be
 found on old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a
 stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of the Professor's own desk.

 "At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but on
 pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened his
 eyes for an instant. 'The Professor,' he murmured--'it was she.' The
 maid is prepared to swear that those were the exact words. He tried
 desperately to say something else, and he held his right hand up in
 the air. Then he fell back dead.

 "In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene, but
 she was just too late to catch the young man's dying words. Leaving
 Susan with the body, she hurried to the Professor's room. He was
 sitting up in bed horribly agitated, for he had heard enough to
 convince him that something terrible had occurred. Mrs. Marker is
 prepared to swear that the Professor was still in his night-clothes,
 and, indeed, it was impossible for him to dress without the help of
 Mortimer, whose orders were to come at twelve o'clock. The Professor
 declares that he heard the distant cry, but that he knows nothing
 more. He can give no explanation of the young man's last words, 'The
 Professor--it was she,' but imagines that they were the outcome of
 delirium. He believes that Willoughby Smith had not an enemy in the
 world, and can give no reason for the crime. His first action was to
 send Mortimer the gardener for the local police. A little later the
 chief constable sent for me. Nothing was moved before I got there,
 and strict orders were given that no one should walk upon the paths
 leading to the house. It was a splendid chance of putting your
 theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There was really nothing
 wanting."

 "Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said my companion, with a somewhat
 bitter smile. "Well, let us hear about it. What sort of job did you
 make of it?"

 "I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan,
 which will give you a general idea of the position of the Professor's
 study and the various points of the case. It will help you in
 following my investigation."

 He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce, and he laid it
 across Holmes's knee. I rose, and, standing behind Holmes, I studied
 it over his shoulder.

 [ Picture: Sketch of the building's room and corridors ]

 "It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points which
 seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later for
 yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin entered the
 house, how did he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the garden path and
 the back door, from which there is direct access to the study. Any
 other way would have been exceedingly complicated. The escape must
 have also been made along that line, for of the two other exits from
 the room one was blocked by Susan as she ran downstairs and the other
 leads straight to the Professor's bedroom. I therefore directed my
 attention at once to the garden path, which was saturated with recent
 rain and would certainly show any footmarks.

 "My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and
 expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There
 could be no question, however, that someone had passed along the
 grass border which lines the path, and that he had done so in order
 to avoid leaving a track. I could not find anything in the nature of
 a distinct impression, but the grass was trodden down and someone had
 undoubtedly passed. It could only have been the murderer, since
 neither the gardener nor anyone else had been there that morning and
 the rain had only begun during the night."

 "One moment," said Holmes. "Where does this path lead to?"

 "To the road."

 "How long is it?"

 "A hundred yards or so."

 "At the point where the path passes through the gate you could surely
 pick up the tracks?"

 "Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point."

 "Well, on the road itself?"

 "No; it was all trodden into mire."

 "Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they coming
 or going?"

 "It was impossible to say. There was never any outline."

 "A large foot or a small?"

 "You could not distinguish."

 Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience.

 "It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since," said
 he. "It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest. Well, well,
 it can't be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after you had made
 certain that you had made certain of nothing?"

 "I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew that
 someone had entered the house cautiously from without. I next
 examined the corridor. It is lined with cocoanut matting and had
 taken no impression of any kind. This brought me into the study
 itself. It is a scantily-furnished room. The main article is a large
 writing-table with a fixed bureau. This bureau consists of a double
 column of drawers with a central small cupboard between them. The
 drawers were open, the cupboard locked. The drawers, it seems, were
 always open, and nothing of value was kept in them. There were some
 papers of importance in the cupboard, but there were no signs that
 this had been tampered with, and the Professor assures me that
 nothing was missing. It is certain that no robbery has been
 committed.

 "I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the
 bureau, and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart. The
 stab was on the right side of the neck and from behind forwards, so
 that it is almost impossible that it could have been self-inflicted."

 "Unless he fell upon the knife," said Holmes.

 "Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some feet
 away from the body, so that seems impossible. Then, of course, there
 are the man's own dying words. And, finally, there was this very
 important piece of evidence which was found clasped in the dead man's
 right hand."

 From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He
 unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken ends of
 black silk cord dangling from the end of it. "Willoughby Smith had
 excellent sight," he added. "There can be no question that this was
 snatched from the face or the person of the assassin."

 Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand and examined them with
 the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose,
 endeavoured to read through them, went to the window and stared up
 the street with them, looked at them most minutely in the full light
 of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle, seated himself at the table
 and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he tossed across
 to Stanley Hopkins.

 "That's the best I can do for you," said he. "It may prove to be of
 some use."

 The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows:

 "Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a
 remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either side
 of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression, and
 probably rounded shoulders. There are indications that she has had
 recourse to an optician at least twice during the last few months. As
 her glasses are of remarkable strength and as opticians are not very
 numerous, there should be no difficulty in tracing her."

 Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have been
 reflected upon my features.

 "Surely my deductions are simplicity itself," said he. "It would be
 difficult to name any articles which afford a finer field for
 inference than a pair of glasses, especially so remarkable a pair as
 these. That they belong to a woman I infer from their delicacy, and
 also, of course, from the last words of the dying man. As to her
 being a person of refinement and well dressed, they are, as you
 perceive, handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable
 that anyone who wore such glasses could be slatternly in other
 respects. You will find that the clips are too wide for your nose,
 showing that the lady's nose was very broad at the base. This sort of
 nose is usually a short and coarse one, but there are a sufficient
 number of exceptions to prevent me from being dogmatic or from
 insisting upon this point in my description. My own face is a narrow
 one, and yet I find that I cannot get my eyes into the centre, or
 near the centre, of these glasses. Therefore the lady's eyes are set
 very near to the sides of the nose. You will perceive, Watson, that
 the glasses are concave and of unusual strength. A lady whose vision
 has been so extremely contracted all her life is sure to have the
 physical characteristics of such vision, which are seen in the
 forehead, the eyelids, and the shoulders."

 "Yes," I said, "I can follow each of your arguments. I confess,
 however, that I am unable to understand how you arrive at the double
 visit to the optician."

 Holmes took the glasses in his hand.

 "You will perceive," he said, "that the clips are lined with tiny
 bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of these is
 discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the other is new.
 Evidently one has fallen off and been replaced. I should judge that
 the older of them has not been there more than a few months. They
 exactly correspond, so I gather that the lady went back to the same
 establishment for the second."

 "By George, it's marvellous!" cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of
 admiration. "To think that I had all that evidence in my hand and
 never knew it! I had intended, however, to go the round of the London
 opticians."

 "Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell us
 about the case?"

 "Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do
 now--probably more. We have had inquiries made as to any stranger
 seen on the country roads or at the railway station. We have heard of
 none. What beats me is the utter want of all object in the crime. Not
 a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest."

 "Ah! there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose you want
 us to come out to-morrow?"

 "If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes. There's a train from
 Charing Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be at
 Yoxley Old Place between eight and nine."

 "Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features of
 great interest, and I shall be delighted to look into it. Well, it's
 nearly one, and we had best get a few hours' sleep. I dare say you
 can manage all right on the sofa in front of the fire. I'll light my
 spirit-lamp and give you a cup of coffee before we start."

 The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter morning
 when we started upon our journey. We saw the cold winter sun rise
 over the dreary marshes of the Thames and the long, sullen reaches of
 the river, which I shall ever associate with our pursuit of the
 Andaman Islander in the earlier days of our career. After a long and
 weary journey we alighted at a small station some miles from Chatham.
 While a horse was being put into a trap at the local inn we snatched
 a hurried breakfast, and so we were all ready for business when we at
 last arrived at Yoxley Old Place. A constable met us at the garden
 gate.

 "Well, Wilson, any news?"

 "No, sir, nothing."

 "No reports of any stranger seen?"

 "No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger
 either came or went yesterday."

 "Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?"

 "Yes, sir; there is no one that we cannot account for."

 "Well, it's only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay
 there, or take a train without being observed. This is the garden
 path of which I spoke, Mr. Holmes. I'll pledge my word there was no
 mark on it yesterday."

 "On which side were the marks on the grass?"

 "This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path and the
 flower-bed. I can't see the traces now, but they were clear to me
 then."

 "Yes, yes; someone has passed along," said Holmes, stooping over the
 grass border. "Our lady must have picked her steps carefully, must
 she not, since on the one side she would leave a track on the path,
 and on the other an even clearer one on the soft bed?"

 "Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand."

 I saw an intent look pass over Holmes's face.

 "You say that she must have come back this way?"

 "Yes, sir; there is no other."

 "On this strip of grass?"

 "Certainly, Mr. Holmes."

 "Hum! It was a very remarkable performance--very remarkable. Well, I
 think we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This garden door
 is usually kept open, I suppose? Then this visitor had nothing to do
 but to walk in. The idea of murder was not in her mind, or she would
 have provided herself with some sort of weapon, instead of having to
 pick this knife off the writing-table. She advanced along this
 corridor, leaving no traces upon the cocoanut matting. Then she found
 herself in this study. How long was she there? We have no means of
 judging."

 "Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs.
 Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not very long
 before--about a quarter of an hour, she says."

 "Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room and what does
 she do? She goes over to the writing-table. What for? Not for
 anything in the drawers. If there had been anything worth her taking
 it would surely have been locked up. No; it was for something in that
 wooden bureau. Halloa! what is that scratch upon the face of it? Just
 hold a match, Watson. Why did you not tell me of this, Hopkins?"

 The mark which he was examining began upon the brass work on the
 right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four inches,
 where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.

 "I noticed it, Mr. Holmes. But you'll always find scratches round a
 keyhole."

 "This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it is
 cut. An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface. Look at
 it through my lens. There's the varnish, too, like earth on each side
 of a furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?"

 A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.

 "Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "Did you notice this scratch?"

 "No, sir, I did not."

 "I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these
 shreds of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?"

 "The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain."

 "Is it a simple key?"

 "No, sir; it is a Chubb's key."

 "Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little
 progress. Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and
 either opens it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged young
 Willoughby Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw the key
 she makes this scratch upon the door. He seizes her, and she,
 snatching up the nearest object, which happens to be this knife,
 strikes at him in order to make him let go his hold. The blow is a
 fatal one. He falls and she escapes, either with or without the
 object for which she has come. Is Susan the maid there? Could anyone
 have got away through that door after the time that you heard the
 cry, Susan?"

 "No sir; it is impossible. Before I got down the stair I'd have seen
 anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, for I would
 have heard it."

 "That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way she
 came. I understand that this other passage leads only to the
 Professor's room. There is no exit that way?"

 "No, sir."

 "We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the Professor.
 Halloa, Hopkins! this is very important, very important indeed. The
 Professor's corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting."

 "Well, sir, what of that?"

 "Don't you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well, I don't insist
 upon it. No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be
 suggestive. Come with me and introduce me."

 We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that
 which led to the garden. At the end was a short flight of steps
 ending in a door. Our guide knocked, and then ushered us into the
 Professor's bedroom.

 It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes, which
 had overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the corners, or
 were stacked all round at the base of the cases. The bed was in the
 centre of the room, and in it, propped up with pillows, was the owner
 of the house. I have seldom seen a more remarkable-looking person. It
 was a gaunt, aquiline face which was turned towards us, with piercing
 dark eyes, which lurked in deep hollows under overhung and tufted
 brows. His hair and beard were white, save that the latter was
 curiously stained with yellow around his mouth. A cigarette glowed
 amid the tangle of white hair, and the air of the room was fetid with
 stale tobacco-smoke. As he held out his hand to Holmes I perceived
 that it also was stained yellow with nicotine.

 "A smoker, Mr. Holmes?" said he, speaking well-chosen English with a
 curious little mincing accent. "Pray take a cigarette. And you, sir?
 I can recommend them, for I have them especially prepared by Ionides
 of Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a time, and I grieve to say
 that I have to arrange for a fresh supply every fortnight. Bad, sir,
 very bad, but an old man has few pleasures. Tobacco and my work--that
 is all that is left to me."

 Holmes had lit a cigarette, and was shooting little darting glances
 all over the room.

 "Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco," the old man exclaimed.
 "Alas! what a fatal interruption! Who could have foreseen such a
 terrible catastrophe? So estimable a young man! I assure you that
 after a few months' training he was an admirable assistant. What do
 you think of the matter, Mr. Holmes?"

 "I have not yet made up my mind."

 "I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light where all
 is so dark to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like myself such a
 blow is paralyzing. I seem to have lost the faculty of thought. But
 you are a man of action--you are a man of affairs. It is part of the
 everyday routine of your life. You can preserve your balance in every
 emergency. We are fortunate indeed in having you at our side."

 Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the old
 Professor was talking. I observed that he was smoking with
 extraordinary rapidity. It was evident that he shared our host's
 liking for the fresh Alexandrian cigarettes.

 "Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow," said the old man. "That is my
 magnum opus--the pile of papers on the side table yonder. It is my
 analysis of the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of Syria
 and Egypt, a work which will cut deep at the very foundations of
 revealed religion. With my enfeebled health I do not know whether I
 shall ever be able to complete it now that my assistant has been
 taken from me. Dear me, Mr. Holmes; why, you are even a quicker
 smoker than I am myself."

 Holmes smiled.

 "I am a connoisseur," said he, taking another cigarette from the
 box--his fourth--and lighting it from the stub of that which he had
 finished. "I will not trouble you with any lengthy cross-examination,
 Professor Coram, since I gather that you were in bed at the time of
 the crime and could know nothing about it. I would only ask this.
 What do you imagine that this poor fellow meant by his last words:
 'The Professor--it was she'?"

 The Professor shook his head.

 "Susan is a country girl," said he, "and you know the incredible
 stupidity of that class. I fancy that the poor fellow murmured some
 incoherent delirious words, and that she twisted them into this
 meaningless message."

 "I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?"

 "Possibly an accident; possibly--I only breathe it among ourselves--a
 suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles--some affair of the
 heart, perhaps, which we have never known. It is a more probable
 supposition than murder."

 "But the eye-glasses?"

 "Ah! I am only a student--a man of dreams. I cannot explain the
 practical things of life. But still, we are aware, my friend, that
 love-gages may take strange shapes. By all means take another
 cigarette. It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate them so. A fan,
 a glove, glasses--who knows what article may be carried as a token or
 treasured when a man puts an end to his life? This gentleman speaks
 of footsteps in the grass; but, after all, it is easy to be mistaken
 on such a point. As to the knife, it might well be thrown far from
 the unfortunate man as he fell. It is possible that I speak as a
 child, but to me it seems that Willoughby Smith has met his fate by
 his own hand."

 Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he continued
 to walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and consuming
 cigarette after cigarette.

 "Tell me, Professor Coram," he said, at last, "what is in that
 cupboard in the bureau?"

 "Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from my poor
 wife, diplomas of Universities which have done me honour. Here is the
 key. You can look for yourself."

 Holmes picked up the key and looked at it for an instant; then he
 handed it back.

 "No; I hardly think that it would help me," said he. "I should prefer
 to go quietly down to your garden and turn the whole matter over in
 my head. There is something to be said for the theory of suicide
 which you have put forward. We must apologize for having intruded
 upon you, Professor Coram, and I promise that we won't disturb you
 until after lunch. At two o'clock we will come again and report to
 you anything which may have happened in the interval."

 Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the garden
 path for some time in silence.

 "Have you a clue?" I asked, at last.

 "It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked," said he. "It is
 possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show me."

 "My dear Holmes," I exclaimed, "how on earth--"

 "Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there's no harm done.
 Of course, we always have the optician clue to fall back upon, but I
 take a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the good Mrs. Marker!
 Let us enjoy five minutes of instructive conversation with her."

 I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a
 peculiarly ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily
 established terms of confidence with them. In half the time which he
 had named he had captured the housekeeper's goodwill, and was
 chatting with her as if he had known her for years.

 "Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke something
 terrible. All day and sometimes all night, sir. I've seen that room
 of a morning--well, sir, you'd have thought it was a London fog. Poor
 young Mr. Smith, he was a smoker also, but not as bad as the
 Professor. His health--well, I don't know that it's better nor worse
 for the smoking."

 "Ah!" said Holmes, "but it kills the appetite."

 "Well, I don't know about that, sir."

 "I suppose the Professor eats hardly anything?"

 "Well, he is variable. I'll say that for him."

 "I'll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won't face his
 lunch after all the cigarettes I saw him consume."

 "Well, you're out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a remarkable
 big breakfast this morning. I don't know when I've known him make a
 better one, and he's ordered a good dish of cutlets for his lunch.
 I'm surprised myself, for since I came into that room yesterday and
 saw young Mr. Smith lying there on the floor I couldn't bear to look
 at food. Well, it takes all sorts to make a world, and the Professor
 hasn't let it take his appetite away."

 We loitered the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had gone
 down to the village to look into some rumours of a strange woman who
 had been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the previous
 morning. As to my friend, all his usual energy seemed to have
 deserted him. I had never known him handle a case in such a
 half-hearted fashion. Even the news brought back by Hopkins that he
 had found the children and that they had undoubtedly seen a woman
 exactly corresponding with Holmes's description, and wearing either
 spectacles or eye-glasses, failed to rouse any sign of keen interest.
 He was more attentive when Susan, who waited upon us at lunch,
 volunteered the information that she believed Mr. Smith had been out
 for a walk yesterday morning, and that he had only returned half an
 hour before the tragedy occurred. I could not myself see the bearing
 of this incident, but I clearly perceived that Holmes was weaving it
 into the general scheme which he had formed in his brain. Suddenly he
 sprang from his chair and glanced at his watch. "Two o'clock,
 gentlemen," said he. "We must go up and have it out with our friend
 the Professor."

 The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty dish
 bore evidence to the good appetite with which his housekeeper had
 credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure as he turned his white
 mane and his glowing eyes towards us. The eternal cigarette
 smouldered in his mouth. He had been dressed and was seated in an
 arm-chair by the fire.

 "Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?" He shoved the
 large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him towards my
 companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same moment, and
 between them they tipped the box over the edge. For a minute or two
 we were all on our knees retrieving stray cigarettes from impossible
 places. When we rose again I observed that Holmes's eyes were shining
 and his cheeks tinged with colour. Only at a crisis have I seen those
 battle-signals flying.

 "Yes," said he, "I have solved it."

 Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a sneer
 quivered over the gaunt features of the old Professor.

 "Indeed! In the garden?"

 "No, here."

 "Here! When?"

 "This instant."

 "You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to tell
 you that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such a
 fashion."

 "I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor Coram,
 and I am sure that it is sound. What your motives are or what exact
 part you play in this strange business I am not yet able to say. In a
 few minutes I shall probably hear it from your own lips. Meanwhile I
 will reconstruct what is past for your benefit, so that you may know
 the information which I still require.

 "A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention of
 possessing herself of certain documents which were in your bureau.
 She had a key of her own. I have had an opportunity of examining
 yours, and I do not find that slight discolouration which the scratch
 made upon the varnish would have produced. You were not an accessory,
 therefore, and she came, so far as I can read the evidence, without
 your knowledge to rob you."

 The Professor blew a cloud from his lips. "This is most interesting
 and instructive," said he. "Have you no more to add? Surely, having
 traced this lady so far, you can also say what has become of her."

 "I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by your
 secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This catastrophe I am
 inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I am convinced that
 the lady had no intention of inflicting so grievous an injury. An
 assassin does not come unarmed. Horrified by what she had done she
 rushed wildly away from the scene of the tragedy. Unfortunately for
 her she had lost her glasses in the scuffle, and as she was extremely
 short-sighted she was really helpless without them. She ran down a
 corridor, which she imagined to be that by which she had come--both
 were lined with cocoanut matting--and it was only when it was too
 late that she understood that she had taken the wrong passage and
 that her retreat was cut off behind her. What was she to do? She
 could not go back. She could not remain where she was. She must go
 on. She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed open a door, and found
 herself in your room."

 The old man sat with his mouth open staring wildly at Holmes.
 Amazement and fear were stamped upon his expressive features. Now,
 with an effort, he shrugged his shoulders and burst into insincere
 laughter.

 "All very fine, Mr. Holmes," said he. "But there is one little flaw
 in your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I never left it
 during the day."

 "I am aware of that, Professor Coram."

 "And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be aware
 that a woman had entered my room?"

 "I never said so. You were aware of it. You spoke with her. You
 recognised her. You aided her to escape."

 Again the Professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen to
 his feet and his eyes glowed like embers.

 "You are mad!" he cried. "You are talking insanely. I helped her to
 escape? Where is she now?"

 "She is there," said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in the
 corner of the room.

 I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed
 over his grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the same
 instant the bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round upon a
 hinge, and a woman rushed out into the room. "You are right!" she
 cried, in a strange foreign voice. "You are right! I am here."

 She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had
 come from the walls of her hiding-place. Her face, too, was streaked
 with grime, and at the best she could never have been handsome, for
 she had the exact physical characteristics which Holmes had divined,
 with, in addition, a long and obstinate chin. What with her natural
 blindness, and what with the change from dark to light, she stood as
 one dazed, blinking about her to see where and who we were. And yet,
 in spite of all these disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in
 the woman's bearing, a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the
 upraised head, which compelled something of respect and admiration.
 Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her as his
 prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with an
 overmastering dignity which compelled obedience. The old man lay back
 in his chair, with a twitching face, and stared at her with brooding
 eyes.

 "Yes, sir, I am your prisoner," she said. "From where I stood I could
 hear everything, and I know that you have learned the truth. I
 confess it all. It was I who killed the young man. But you are right,
 you who say it was an accident. I did not even know that it was a
 knife which I held in my hand, for in my despair I snatched anything
 from the table and struck at him to make him let me go. It is the
 truth that I tell."

 "Madam," said Holmes, "I am sure that it is the truth. I fear that
 you are far from well."

 She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark
 dust-streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side of the
 bed; then she resumed.

 "I have only a little time here," she said, "but I would have you to
 know the whole truth. I am this man's wife. He is not an Englishman.
 He is a Russian. His name I will not tell."

 For the first time the old man stirred. "God bless you, Anna!" he
 cried. "God bless you!"

 She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. "Why should
 you cling so hard to that wretched life of yours, Sergius?" said she.
 "It has done harm to many and good to none--not even to yourself.
 However, it is not for me to cause the frail thread to be snapped
 before God's time. I have enough already upon my soul since I crossed
 the threshold of this cursed house. But I must speak or I shall be
 too late.

 "I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man's wife. He was fifty and
 I a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city of
 Russia, a University--I will not name the place."

 "God bless you, Anna!" murmured the old man again.

 "We were reformers--revolutionists--Nihilists, you understand. He and
 I and many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a police officer
 was killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted, and in order to
 save his own life and to earn a great reward my husband betrayed his
 own wife and his companions. Yes, we were all arrested upon his
 confession. Some of us found our way to the gallows and some to
 Siberia. I was among these last, but my term was not for life. My
 husband came to England with his ill-gotten gains, and has lived in
 quiet ever since, knowing well that if the Brotherhood knew where he
 was not a week would pass before justice would be done."

 The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a
 cigarette. "I am in your hands, Anna," said he. "You were always good
 to me."

 "I have not yet told you the height of his villainy," said she.
 "Among our comrades of the Order there was one who was the friend of
 my heart. He was noble, unselfish, loving--all that my husband was
 not. He hated violence. We were all guilty--if that is guilt--but he
 was not. He wrote for ever dissuading us from such a course. These
 letters would have saved him. So would my diary, in which from day to
 day I had entered both my feelings towards him and the view which
 each of us had taken. My husband found and kept both diary and
 letters. He hid them, and he tried hard to swear away the young man's
 life. In this he failed, but Alexis was sent a convict to Siberia,
 where now, at this moment, he works in a salt mine. Think of that,
 you villain, you villain; now, now, at this very moment, Alexis, a
 man whose name you are not worthy to speak, works and lives like a
 slave, and yet I have your life in my hands and I let you go."

 "You were always a noble woman, Anna," said the old man, puffing at
 his cigarette.

 She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.

 "I must finish," she said. "When my term was over I set myself to get
 the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian Government, would
 procure my friend's release. I knew that my husband had come to
 England. After months of searching I discovered where he was. I knew
 that he still had the diary, for when I was in Siberia I had a letter
 from him once reproaching me and quoting some passages from its
 pages. Yet I was sure that with his revengeful nature he would never
 give it to me of his own free will. I must get it for myself. With
 this object I engaged an agent from a private detective firm, who
 entered my husband's house as secretary--it was your second
 secretary, Sergius, the one who left you so hurriedly. He found that
 papers were kept in the cupboard, and he got an impression of the
 key. He would not go farther. He furnished me with a plan of the
 house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study was always
 empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I took my
 courage in both hands and I came down to get the papers for myself. I
 succeeded, but at what a cost!

 "I had just taken the papers and was locking the cupboard when the
 young man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He had met
 me in the road and I had asked him to tell me where Professor Coram
 lived, not knowing that he was in his employ."

 "Exactly! exactly!" said Holmes. "The secretary came back and told
 his employer of the woman he had met. Then in his last breath he
 tried to send a message that it was she--the she whom he had just
 discussed with him."

 "You must let me speak," said the woman, in an imperative voice, and
 her face contracted as if in pain. "When he had fallen I rushed from
 the room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in my husband's
 room. He spoke of giving me up. I showed him that if he did so his
 life was in my hands. If he gave me to the law I could give him to
 the Brotherhood. It was not that I wished to live for my own sake,
 but it was that I desired to accomplish my purpose. He knew that I
 would do what I said--that his own fate was involved in mine. For
 that reason and for no other he shielded me. He thrust me into that
 dark hiding-place, a relic of old days, known only to himself. He
 took his meals in his own room, and so was able to give me part of
 his food. It was agreed that when the police left the house I should
 slip away by night and come back no more. But in some way you have
 read our plans." She tore from the bosom of her dress a small packet.
 "These are my last words," said she; "here is the packet which will
 save Alexis. I confide it to your honour and to your love of justice.
 Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian Embassy. Now I have done
 my duty, and--"

 "Stop her!" cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had
 wrenched a small phial from her hand.

 "Too late!" she said, sinking back on the bed. "Too late! I took the
 poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am going! I
 charge you, sir, to remember the packet."

 "A simple case, and yet in some ways an instructive one," Holmes
 remarked, as we travelled back to town. "It hinged from the outset
 upon the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of the dying man
 having seized these I am not sure that we could ever have reached our
 solution. It was clear to me from the strength of the glasses that
 the wearer must have been very blind and helpless when deprived of
 them. When you asked me to believe that she walked along a narrow
 strip of grass without once making a false step I remarked, as you
 may remember, that it was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set
 it down as an impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that
 she had a second pair of glasses. I was forced, therefore, to
 seriously consider the hypothesis that she had remained within the
 house. On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors it became
 clear that she might very easily have made such a mistake, and in
 that case it was evident that she must have entered the Professor's
 room. I was keenly on the alert, therefore, for whatever would bear
 out this supposition, and I examined the room narrowly for anything
 in the shape of a hiding-place. The carpet seemed continuous and
 firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a trap-door. There might
 well be a recess behind the books. As you are aware, such devices are
 common in old libraries. I observed that books were piled on the
 floor at all other points, but that one bookcase was left clear.
 This, then, might be the door. I could see no marks to guide me, but
 the carpet was of a dun colour, which lends itself very well to
 examination. I therefore smoked a great number of those excellent
 cigarettes, and I dropped the ash all over the space in front of the
 suspected bookcase. It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective.
 I then went downstairs and I ascertained, in your presence, Watson,
 without your perceiving the drift of my remarks, that Professor
 Coram's consumption of food had increased--as one would expect when
 he is supplying a second person. We then ascended to the room again,
 when, by upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained a very excellent
 view of the floor, and was able to see quite clearly, from the traces
 upon the cigarette ash, that the prisoner had, in our absence, come
 out from her retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross,
 and I congratulate you on having brought your case to a successful
 conclusion. You are going to head-quarters, no doubt. I think,
 Watson, you and I will drive together to the Russian Embassy."






               THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER

 We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street,
 but I have a particular recollection of one which reached us on a
 gloomy February morning some seven or eight years ago and gave Mr.
 Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of an hour. It was addressed to
 him, and ran thus:

 "Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter
 missing; indispensable to-morrow.
 Overton."

 "Strand post-mark and dispatched ten-thirty-six," said Holmes,
 reading it over and over. "Mr. Overton was evidently considerably
 excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in consequence.
 Well, well, he will be here, I dare say, by the time I have looked
 through the times, and then we shall know all about it. Even the most
 insignificant problem would be welcome in these stagnant days."

 Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned to dread
 such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that my
 companion's brain was so abnormally active that it was dangerous to
 leave it without material upon which to work. For years I had
 gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had threatened once
 to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that under ordinary
 conditions he no longer craved for this artificial stimulus, but I
 was well aware that the fiend was not dead, but sleeping; and I have
 known that the sleep was a light one and the waking near when in
 periods of idleness I have seen the drawn look upon Holmes's ascetic
 face, and the brooding of his deep-set and inscrutable eyes.
 Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton, whoever he might be, since he
 had come with his enigmatic message to break that dangerous calm
 which brought more peril to my friend than all the storms of his
 tempestuous life.

 As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its sender, and
 the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, of Trinity College, Cambridge,
 announced the arrival of an enormous young man, sixteen stone of
 solid bone and muscle, who spanned the doorway with his broad
 shoulders and looked from one of us to the other with a comely face
 which was haggard with anxiety.

 "Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

 My companion bowed.

 "I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector Stanley
 Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case, so far as he
 could see, was more in your line than in that of the regular police."

 "Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter."

 "It's awful, Mr. Holmes, simply awful! I wonder my hair isn't grey.
 Godfrey Staunton--you've heard of him, of course? He's simply the
 hinge that the whole team turns on. I'd rather spare two from the
 pack and have Godfrey for my three-quarter line. Whether it's
 passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there's no one to touch him; and
 then, he's got the head and can hold us all together. What am I to
 do? That's what I ask you, Mr. Holmes. There's Moorhouse, first
 reserve, but he is trained as a half, and he always edges right in on
 to the scrum instead of keeping out on the touch-line. He's a fine
 place-kick, it's true, but, then, he has no judgment, and he can't
 sprint for nuts. Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could
 romp round him. Stevenson is fast enough, but he couldn't drop from
 the twenty-five line, and a three-quarter who can't either punt or
 drop isn't worth a place for pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done
 unless you can help me to find Godfrey Staunton."

 My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech,
 which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness,
 every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand upon
 the speaker's knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes stretched out
 his hand and took down letter "S" of his commonplace book. For once
 he dug in vain into that mine of varied information.

 "There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger," said he, "and
 there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton
 is a new name to me."

 It was our visitor's turn to look surprised.

 "Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things," said he. "I suppose,
 then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton you don't know
 Cyril Overton either?"

 Holmes shook his head good-humouredly.

 "Great Scot!" cried the athlete. "Why, I was first reserve for
 England against Wales, and I've skippered the 'Varsity all this year.
 But that's nothing! I didn't think there was a soul in England who
 didn't know Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter, Cambridge,
 Blackheath, and five Internationals. Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where
 have you lived?"

 Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment.

 "You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton, a sweeter and
 healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sections of
 society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur sport, which is
 the best and soundest thing in England. However, your unexpected
 visit this morning shows me that even in that world of fresh air and
 fair play there may be work for me to do; so now, my good sir, I beg
 you to sit down and to tell me slowly and quietly exactly what it is
 that has occurred, and how you desire that I should help you."

 Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the man who is more
 accustomed to using his muscles than his wits; but by degrees, with
 many repetitions and obscurities which I may omit from his narrative,
 he laid his strange story before us.

 "It's this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper of the
 Rugger team of Cambridge 'Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my best
 man. To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came up and we
 settled at Bentley's private hotel. At ten o'clock I went round and
 saw that all the fellows had gone to roost, for I believe in strict
 training and plenty of sleep to keep a team fit. I had a word or two
 with Godfrey before he turned in. He seemed to me to be pale and
 bothered. I asked him what was the matter. He said he was all
 right--just a touch of headache. I bade him good-night and left him.
 Half an hour later the porter tells me that a rough-looking man with
 a beard called with a note for Godfrey. He had not gone to bed and
 the note was taken to his room. Godfrey read it and fell back in a
 chair as if he had been pole-axed. The porter was so scared that he
 was going to fetch me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water,
 and pulled himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few
 words to the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of them
 went off together. The last that the porter saw of them, they were
 almost running down the street in the direction of the Strand. This
 morning Godfrey's room was empty, his bed had never been slept in,
 and his things were all just as I had seen them the night before. He
 had gone off at a moment's notice with this stranger, and no word has
 come from him since. I don't believe he will ever come back. He was a
 sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow, and he wouldn't have
 stopped his training and let in his skipper if it were not for some
 cause that was too strong for him. No; I feel as if he were gone for
 good and we should never see him again."

 Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this singular
 narrative.

 "What did you do?" he asked.

 "I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of him
 there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him."

 "Could he have got back to Cambridge?"

 "Yes, there is a late train--quarter-past eleven."

 "But so far as you can ascertain he did not take it?"

 "No, he has not been seen."

 "What did you do next?"

 "I wired to Lord Mount-James."

 "Why to Lord Mount-James?"

 "Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest
 relative--his uncle, I believe."

 "Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-James is
 one of the richest men in England."

 "So I've heard Godfrey say."

 "And your friend was closely related?"

 "Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty--cram full of
 gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his
 knuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he is
 an absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough."

 "Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?"

 "No."

 "What motive could your friend have in going to Lord Mount-James?"

 "Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it was to
 do with money it is possible that he would make for his nearest
 relative who had so much of it, though from all I have heard he would
 not have much chance of getting it. Godfrey was not fond of the old
 man. He would not go if he could help it."

 "Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going to his
 relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the visit of
 this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the agitation that
 was caused by his coming."

 Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. "I can make nothing of
 it," said he.

 "Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look into
 the matter," said Holmes. "I should strongly recommend you to make
 your preparations for your match without reference to this young
 gentleman. It must, as you say, have been an overpowering necessity
 which tore him away in such a fashion, and the same necessity is
 likely to hold him away. Let us step round together to this hotel,
 and see if the porter can throw any fresh light upon the matter."

 Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a humble
 witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey
 Staunton's abandoned room, he had extracted all that the porter had
 to tell. The visitor of the night before was not a gentleman, neither
 was he a working man. He was simply what the porter described as a
 "medium-looking chap"; a man of fifty, beard grizzled, pale face,
 quietly dressed. He seemed himself to be agitated. The porter had
 observed his hand trembling when he had held out the note. Godfrey
 Staunton had crammed the note into his pocket. Staunton had not
 shaken hands with the man in the hall. They had exchanged a few
 sentences, of which the porter had only distinguished the one word
 "time." Then they had hurried off in the manner described. It was
 just half-past ten by the hall clock.

 "Let me see," said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton's bed. "You
 are the day porter, are you not?"

 "Yes, sir; I go off duty at eleven."

 "The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?"

 "No, sir; one theatre party came in late. No one else."

 "Were you on duty all day yesterday?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?"

 "Yes, sir; one telegram."

 "Ah! that's interesting. What o'clock was this?"

 "About six."

 "Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?"

 "Here in his room."

 "Were you present when he opened it?"

 "Yes, sir; I waited to see if there was an answer."

 "Well, was there?"

 "Yes, sir. He wrote an answer."

 "Did you take it?"

 "No; he took it himself."

 "But he wrote it in your presence?"

 "Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back turned at
 that table. When he had written it he said, 'All right, porter, I
 will take this myself.'"

 "What did he write it with?"

 "A pen, sir."

 "Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?"

 "Yes, sir; it was the top one."

 Holmes rose. Taking the forms he carried them over to the window and
 carefully examined that which was uppermost.

 "It is a pity he did not write in pencil," said he, throwing them
 down again with a shrug of disappointment. "As you have no doubt
 frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goes through--a
 fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage. However, I can find
 no trace here. I rejoice, however, to perceive that he wrote with a
 broad-pointed quill pen, and I can hardly doubt that we will find
 some impression upon this blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the
 very thing!"

 He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us the
 following hieroglyphic:

 [ Picture: Several unreadable scrawls on paper ]

 Cyril Overton was much excited. "Hold it to the glass!" he cried.

 "That is unnecessary," said Holmes. "The paper is thin, and the
 reverse will give the message. Here it is." He turned it over and we
 read:

 [ Picture: Stand by us for Godâ€™s sake! ]

 "So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton
 dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at
 least six words of the message which have escaped us; but what
 remains--'Stand by us for God's sake!'--proves that this young man
 saw a formidable danger which approached him, and from which someone
 else could protect him. 'Us,' mark you! Another person was involved.
 Who should it be but the pale-faced, bearded man, who seemed himself
 in so nervous a state? What, then, is the connection between Godfrey
 Staunton and the bearded man? And what is the third source from which
 each of them sought for help against pressing danger? Our inquiry has
 already narrowed down to that."

 "We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed," I
 suggested.

 "Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had
 already crossed my mind. But I dare say it may have come to your
 notice that if you walk into a post-office and demand to see the
 counterfoil of another man's message there may be some disinclination
 on the part of the officials to oblige you. There is so much red tape
 in these matters! However, I have no doubt that with a little
 delicacy and finesse the end may be attained. Meanwhile, I should
 like in your presence, Mr. Overton, to go through these papers which
 have been left upon the table."

 There were a number of letters, bills, and note-books, which Holmes
 turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and darting,
 penetrating eyes. "Nothing here," he said, at last. "By the way, I
 suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow--nothing amiss with
 him?"

 "Sound as a bell."

 "Have you ever known him ill?"

 "Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped his
 knee-cap, but that was nothing."

 "Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think he may
 have had some secret trouble. With your assent I will put one or two
 of these papers in my pocket, in case they should bear upon our
 future inquiry."

 "One moment! one moment!" cried a querulous voice, and we looked up
 to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the doorway.
 He was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad brimmed top-hat and
 a loose white necktie--the whole effect being that of a very rustic
 parson or of an undertaker's mute. Yet, in spite of his shabby and
 even absurd appearance, his voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner
 a quick intensity which commanded attention.

 "Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this gentleman's
 papers?" he asked.

 "I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his
 disappearance."

 "Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?"

 "This gentleman, Mr. Staunton's friend, was referred to me by
 Scotland Yard."

 "Who are you, sir?"

 "I am Cyril Overton."

 "Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord Mount-James.
 I came round as quickly as the Bayswater 'bus would bring me. So you
 have instructed a detective?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "And are you prepared to meet the cost?"

 "I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him, will
 be prepared to do that."

 "But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!"

 "In that case no doubt his family--"

 "Nothing of the sort, sir!" screamed the little man. "Don't look to
 me for a penny--not a penny! You understand that, Mr. Detective! I am
 all the family that this young man has got, and I tell you that I am
 not responsible. If he has any expectations it is due to the fact
 that I have never wasted money, and I do not propose to begin to do
 so now. As to those papers with which you are making so free, I may
 tell you that in case there should be anything of any value among
 them you will be held strictly to account for what you do with them."

 "Very good, sir," said Sherlock Holmes. "May I ask in the meanwhile
 whether you have yourself any theory to account for this young man's
 disappearance?"

 "No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look after
 himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself I entirely refuse
 to accept the responsibility of hunting for him."

 "I quite understand your position," said Holmes, with a mischievous
 twinkle in his eyes. "Perhaps you don't quite understand mine.
 Godfrey Staunton appears to have been a poor man. If he has been
 kidnapped it could not have been for anything which he himself
 possesses. The fame of your wealth has gone abroad, Lord Mount-James,
 and it is entirely possible that a gang of thieves have secured your
 nephew in order to gain from him some information as to your house,
 your habits, and your treasure."

 The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his
 neckcloth.

 "Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy! What
 inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine lad--a
 staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle away.
 I'll have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In the
 meantime spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg you to leave no stone
 unturned to bring him safely back. As to money, well, so far as a
 fiver, or even a tenner, goes, you can always look to me."

 Even in his chastened frame of mind the noble miser could give us no
 information which could help us, for he knew little of the private
 life of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated telegram, and
 with a copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to find a second
 link for his chain. We had shaken off Lord Mount-James, and Overton
 had gone to consult with the other members of his team over the
 misfortune which had befallen them.

 There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel. We
 halted outside it.

 "It's worth trying, Watson," said Holmes. "Of course, with a warrant
 we could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not reached that
 stage yet. I don't suppose they remember faces in so busy a place.
 Let us venture it."

 "I am sorry to trouble you," said he, in his blandest manner, to the
 young woman behind the grating; "there is some small mistake about a
 telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I very much fear
 that I must have omitted to put my name at the end. Could you tell me
 if this was so?"

 The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.

 "What o'clock was it?" she asked.

 "A little after six."

 "Whom was it to?"

 Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. "The last words
 in it were 'for God's sake,'" he whispered, confidentially; "I am
 very anxious at getting no answer."

 The young woman separated one of the forms.

 "This is it. There is no name," said she, smoothing it out upon the
 counter.

 "Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer," said
 Holmes. "Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure! Good morning,
 miss, and many thanks for having relieved my mind." He chuckled and
 rubbed his hands when we found ourselves in the street once more.

 "Well?" I asked.

 "We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven different
 schemes for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could hardly
 hope to succeed the very first time."

 "And what have you gained?"

 "A starting-point for our investigation." He hailed a cab. "King's
 Cross Station," said he.

 "We have a journey, then?"

 "Yes; I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All the
 indications seem to me to point in that direction."

 "Tell me," I asked, as we rattled up Gray's Inn Road, "have you any
 suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I don't think
 that among all our cases I have known one where the motives are more
 obscure. Surely you don't really imagine that he may be kidnapped in
 order to give information against his wealthy uncle?"

 "I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as a very
 probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the one which
 was most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant old person."

 "It certainly did that. But what are your alternatives?"

 "I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and
 suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this
 important match, and should involve the only man whose presence seems
 essential to the success of the side. It may, of course, be
 coincidence, but it is interesting. Amateur sport is free from
 betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on among the public,
 and it is possible that it might be worth someone's while to get at a
 player as the ruffians of the turf get at a race-horse. There is one
 explanation. A second very obvious one is that this young man really
 is the heir of a great property, however modest his means may at
 present be, and it is not impossible that a plot to hold him for
 ransom might be concocted."

 "These theories take no account of the telegram."

 "Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid thing
 with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our attention to
 wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the purpose of this
 telegram that we are now upon our way to Cambridge. The path of our
 investigation is at present obscure, but I shall be very much
 surprised if before evening we have not cleared it up or made a
 considerable advance along it."

 It was already dark when we reached the old University city. Holmes
 took a cab at the station, and ordered the man to drive to the house
 of Dr. Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later we had stopped at a
 large mansion in the busiest thoroughfare. We were shown in, and
 after a long wait were at last admitted into the consulting-room,
 where we found the doctor seated behind his table.

 It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession
 that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am aware
 that he is not only one of the heads of the medical school of the
 University, but a thinker of European reputation in more than one
 branch of science. Yet even without knowing his brilliant record one
 could not fail to be impressed by a mere glance at the man, the
 square, massive face, the brooding eyes under the thatched brows, and
 the granite moulding of the inflexible jaw. A man of deep character,
 a man with an alert mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained,
 formidable--so I read Dr. Leslie Armstrong. He held my friend's card
 in his hand, and he looked up with no very pleased expression upon
 his dour features.

 "I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of your
 profession, one of which I by no means approve."

 "In that, doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every
 criminal in the country," said my friend, quietly.

 "So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of
 crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member of
 the community, though I cannot doubt that the official machinery is
 amply sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling is more open to
 criticism is when you pry into the secrets of private individuals,
 when you rake up family matters which are better hidden, and when you
 incidentally waste the time of men who are more busy than yourself.
 At the present moment, for example, I should be writing a treatise
 instead of conversing with you."

 "No doubt, doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more important
 than the treatise. Incidentally I may tell you that we are doing the
 reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we are endeavouring
 to prevent anything like public exposure of private matters which
 must necessarily follow when once the case is fairly in the hands of
 the official police. You may look upon me simply as an irregular
 pioneer who goes in front of the regular forces of the country. I
 have come to ask you about Mr. Godfrey Staunton."

 "What about him?"

 "You know him, do you not?"

 "He is an intimate friend of mine."

 "You are aware that he has disappeared?"

 "Ah, indeed!" There was no change of expression in the rugged
 features of the doctor.

 "He left his hotel last night. He has not been heard of."

 "No doubt he will return."

 "To-morrow is the 'Varsity football match."

 "I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man's fate
 interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The football
 match does not come within my horizon at all."

 "I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr. Staunton's
 fate. Do you know where he is?"

 "Certainly not."

 "You have not seen him since yesterday?"

 "No, I have not."

 "Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?"

 "Absolutely."

 "Did you ever know him ill?"

 "Never."

 Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor's eyes. "Then
 perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen guineas,
 paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie Armstrong of
 Cambridge. I picked it out from among the papers upon his desk."

 The doctor flushed with anger.

 "I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an
 explanation to you, Mr. Holmes."

 Holmes replaced the bill in his note-book. "If you prefer a public
 explanation it must come sooner or later," said he. "I have already
 told you that I can hush up that which others will be bound to
 publish, and you would really be wiser to take me into your complete
 confidence."

 "I know nothing about it."

 "Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?"

 "Certainly not."

 "Dear me, dear me; the post-office again!" Holmes sighed, wearily. "A
 most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by Godfrey
 Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening--a telegram which is
 undoubtedly associated with his disappearance--and yet you have not
 had it. It is most culpable. I shall certainly go down to the office
 here and register a complaint."

 Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his dark
 face was crimson with fury.

 "I'll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir," said he. "You can
 tell your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to have
 anything to do either with him or with his agents. No, sir, not
 another word!" He rang the bell furiously. "John, show these
 gentlemen out!" A pompous butler ushered us severely to the door, and
 we found ourselves in the street. Holmes burst out laughing.

 "Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and character,"
 said he. "I have not seen a man who, if he turned his talents that
 way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by the illustrious
 Moriarty. And now, my poor Watson, here we are, stranded and
 friendless in this inhospitable town, which we cannot leave without
 abandoning our case. This little inn just opposite Armstrong's house
 is singularly adapted to our needs. If you would engage a front room
 and purchase the necessaries for the night, I may have time to make a
 few inquiries."

 These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy proceeding
 than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the inn until
 nearly nine o'clock. He was pale and dejected, stained with dust, and
 exhausted with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper was ready upon the
 table, and when his needs were satisfied and his pipe alight he was
 ready to take that half comic and wholly philosophic view which was
 natural to him when his affairs were going awry. The sound of
 carriage wheels caused him to rise and glance out of the window. A
 brougham and pair of greys under the glare of a gas-lamp stood before
 the doctor's door.

 "It's been out three hours," said Holmes; "started at half-past six,
 and here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or twelve
 miles, and he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day."

 "No unusual thing for a doctor in practice."

 "But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a lecturer
 and a consultant, but he does not care for general practice, which
 distracts him from his literary work. Why, then, does he make these
 long journeys, which must be exceedingly irksome to him, and who is
 it that he visits?"

 "His coachman--"

 "My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first
 applied? I do not know whether it came from his own innate depravity
 or from the promptings of his master, but he was rude enough to set a
 dog at me. Neither dog nor man liked the look of my stick, however,
 and the matter fell through. Relations were strained after that, and
 further inquiries out of the question. All that I have learned I got
 from a friendly native in the yard of our own inn. It was he who told
 me of the doctor's habits and of his daily journey. At that instant,
 to give point to his words, the carriage came round to the door."

 "Could you not follow it?"

 "Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this evening. The idea did
 cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle shop
 next to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and was able
 to get started before the carriage was quite out of sight. I rapidly
 overtook it, and then, keeping at a discreet distance of a hundred
 yards or so, I followed its lights until we were clear of the town.
 We had got well out on the country road when a somewhat mortifying
 incident occurred. The carriage stopped, the doctor alighted, walked
 swiftly back to where I had also halted, and told me in an excellent
 sardonic fashion that he feared the road was narrow, and that he
 hoped his carriage did not impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing
 could have been more admirable than his way of putting it. I at once
 rode past the carriage, and, keeping to the main road, I went on for
 a few miles, and then halted in a convenient place to see if the
 carriage passed. There was no sign of it, however, and so it became
 evident that it had turned down one of several side roads which I had
 observed. I rode back, but again saw nothing of the carriage, and
 now, as you perceive, it has returned after me. Of course, I had at
 the outset no particular reason to connect these journeys with the
 disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and was only inclined to
 investigate them on the general grounds that everything which
 concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest to us; but, now that
 I find he keeps so keen a look-out upon anyone who may follow him on
 these excursions, the affair appears more important, and I shall not
 be satisfied until I have made the matter clear."

 "We can follow him to-morrow."

 "Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You are not familiar
 with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend itself to
 concealment. All this country that I passed over to-night is as flat
 and clean as the palm of your hand, and the man we are following is
 no fool, as he very clearly showed to-night. I have wired to Overton
 to let us know any fresh London developments at this address, and in
 the meantime we can only concentrate our attention upon Dr.
 Armstrong, whose name the obliging young lady at the office allowed
 me to read upon the counterfoil of Staunton's urgent message. He
 knows where the young man is--to that I'll swear--and if he knows,
 then it must be our own fault if we cannot manage to know also. At
 present it must be admitted that the odd trick is in his possession,
 and, as you are aware, Watson, it is not my habit to leave the game
 in that condition."

 And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of the
 mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes passed
 across to me with a smile.

 Sir [it ran]:
 I can assure you that you are wasting your time in dogging my
 movements. I have, as you discovered last night, a window at the back
 of my brougham, and if you desire a twenty-mile ride which will lead
 you to the spot from which you started, you have only to follow me.
 Meanwhile, I can inform you that no spying upon me can in any way
 help Mr. Godfrey Staunton, and I am convinced that the best service
 you can do to that gentleman is to return at once to London and to
 report to your employer that you are unable to trace him. Your time
 in Cambridge will certainly be wasted.
 Yours faithfully,
 Leslie Armstrong.

 "An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor," said Holmes. "Well,
 well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know more before I
 leave him."

 "His carriage is at his door now," said I. "There he is stepping into
 it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so. Suppose I try my
 luck upon the bicycle?"

 "No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your natural acumen I
 do not think that you are quite a match for the worthy doctor. I
 think that possibly I can attain our end by some independent
 explorations of my own. I am afraid that I must leave you to your own
 devices, as the appearance of two inquiring strangers upon a sleepy
 countryside might excite more gossip than I care for. No doubt you
 will find some sights to amuse you in this venerable city, and I hope
 to bring back a more favourable report to you before evening."

 Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disappointed. He
 came back at night weary and unsuccessful.

 "I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the doctor's general
 direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon that
 side of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and other local
 news agencies. I have covered some ground: Chesterton, Histon,
 Waterbeach, and Oakington have each been explored and have each
 proved disappointing. The daily appearance of a brougham and pair
 could hardly have been overlooked in such Sleepy Hollows. The doctor
 has scored once more. Is there a telegram for me?"

 "Yes; I opened it. Here it is:

 "'Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.'
 "I don't understand it."

 "Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is in
 answer to a question from me. I'll just send round a note to Mr.
 Jeremy Dixon, and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn. By
 the way, is there any news of the match?"

 "Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its last
 edition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last sentences of
 the description say:

 "'The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed to the
 unfortunate absence of the crack International, Godfrey Staunton,
 whose want was felt at every instant of the game. The lack of
 combination in the three-quarter line and their weakness both in
 attack and defence more than neutralized the efforts of a heavy and
 hard-working pack.'"

 "Then our friend Overton's forebodings have been justified," said
 Holmes. "Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and
 football does not come within my horizon. Early to bed to-night,
 Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an eventful day."

 I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for he
 sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I associated
 that instrument with the single weakness of his nature, and I feared
 the worst when I saw it glittering in his hand. He laughed at my
 expression of dismay, and laid it upon the table.

 "No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not upon
 this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather prove to be
 the key which will unlock our mystery. On this syringe I base all my
 hopes. I have just returned from a small scouting expedition and
 everything is favourable. Eat a good breakfast, Watson, for I propose
 to get upon Dr. Armstrong's trail to-day, and once on it I will not
 stop for rest or food until I run him to his burrow."

 "In that case," said I, "we had best carry our breakfast with us, for
 he is making an early start. His carriage is at the door."

 "Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can drive where I
 cannot follow him. When you have finished come downstairs with me,
 and I will introduce you to a detective who is a very eminent
 specialist in the work that lies before us."

 When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard, where he
 opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat, lop-eared,
 white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a foxhound.

 "Let me introduce you to Pompey," said he. "Pompey is the pride of
 the local draghounds, no very great flier, as his build will show,
 but a staunch hound on a scent. Well, Pompey, you may not be fast,
 but I expect you will be too fast for a couple of middle-aged London
 gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of fastening this leather leash
 to your collar. Now, boy, come along, and show what you can do." He
 led him across to the doctor's door. The dog sniffed round for an
 instant, and then with a shrill whine of excitement started off down
 the street, tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. In half
 an hour, we were clear of the town and hastening down a country road.

 "What have you done, Holmes?" I asked.

 "A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion. I
 walked into the doctor's yard this morning and shot my syringe full
 of aniseed over the hind wheel. A draghound will follow aniseed from
 here to John o' Groat's, and our friend Armstrong would have to drive
 through the Cam before he would shake Pompey off his trail. Oh, the
 cunning rascal! This is how he gave me the slip the other night."

 The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a grass-grown
 lane. Half a mile farther this opened into another broad road, and
 the trail turned hard to the right in the direction of the town,
 which we had just quitted. The road took a sweep to the south of the
 town and continued in the opposite direction to that in which we
 started.

 "This dÃ©tour has been entirely for our benefit, then?" said Holmes.
 "No wonder that my inquiries among those villages led to nothing. The
 doctor has certainly played the game for all it is worth, and one
 would like to know the reason for such elaborate deception. This
 should be the village of Trumpington to the right of us. And, by
 Jove! here is the brougham coming round the corner. Quick, Watson,
 quick, or we are done!"

 He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctant Pompey
 after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of the hedge when the
 carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse of Dr. Armstrong within,
 his shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his hands, the very image of
 distress. I could tell by my companion's graver face that he also had
 seen.

 "I fear there is some dark ending to our quest," said he. "It cannot
 be long before we know it. Come, Pompey! Ah, it is the cottage in the
 field!"

 There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our journey.
 Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate where the marks
 of the brougham's wheels were still to be seen. A footpath led across
 to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog to the hedge, and we
 hastened onwards. My friend knocked at the little rustic door, and
 knocked again without response. And yet the cottage was not deserted,
 for a low sound came to our ears--a kind of drone of misery and
 despair, which was indescribably melancholy. Holmes paused
 irresolute, and then he glanced back at the road which we had just
 traversed. A brougham was coming down it, and there could be no
 mistaking those grey horses.

 "By Jove, the doctor is coming back!" cried Holmes. "That settles it.
 We are bound to see what it means before he comes."

 He opened the door and we stepped into the hall. The droning sound
 swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long, deep wail of
 distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up and I followed him.
 He pushed open a half-closed door and we both stood appalled at the
 sight before us.

 A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed. Her calm,
 pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward from amid a
 great tangle of golden hair. At the foot of the bed, half sitting,
 half kneeling, his face buried in the clothes, was a young man, whose
 frame was racked by his sobs. So absorbed was he by his bitter grief
 that he never looked up until Holmes's hand was on his shoulder.

 "Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?"

 "Yes, yes; I am--but you are too late. She is dead."

 The man was so dazed that he could not be made to understand that we
 were anything but doctors who had been sent to his assistance. Holmes
 was endeavouring to utter a few words of consolation, and to explain
 the alarm which had been caused to his friends by his sudden
 disappearance, when there was a step upon the stairs, and there was
 the heavy, stern, questioning face of Dr. Armstrong at the door.

 "So, gentlemen," said he, "you have attained your end, and have
 certainly chosen a particularly delicate moment for your intrusion. I
 would not brawl in the presence of death, but I can assure you that
 if I were a younger man your monstrous conduct would not pass with
 impunity."

 "Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little at
 cross-purposes," said my friend, with dignity. "If you could step
 downstairs with us we may each be able to give some light to the
 other upon this miserable affair."

 A minute later the grim doctor and ourselves were in the sitting-room
 below.

 "Well, sir?" said he.

 "I wish you to understand, in the first place, that I am not employed
 by Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this matter are
 entirely against that nobleman. When a man is lost it is my duty to
 ascertain his fate, but having done so the matter ends so far as I am
 concerned; and so long as there is nothing criminal, I am much more
 anxious to hush up private scandals than to give them publicity. If,
 as I imagine, there is no breach of the law in this matter, you can
 absolutely depend upon my discretion and my co-operation in keeping
 the facts out of the papers."

 Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung Holmes by the hand.

 "You are a good fellow," said he. "I had misjudged you. I thank
 Heaven that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all alone in this
 plight caused me to turn my carriage back, and so to make your
 acquaintance. Knowing as much as you do, the situation is very easily
 explained. A year ago Godfrey Staunton lodged in London for a time,
 and became passionately attached to his landlady's daughter, whom he
 married. She was as good as she was beautiful, and as intelligent as
 she was good. No man need be ashamed of such a wife. But Godfrey was
 the heir to this crabbed old nobleman, and it was quite certain that
 the news of his marriage would have been the end of his inheritance.
 I knew the lad well, and I loved him for his many excellent
 qualities. I did all I could to help him to keep things straight. We
 did our very best to keep the thing from everyone, for when once such
 a whisper gets about it is not long before everyone has heard it.
 Thanks to this lonely cottage and his own discretion, Godfrey has up
 to now succeeded. Their secret was known to no one save to me and to
 one excellent servant who has at present gone for assistance to
 Trumpington. But at last there came a terrible blow in the shape of
 dangerous illness to his wife. It was consumption of the most
 virulent kind. The poor boy was half crazed with grief, and yet he
 had to go to London to play this match, for he could not get out of
 it without explanations which would expose his secret. I tried to
 cheer him up by a wire, and he sent me one in reply imploring me to
 do all I could. This was the telegram which you appear in some
 inexplicable way to have seen. I did not tell him how urgent the
 danger was, for I knew that he could do no good here, but I sent the
 truth to the girl's father, and he very injudiciously communicated it
 to Godfrey. The result was that he came straight away in a state
 bordering on frenzy, and has remained in the same state, kneeling at
 the end of her bed, until this morning death put an end to her
 sufferings. That is all, Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that I can rely
 upon your discretion and that of your friend."

 Holmes grasped the doctor's hand.

 "Come, Watson," said he, and we passed from that house of grief into
 the pale sunlight of the winter day.






                    THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE

 It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning during the winter of '97
 that I was awakened by a tugging at my shoulder. It was Holmes. The
 candle in his hand shone upon his eager, stooping face and told me at
 a glance that something was amiss.

 "Come, Watson, come!" he cried. "The game is afoot. Not a word! Into
 your clothes and come!"

 Ten minutes later we were both in a cab and rattling through the
 silent streets on our way to Charing Cross Station. The first faint
 winter's dawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly see the
 occasional figure of an early workman as he passed us, blurred and
 indistinct in the opalescent London reek. Holmes nestled in silence
 into his heavy coat, and I was glad to do the same, for the air was
 most bitter and neither of us had broken our fast. It was not until
 we had consumed some hot tea at the station, and taken our places in
 the Kentish train, that we were sufficiently thawed, he to speak and
 I to listen. Holmes drew a note from his pocket and read it aloud:

 "Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent,
 "3.30 a.m.
 "My dear Mr. Holmes:
 "I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what promises
 to be a most remarkable case. It is something quite in your line.
 Except for releasing the lady I will see that everything is kept
 exactly as I have found it, but I beg you not to lose an instant, as
 it is difficult to leave Sir Eustace there.
 "Yours faithfully,
 "Stanley Hopkins."

 "Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion his
 summons has been entirely justified," said Holmes. "I fancy that
 every one of his cases has found its way into your collection, and I
 must admit, Watson, that you have some power of selection which
 atones for much which I deplore in your narratives. Your fatal habit
 of looking at everything from the point of view of a story instead of
 as a scientific exercise has ruined what might have been an
 instructive and even classical series of demonstrations. You slur
 over work of the utmost finesse and delicacy in order to dwell upon
 sensational details which may excite, but cannot possibly instruct,
 the reader."

 "Why do you not write them yourself?" I said, with some bitterness.

 "I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know, fairly
 busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the composition
 of a text-book which shall focus the whole art of detection into one
 volume. Our present research appears to be a case of murder."

 "You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?"

 "I should say so. Hopkins's writing shows considerable agitation, and
 he is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there has been violence,
 and that the body is left for our inspection. A mere suicide would
 not have caused him to send for me. As to the release of the lady, it
 would appear that she has been locked in her room during the tragedy.
 We are moving in high life, Watson; crackling paper, 'E.B.' monogram,
 coat-of-arms, picturesque address. I think that friend Hopkins will
 live up to his reputation and that we shall have an interesting
 morning. The crime was committed before twelve last night."

 "How can you possibly tell?"

 "By an inspection of the trains and by reckoning the time. The local
 police had to be called in, they had to communicate with Scotland
 Yard, Hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to send for me. All
 that makes a fair night's work. Well, here we are at Chislehurst
 Station, and we shall soon set our doubts at rest."

 A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes brought us
 to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old lodge-keeper, whose
 haggard face bore the reflection of some great disaster. The avenue
 ran through a noble park, between lines of ancient elms, and ended in
 a low, widespread house, pillared in front after the fashion of
 Palladio. The central part was evidently of a great age and shrouded
 in ivy, but the large windows showed that modern changes had been
 carried out, and one wing of the house appeared to be entirely new.
 The youthful figure and alert, eager face of Inspector Stanley
 Hopkins confronted us in the open doorway.

 "I'm very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes. And you too, Dr. Watson!
 But, indeed, if I had my time over again I should not have troubled
 you, for since the lady has come to herself she has given so clear an
 account of the affair that there is not much left for us to do. You
 remember that Lewisham gang of burglars?"

 "What, the three Randalls?"

 "Exactly; the father and two sons. It's their work. I have not a
 doubt of it. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago, and were
 seen and described. Rather cool to do another so soon and so near,
 but it is they, beyond all doubt. It's a hanging matter this time."

 "Sir Eustace is dead, then?"

 "Yes; his head was knocked in with his own poker."

 "Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me."

 "Exactly--one of the richest men in Kent. Lady Brackenstall is in the
 morning-room. Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful experience. She
 seemed half dead when I saw her first. I think you had best see her
 and hear her account of the facts. Then we will examine the
 dining-room together."

 Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom have I seen so
 graceful a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a face.
 She was a blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would, no doubt, have
 had the perfect complexion which goes with such colouring had not her
 recent experience left her drawn and haggard. Her sufferings were
 physical as well as mental, for over one eye rose a hideous,
 plum-coloured swelling, which her maid, a tall, austere woman, was
 bathing assiduously with vinegar and water. The lady lay back
 exhausted upon a couch, but her quick, observant gaze as we entered
 the room, and the alert expression of her beautiful features, showed
 that neither her wits nor her courage had been shaken by her terrible
 experience. She was enveloped in a loose dressing-gown of blue and
 silver, but a black sequin-covered dinner-dress was hung upon the
 couch beside her.

 "I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins," she said, wearily;
 "could you not repeat it for me? Well, if you think it necessary, I
 will tell these gentlemen what occurred. Have they been in the
 dining-room yet?"

 "I thought they had better hear your ladyship's story first."

 "I shall be glad when you can arrange matters. It is horrible to me
 to think of him still lying there." She shuddered and buried her face
 in her hands. As she did so the loose gown fell back from her
 forearms. Holmes uttered an exclamation.

 "You have other injuries, madam! What is this?" Two vivid red spots
 stood out on one of the white, round limbs. She hastily covered it.

 "It is nothing. It has no connection with the hideous business of
 last night. If you and your friend will sit down I will tell you all
 I can.

 "I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I have been married about
 a year. I suppose that it is no use my attempting to conceal that our
 marriage has not been a happy one. I fear that all our neighbours
 would tell you that, even if I were to attempt to deny it. Perhaps
 the fault may be partly mine. I was brought up in the freer, less
 conventional atmosphere of South Australia, and this English life,
 with its proprieties and its primness, is not congenial to me. But
 the main reason lies in the one fact which is notorious to everyone,
 and that is that Sir Eustace was a confirmed drunkard. To be with
 such a man for an hour is unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means
 for a sensitive and high-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and
 night? It is a sacrilege, a crime, a villainy to hold that such a
 marriage is binding. I say that these monstrous laws of yours will
 bring a curse upon the land--Heaven will not let such wickedness
 endure." For an instant she sat up, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes
 blazing from under the terrible mark upon her brow. Then the strong,
 soothing hand of the austere maid drew her head down on to the
 cushion, and the wild anger died away into passionate sobbing. At
 last she continued:--

 "I will tell you about last night. You are aware, perhaps, that in
 this house all servants sleep in the modern wing. This central block
 is made up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen behind and our
 bedroom above. My maid Theresa sleeps above my room. There is no one
 else, and no sound could alarm those who are in the farther wing.
 This must have been well known to the robbers, or they would not have
 acted as they did.

 "Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten. The servants had already
 gone to their quarters. Only my maid was up, and she had remained in
 her room at the top of the house until I needed her services. I sat
 until after eleven in this room, absorbed in a book. Then I walked
 round to see that all was right before I went upstairs. It was my
 custom to do this myself, for, as I have explained, Sir Eustace was
 not always to be trusted. I went into the kitchen, the butler's
 pantry, the gun-room, the billiard-room, the drawing-room, and
 finally the dining-room. As I approached the window, which is covered
 with thick curtains, I suddenly felt the wind blow upon my face and
 realized that it was open. I flung the curtain aside and found myself
 face to face with a broad-shouldered, elderly man who had just
 stepped into the room. The window is a long French one, which really
 forms a door leading to the lawn. I held my bedroom candle lit in my
 hand, and, by its light, behind the first man I saw two others, who
 were in the act of entering. I stepped back, but the fellow was on me
 in an instant. He caught me first by the wrist and then by the
 throat. I opened my mouth to scream, but he struck me a savage blow
 with his fist over the eye, and felled me to the ground. I must have
 been unconscious for a few minutes, for when I came to myself I found
 that they had torn down the bell-rope and had secured me tightly to
 the oaken chair which stands at the head of the dining-room table. I
 was so firmly bound that I could not move, and a handkerchief round
 my mouth prevented me from uttering any sound. It was at this instant
 that my unfortunate husband entered the room. He had evidently heard
 some suspicious sounds, and he came prepared for such a scene as he
 found. He was dressed in his shirt and trousers, with his favourite
 blackthorn cudgel in his hand. He rushed at one of the burglars, but
 another--it was the elderly man--stooped, picked the poker out of the
 grate, and struck him a horrible blow as he passed. He fell without a
 groan, and never moved again. I fainted once more, but again it could
 only have been a very few minutes during which I was insensible. When
 I opened my eyes I found that they had collected the silver from the
 sideboard, and they had drawn a bottle of wine which stood there.
 Each of them had a glass in his hand. I have already told you, have I
 not, that one was elderly, with a beard, and the others young,
 hairless lads. They might have been a father with his two sons. They
 talked together in whispers. Then they came over and made sure that I
 was still securely bound. Finally they withdrew, closing the window
 after them. It was quite a quarter of an hour before I got my mouth
 free. When I did so my screams brought the maid to my assistance. The
 other servants were soon alarmed, and we sent for the local police,
 who instantly communicated with London. That is really all that I can
 tell you, gentlemen, and I trust that it will not be necessary for me
 to go over so painful a story again."

 "Any questions, Mr. Holmes?" asked Hopkins.

 "I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall's patience
 and time," said Holmes. "Before I go into the dining-room I should
 like to hear your experience." He looked at the maid.

 "I saw the men before ever they came into the house," said she. "As I
 sat by my bedroom window I saw three men in the moonlight down by the
 lodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at the time. It was
 more than an hour after that I heard my mistress scream, and down I
 ran, to find her, poor lamb, just as she says, and him on the floor
 with his blood and brains over the room. It was enough to drive a
 woman out of her wits, tied there, and her very dress spotted with
 him; but she never wanted courage, did Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide,
 and Lady Brackenstall of Abbey Grange hasn't learned new ways. You've
 questioned her long enough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming to
 her own room, just with her old Theresa, to get the rest that she
 badly needs."

 With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round her
 mistress and led her from the room.

 "She has been with her all her life," said Hopkins. "Nursed her as a
 baby, and came with her to England when they first left Australia
 eighteen months ago. Theresa Wright is her name, and the kind of maid
 you don't pick up nowadays. This way, Mr. Holmes, if you please!"

 The keen interest had passed out of Holmes's expressive face, and I
 knew that with the mystery all the charm of the case had departed.
 There still remained an arrest to be effected, but what were these
 commonplace rogues that he should soil his hands with them? An
 abstruse and learned specialist who finds that he has been called in
 for a case of measles would experience something of the annoyance
 which I read in my friend's eyes. Yet the scene in the dining-room of
 the Abbey Grange was sufficiently strange to arrest his attention and
 to recall his waning interest.

 It was a very large and high chamber, with carved oak ceiling, oaken
 panelling, and a fine array of deer's heads and ancient weapons
 around the walls. At the farther end from the door was the high
 French window of which we had heard. Three smaller windows on the
 right-hand side filled the apartment with cold winter sunshine. On
 the left was a large, deep fireplace, with a massive, over-hanging
 oak mantelpiece. Beside the fireplace was a heavy oaken chair with
 arms and cross-bars at the bottom. In and out through the open
 woodwork was woven a crimson cord, which was secured at each side to
 the crosspiece below. In releasing the lady the cord had been slipped
 off her, but the knots with which it had been secured still remained.
 These details only struck our attention afterwards, for our thoughts
 were entirely absorbed by the terrible object which lay upon the
 tiger-skin hearthrug in front of the fire.

 It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of age.
 He lay upon his back, his face upturned, with his white teeth
 grinning through his short black beard. His two clenched hands were
 raised above his head, and a heavy blackthorn stick lay across them.
 His dark, handsome, aquiline features were convulsed into a spasm of
 vindictive hatred, which had set his dead face in a terribly fiendish
 expression. He had evidently been in his bed when the alarm had
 broken out, for he wore a foppish embroidered night-shirt, and his
 bare feet projected from his trousers. His head was horribly injured,
 and the whole room bore witness to the savage ferocity of the blow
 which had struck him down. Beside him lay the heavy poker, bent into
 a curve by the concussion. Holmes examined both it and the
 indescribable wreck which it had wrought.

 "He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall," he remarked.

 "Yes," said Hopkins. "I have some record of the fellow, and he is a
 rough customer."

 "You should have no difficulty in getting him."

 "Not the slightest. We have been on the look-out for him, and there
 was some idea that he had got away to America. Now that we know the
 gang are here I don't see how they can escape. We have the news at
 every seaport already, and a reward will be offered before evening.
 What beats me is how they could have done so mad a thing, knowing
 that the lady could describe them, and that we could not fail to
 recognise the description."

 "Exactly. One would have expected that they would have silenced Lady
 Brackenstall as well."

 "They may not have realized," I suggested, "that she had recovered
 from her faint."

 "That is likely enough. If she seemed to be senseless they would not
 take her life. What about this poor fellow, Hopkins? I seem to have
 heard some queer stories about him."

 "He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a perfect fiend
 when he was drunk, or rather when he was half drunk, for he seldom
 really went the whole way. The devil seemed to be in him at such
 times, and he was capable of anything. From what I hear, in spite of
 all his wealth and his title, he very nearly came our way once or
 twice. There was a scandal about his drenching a dog with petroleum
 and setting it on fire--her ladyship's dog, to make the matter
 worse--and that was only hushed up with difficulty. Then he threw a
 decanter at that maid, Theresa Wright; there was trouble about that.
 On the whole, and between ourselves, it will be a brighter house
 without him. What are you looking at now?"

 Holmes was down on his knees examining with great attention the knots
 upon the red cord with which the lady had been secured. Then he
 carefully scrutinized the broken and frayed end where it had snapped
 off when the burglar had dragged it down.

 "When this was pulled down the bell in the kitchen must have rung
 loudly," he remarked.

 "No one could hear it. The kitchen stands right at the back of the
 house."

 "How did the burglar know no one would hear it? How dared he pull at
 a bell-rope in that reckless fashion?"

 "Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You put the very question which I have
 asked myself again and again. There can be no doubt that this fellow
 must have known the house and its habits. He must have perfectly
 understood that the servants would all be in bed at that
 comparatively early hour, and that no one could possibly hear a bell
 ring in the kitchen. Therefore he must have been in close league with
 one of the servants. Surely that is evident. But there are eight
 servants, and all of good character."

 "Other things being equal," said Holmes, "one would suspect the one
 at whose head the master threw a decanter. And yet that would involve
 treachery towards the mistress to whom this woman seems devoted.
 Well, well, the point is a minor one, and when you have Randall you
 will probably find no difficulty in securing his accomplice. The
 lady's story certainly seems to be corroborated, if it needed
 corroboration, by every detail which we see before us." He walked to
 the French window and threw it open. "There are no signs here, but
 the ground is iron hard, and one would not expect them. I see that
 these candles on the mantelpiece have been lighted."

 "Yes; it was by their light and that of the lady's bedroom candle
 that the burglars saw their way about."

 "And what did they take?"

 "Well, they did not take much--only half-a-dozen articles of plate
 off the sideboard. Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were themselves
 so disturbed by the death of Sir Eustace that they did not ransack
 the house as they would otherwise have done."

 "No doubt that is true. And yet they drank some wine, I understand."

 "To steady their own nerves."

 "Exactly. These three glasses upon the sideboard have been untouched,
 I suppose?"

 "Yes; and the bottle stands as they left it."

 "Let us look at it. Halloa! halloa! what is this?"

 The three glasses were grouped together, all of them tinged with
 wine, and one of them containing some dregs of bees-wing. The bottle
 stood near them, two-thirds full, and beside it lay a long,
 deeply-stained cork. Its appearance and the dust upon the bottle
 showed that it was no common vintage which the murderers had enjoyed.

 A change had come over Holmes's manner. He had lost his listless
 expression, and again I saw an alert light of interest in his keen,
 deep-set eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely.

 "How did they draw it?" he asked.

 Hopkins pointed to a half-opened drawer. In it lay some table linen
 and a large cork-screw.

 "Did Lady Brackenstall say that screw was used?"

 "No; you remember that she was senseless at the moment when the
 bottle was opened."

 "Quite so. As a matter of fact that screw was not used. This bottle
 was opened by a pocket-screw, probably contained in a knife, and not
 more than an inch and a half long. If you examine the top of the cork
 you will observe that the screw was driven in three times before the
 cork was extracted. It has never been transfixed. This long screw
 would have transfixed it and drawn it with a single pull. When you
 catch this fellow you will find that he has one of these multiplex
 knives in his possession."

 "Excellent!" said Hopkins.

 "But these glasses do puzzle me, I confess. Lady Brackenstall
 actually saw the three men drinking, did she not?"

 "Yes; she was clear about that."

 "Then there is an end of it. What more is to be said? And yet you
 must admit that the three glasses are very remarkable, Hopkins. What,
 you see nothing remarkable! Well, well, let it pass. Perhaps when a
 man has special knowledge and special powers like my own it rather
 encourages him to seek a complex explanation when a simpler one is at
 hand. Of course, it must be a mere chance about the glasses. Well,
 good morning, Hopkins. I don't see that I can be of any use to you,
 and you appear to have your case very clear. You will let me know
 when Randall is arrested, and any further developments which may
 occur. I trust that I shall soon have to congratulate you upon a
 successful conclusion. Come, Watson, I fancy that we may employ
 ourselves more profitably at home."

 During our return journey I could see by Holmes's face that he was
 much puzzled by something which he had observed. Every now and then,
 by an effort, he would throw off the impression and talk as if the
 matter were clear, but then his doubts would settle down upon him
 again, and his knitted brows and abstracted eyes would show that his
 thoughts had gone back once more to the great dining-room of the
 Abbey Grange in which this midnight tragedy had been enacted. At
 last, by a sudden impulse, just as our train was crawling out of a
 suburban station, he sprang on to the platform and pulled me out
 after him.

 "Excuse me, my dear fellow," said he, as we watched the rear
 carriages of our train disappearing round a curve; "I am sorry to
 make you the victim of what may seem a mere whim, but on my life,
 Watson, I simply can't leave that case in this condition. Every
 instinct that I possess cries out against it. It's wrong--it's all
 wrong--I'll swear that it's wrong. And yet the lady's story was
 complete, the maid's corroboration was sufficient, the detail was
 fairly exact. What have I to put against that? Three wine-glasses,
 that is all. But if I had not taken things for granted, if I had
 examined everything with care which I would have shown had we
 approached the case de novo and had no cut-and-dried story to warp my
 mind, would I not then have found something more definite to go upon?
 Of course I should. Sit down on this bench, Watson, until a train for
 Chislehurst arrives, and allow me to lay the evidence before you,
 imploring you in the first instance to dismiss from your mind the
 idea that anything which the maid or her mistress may have said must
 necessarily be true. The lady's charming personality must not be
 permitted to warp our judgment.

 "Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at it in
 cold blood, would excite our suspicion. These burglars made a
 considerable haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago. Some account of them
 and of their appearance was in the papers, and would naturally occur
 to anyone who wished to invent a story in which imaginary robbers
 should play a part. As a matter of fact, burglars who have done a
 good stroke of business are, as a rule, only too glad to enjoy the
 proceeds in peace and quiet without embarking on another perilous
 undertaking. Again, it is unusual for burglars to operate at so early
 an hour; it is unusual for burglars to strike a lady to prevent her
 screaming, since one would imagine that was the sure way to make her
 scream; it is unusual for them to commit murder when their numbers
 are sufficient to overpower one man; it is unusual for them to be
 content with a limited plunder when there is much more within their
 reach; and finally I should say that it was very unusual for such men
 to leave a bottle half empty. How do all these unusuals strike you,
 Watson?"

 "Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet each of
 them is quite possible in itself. The most unusual thing of all, as
 it seems to me, is that the lady should be tied to the chair."

 "Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson; for it is evident that
 they must either kill her or else secure her in such a way that she
 could not give immediate notice of their escape. But at any rate I
 have shown, have I not, that there is a certain element of
 improbability about the lady's story? And now on the top of this
 comes the incident of the wine-glasses."

 "What about the wine-glasses?"

 "Can you see them in your mind's eye?"

 "I see them clearly."

 "We are told that three men drank from them. Does that strike you as
 likely?"

 "Why not? There was wine in each glass."

 "Exactly; but there was bees-wing only in one glass. You must have
 noticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind?"

 "The last glass filled would be most likely to contain bees-wing."

 "Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable that
 the first two glasses were clear and the third heavily charged with
 it. There are two possible explanations, and only two. One is that
 after the second glass was filled the bottle was violently agitated,
 and so the third glass received the bees-wing. That does not appear
 probable. No, no; I am sure that I am right."

 "What, then, do you suppose?"

 "That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both were
 poured into a third glass, so as to give the false impression that
 three people had been here. In that way all the bees-wing would be in
 the last glass, would it not? Yes, I am convinced that this is so.
 But if I have hit upon the true explanation of this one small
 phenomenon, then in an instant the case rises from the commonplace to
 the exceedingly remarkable, for it can only mean that Lady
 Brackenstall and her maid have deliberately lied to us, that not one
 word of their story is to be believed, that they have some very
 strong reason for covering the real criminal, and that we must
 construct our case for ourselves without any help from them. That is
 the mission which now lies before us, and here, Watson, is the
 Chislehurst train."

 The household of the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our return,
 but Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had gone off to
 report to head-quarters, took possession of the dining-room, locked
 the door upon the inside, and devoted himself for two hours to one of
 those minute and laborious investigations which formed the solid
 basis on which his brilliant edifices of deduction were reared.
 Seated in a corner like an interested student who observes the
 demonstration of his professor, I followed every step of that
 remarkable research. The window, the curtains, the carpet, the chair,
 the rope--each in turn was minutely examined and duly pondered. The
 body of the unfortunate baronet had been removed, but all else
 remained as we had seen it in the morning. Then, to my astonishment,
 Holmes climbed up on to the massive mantelpiece. Far above his head
 hung the few inches of red cord which were still attached to the
 wire. For a long time he gazed upward at it, and then in an attempt
 to get nearer to it he rested his knee upon a wooden bracket on the
 wall. This brought his hand within a few inches of the broken end of
 the rope, but it was not this so much as the bracket itself which
 seemed to engage his attention. Finally he sprang down with an
 ejaculation of satisfaction.

 "It's all right, Watson," said he. "We have got our case--one of the
 most remarkable in our collection. But, dear me, how slow-witted I
 have been, and how nearly I have committed the blunder of my
 lifetime! Now, I think that with a few missing links my chain is
 almost complete."

 "You have got your men?"

 "Man, Watson, man. Only one, but a very formidable person. Strong as
 a lion--witness the blow that bent that poker. Six foot three in
 height, active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers; finally,
 remarkably quick-witted, for this whole ingenious story is of his
 concoction. Yes, Watson, we have come upon the handiwork of a very
 remarkable individual. And yet in that bell-rope he has given us a
 clue which should not have left us a doubt."

 "Where was the clue?"

 "Well, if you were to pull down a bell-rope, Watson, where would you
 expect it to break? Surely at the spot where it is attached to the
 wire. Why should it break three inches from the top as this one has
 done?"

 "Because it is frayed there?"

 "Exactly. This end, which we can examine, is frayed. He was cunning
 enough to do that with his knife. But the other end is not frayed.
 You could not observe that from here, but if you were on the
 mantelpiece you would see that it is cut clean off without any mark
 of fraying whatever. You can reconstruct what occurred. The man
 needed the rope. He would not tear it down for fear of giving the
 alarm by ringing the bell. What did he do? He sprang up on the
 mantelpiece, could not quite reach it, put his knee on the
 bracket--you will see the impression in the dust--and so got his
 knife to bear upon the cord. I could not reach the place by at least
 three inches, from which I infer that he is at least three inches a
 bigger man than I. Look at that mark upon the seat of the oaken
 chair! What is it?"

 "Blood."

 "Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts the lady's story out of
 court. If she were seated on the chair when the crime was done, how
 comes that mark? No, no; she was placed in the chair after the death
 of her husband. I'll wager that the black dress shows a corresponding
 mark to this. We have not yet met our Waterloo, Watson, but this is
 our Marengo, for it begins in defeat and ends in victory. I should
 like now to have a few words with the nurse Theresa. We must be wary
 for awhile, if we are to get the information which we want."

 She was an interesting person, this stern Australian nurse. Taciturn,
 suspicious, ungracious, it took some time before Holmes's pleasant
 manner and frank acceptance of all that she said thawed her into a
 corresponding amiability. She did not attempt to conceal her hatred
 for her late employer.

 "Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard him
 call my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not dare to
 speak so if her brother had been there. Then it was that he threw it
 at me. He might have thrown a dozen if he had but left my bonny bird
 alone. He was for ever illtreating her, and she too proud to
 complain. She will not even tell me all that he has done to her. She
 never told me of those marks on her arm that you saw this morning,
 but I know very well that they come from a stab with a hat-pin. The
 sly fiend--Heaven forgive me that I should speak of him so, now that
 he is dead, but a fiend he was if ever one walked the earth. He was
 all honey when first we met him, only eighteen months ago, and we
 both feel as if it were eighteen years. She had only just arrived in
 London. Yes, it was her first voyage--she had never been from home
 before. He won her with his title and his money and his false London
 ways. If she made a mistake she has paid for it, if ever a woman did.
 What month did we meet him? Well, I tell you it was just after we
 arrived. We arrived in June, and it was July. They were married in
 January of last year. Yes, she is down in the morning-room again, and
 I have no doubt she will see you, but you must not ask too much of
 her, for she has gone through all that flesh and blood will stand."

 Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked
 brighter than before. The maid had entered with us, and began once
 more to foment the bruise upon her mistress's brow.

 "I hope," said the lady, "that you have not come to cross-examine me
 again?"

 "No," Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice, "I will not cause you
 any unnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my whole desire is to
 make things easy for you, for I am convinced that you are a
 much-tried woman. If you will treat me as a friend and trust me you
 may find that I will justify your trust."

 "What do you want me to do?"

 "To tell me the truth."

 "Mr. Holmes!"

 "No, no, Lady Brackenstall, it is no use. You may have heard of any
 little reputation which I possess. I will stake it all on the fact
 that your story is an absolute fabrication."

 Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces and
 frightened eyes.

 "You are an impudent fellow!" cried Theresa. "Do you mean to say that
 my mistress has told a lie?"

 Holmes rose from his chair.

 "Have you nothing to tell me?"

 "I have told you everything."

 "Think once more, Lady Brackenstall. Would it not be better to be
 frank?"

 For an instant there was hesitation in her beautiful face. Then some
 new strong thought caused it to set like a mask.

 "I have told you all I know."

 Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. "I am sorry," he
 said, and without another word we left the room and the house. There
 was a pond in the park, and to this my friend led the way. It was
 frozen over, but a single hole was left for the convenience of a
 solitary swan. Holmes gazed at it and then passed on to the lodge
 gate. There he scribbled a short note for Stanley Hopkins and left it
 with the lodge-keeper.

 "It may be a hit or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do
 something for friend Hopkins, just to justify this second visit,"
 said he. "I will not quite take him into my confidence yet. I think
 our next scene of operations must be the shipping office of the
 Adelaide-Southampton line, which stands at the end of Pall Mall, if I
 remember right. There is a second line of steamers which connect
 South Australia with England, but we will draw the larger cover
 first."

 Holmes's card sent in to the manager ensured instant attention, and
 he was not long in acquiring all the information which he needed. In
 June of '95 only one of their line had reached a home port. It was
 the Rock of Gibraltar, their largest and best boat. A reference to
 the passenger list showed that Miss Fraser of Adelaide, with her
 maid, had made the voyage in her. The boat was now on her way to
 Australia, somewhere to the south of the Suez Canal. Her officers
 were the same as in '95, with one exception. The first officer, Mr.
 Jack Croker, had been made a captain and was to take charge of their
 new ship, the Bass Rock, sailing in two days' time from Southampton.
 He lived at Sydenham, but he was likely to be in that morning for
 instructions, if we cared to wait for him.

 No; Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him, but would be glad to know
 more about his record and character.

 His record was magnificent. There was not an officer in the fleet to
 touch him. As to his character, he was reliable on duty, but a wild,
 desperate fellow off the deck of his ship, hot-headed, excitable, but
 loyal, honest, and kind-hearted. That was the pith of the information
 with which Holmes left the office of the Adelaide-Southampton
 company. Thence he drove to Scotland Yard, but instead of entering he
 sat in his cab with his brows drawn down, lost in profound thought.
 Finally he drove round to the Charing Cross telegraph office, sent
 off a message, and then, at last, we made for Baker Street once more.

 "No, I couldn't do it, Watson," said he, as we re-entered our room.
 "Once that warrant was made out nothing on earth would save him. Once
 or twice in my career I feel that I have done more real harm by my
 discovery of the criminal than ever he had done by his crime. I have
 learned caution now, and I had rather play tricks with the law of
 England than with my own conscience. Let us know a little more before
 we act."

 Before evening we had a visit from Inspector Stanley Hopkins. Things
 were not going very well with him.

 "I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes. I really do sometimes
 think that you have powers that are not human. Now, how on earth
 could you know that the stolen silver was at the bottom of that
 pond?"

 "I didn't know it."

 "But you told me to examine it."

 "You got it, then?"

 "Yes, I got it."

 "I am very glad if I have helped you."

 "But you haven't helped me. You have made the affair far more
 difficult. What sort of burglars are they who steal silver and then
 throw it into the nearest pond?"

 "It was certainly rather eccentric behaviour. I was merely going on
 the idea that if the silver had been taken by persons who did not
 want it, who merely took it for a blind as it were, then they would
 naturally be anxious to get rid of it."

 "But why should such an idea cross your mind?"

 "Well, I thought it was possible. When they came out through the
 French window there was the pond, with one tempting little hole in
 the ice, right in front of their noses. Could there be a better
 hiding-place?"

 "Ah, a hiding-place--that is better!" cried Stanley Hopkins. "Yes,
 yes, I see it all now! It was early, there were folk upon the roads,
 they were afraid of being seen with the silver, so they sank it in
 the pond, intending to return for it when the coast was clear.
 Excellent, Mr. Holmes--that is better than your idea of a blind."

 "Quite so; you have got an admirable theory. I have no doubt that my
 own ideas were quite wild, but you must admit that they have ended in
 discovering the silver."

 "Yes, sir, yes. It was all your doing. But I have had a bad
 set-back."

 "A set-back?"

 "Yes, Mr. Holmes. The Randall gang were arrested in New York this
 morning."

 "Dear me, Hopkins! That is certainly rather against your theory that
 they committed a murder in Kent last night."

 "It is fatal, Mr. Holmes, absolutely fatal. Still, there are other
 gangs of three besides the Randalls, or it may be some new gang of
 which the police have never heard."

 "Quite so; it is perfectly possible. What, are you off?"

 "Yes, Mr. Holmes; there is no rest for me until I have got to the
 bottom of the business. I suppose you have no hint to give me?"

 "I have given you one."

 "Which?"

 "Well, I suggested a blind."

 "But why, Mr. Holmes, why?"

 "Ah, that's the question, of course. But I commend the idea to your
 mind. You might possibly find that there was something in it. You
 won't stop for dinner? Well, good-bye, and let us know how you get
 on."

 Dinner was over and the table cleared before Holmes alluded to the
 matter again. He had lit his pipe and held his slippered feet to the
 cheerful blaze of the fire. Suddenly he looked at his watch.

 "I expect developments, Watson."

 "When?"

 "Now--within a few minutes. I dare say you thought I acted rather
 badly to Stanley Hopkins just now?"

 "I trust your judgment."

 "A very sensible reply, Watson. You must look at it this way: what I
 know is unofficial; what he knows is official. I have the right to
 private judgment, but he has none. He must disclose all, or he is a
 traitor to his service. In a doubtful case I would not put him in so
 painful a position, and so I reserve my information until my own mind
 is clear upon the matter."

 "But when will that be?"

 "The time has come. You will now be present at the last scene of a
 remarkable little drama."

 There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was opened to admit
 as fine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through it. He was a
 very tall young man, golden-moustached, blue-eyed, with a skin which
 had been burned by tropical suns, and a springy step which showed
 that the huge frame was as active as it was strong. He closed the
 door behind him, and then he stood with clenched hands and heaving
 breast, choking down some overmastering emotion.

 "Sit down, Captain Croker. You got my telegram?"

 Our visitor sank into an arm-chair and looked from one to the other
 of us with questioning eyes.

 "I got your telegram, and I came at the hour you said. I heard that
 you had been down to the office. There was no getting away from you.
 Let's hear the worst. What are you going to do with me? Arrest me?
 Speak out, man! You can't sit there and play with me like a cat with
 a mouse."

 "Give him a cigar," said Holmes. "Bite on that, Captain Croker, and
 don't let your nerves run away with you. I should not sit here
 smoking with you if I thought that you were a common criminal, you
 may be sure of that. Be frank with me, and we may do some good. Play
 tricks with me, and I'll crush you."

 "What do you wish me to do?"

 "To give me a true account of all that happened at the Abbey Grange
 last night--a true account, mind you, with nothing added and nothing
 taken off. I know so much already that if you go one inch off the
 straight I'll blow this police whistle from my window and the affair
 goes out of my hands for ever."

 The sailor thought for a little. Then he struck his leg with his
 great, sun-burned hand.

 "I'll chance it," he cried. "I believe you are a man of your word,
 and a white man, and I'll tell you the whole story. But one thing I
 will say first. So far as I am concerned I regret nothing and I fear
 nothing, and I would do it all again and be proud of the job. Curse
 the beast, if he had as many lives as a cat he would owe them all to
 me! But it's the lady, Mary--Mary Fraser--for never will I call her
 by that accursed name. When I think of getting her into trouble, I
 who would give my life just to bring one smile to her dear face, it's
 that that turns my soul into water. And yet--and yet--what less could
 I do? I'll tell you my story, gentlemen, and then I'll ask you as man
 to man what less could I do.

 "I must go back a bit. You seem to know everything, so I expect that
 you know that I met her when she was a passenger and I was first
 officer of the Rock of Gibraltar. From the first day I met her she
 was the only woman to me. Every day of that voyage I loved her more,
 and many a time since have I kneeled down in the darkness of the
 night watch and kissed the deck of that ship because I knew her dear
 feet had trod it. She was never engaged to me. She treated me as
 fairly as ever a woman treated a man. I have no complaint to make. It
 was all love on my side, and all good comradeship and friendship on
 hers. When we parted she was a free woman, but I could never again be
 a free man.

 "Next time I came back from sea I heard of her marriage. Well, why
 shouldn't she marry whom she liked? Title and money--who could carry
 them better than she? She was born for all that is beautiful and
 dainty. I didn't grieve over her marriage. I was not such a selfish
 hound as that. I just rejoiced that good luck had come her way, and
 that she had not thrown herself away on a penniless sailor. That's
 how I loved Mary Fraser.

 "Well, I never thought to see her again; but last voyage I was
 promoted, and the new boat was not yet launched, so I had to wait for
 a couple of months with my people at Sydenham. One day out in a
 country lane I met Theresa Wright, her old maid. She told me about
 her, about him, about everything. I tell you, gentlemen, it nearly
 drove me mad. This drunken hound, that he should dare to raise his
 hand to her whose boots he was not worthy to lick! I met Theresa
 again. Then I met Mary herself--and met her again. Then she would
 meet me no more. But the other day I had a notice that I was to start
 on my voyage within a week, and I determined that I would see her
 once before I left. Theresa was always my friend, for she loved Mary
 and hated this villain almost as much as I did. From her I learned
 the ways of the house. Mary used to sit up reading in her own little
 room downstairs. I crept round there last night and scratched at the
 window. At first she would not open to me, but in her heart I know
 that now she loves me, and she could not leave me in the frosty
 night. She whispered to me to come round to the big front window, and
 I found it open before me so as to let me into the dining-room. Again
 I heard from her own lips things that made my blood boil, and again I
 cursed this brute who mishandled the woman that I loved. Well,
 gentlemen, I was standing with her just inside the window, in all
 innocence, as Heaven is my judge, when he rushed like a madman into
 the room, called her the vilest name that a man could use to a woman,
 and welted her across the face with the stick he had in his hand. I
 had sprung for the poker, and it was a fair fight between us. See
 here on my arm where his first blow fell. Then it was my turn, and I
 went through him as if he had been a rotten pumpkin. Do you think I
 was sorry? Not I! It was his life or mine, but far more than that it
 was his life or hers, for how could I leave her in the power of this
 madman? That was how I killed him. Was I wrong? Well, then, what
 would either of you gentlemen have done if you had been in my
 position?

 "She had screamed when he struck her, and that brought old Theresa
 down from the room above. There was a bottle of wine on the
 sideboard, and I opened it and poured a little between Mary's lips,
 for she was half dead with the shock. Then I took a drop myself.
 Theresa was as cool as ice, and it was her plot as much as mine. We
 must make it appear that burglars had done the thing. Theresa kept on
 repeating our story to her mistress, while I swarmed up and cut the
 rope of the bell. Then I lashed her in her chair, and frayed out the
 end of the rope to make it look natural, else they would wonder how
 in the world a burglar could have got up there to cut it. Then I
 gathered up a few plates and pots of silver, to carry out the idea of
 a robbery, and there I left them with orders to give the alarm when I
 had a quarter of an hour's start. I dropped the silver into the pond
 and made off for Sydenham, feeling that for once in my life I had
 done a real good night's work. And that's the truth and the whole
 truth, Mr. Holmes, if it costs me my neck."

 Holmes smoked for some time in silence. Then he crossed the room and
 shook our visitor by the hand.

 "That's what I think," said he. "I know that every word is true, for
 you have hardly said a word which I did not know. No one but an
 acrobat or a sailor could have got up to that bell-rope from the
 bracket, and no one but a sailor could have made the knots with which
 the cord was fastened to the chair. Only once had this lady been
 brought into contact with sailors, and that was on her voyage, and it
 was someone of her own class of life, since she was trying hard to
 shield him and so showing that she loved him. You see how easy it was
 for me to lay my hands upon you when once I had started upon the
 right trail."

 "I thought the police never could have seen through our dodge."

 "And the police haven't; nor will they, to the best of my belief.
 Now, look here, Captain Croker, this is a very serious matter, though
 I am willing to admit that you acted under the most extreme
 provocation to which any man could be subjected. I am not sure that
 in defence of your own life your action will not be pronounced
 legitimate. However, that is for a British jury to decide. Meanwhile
 I have so much sympathy for you that if you choose to disappear in
 the next twenty-four hours I will promise you that no one will hinder
 you."

 "And then it will all come out?"

 "Certainly it will come out."

 The sailor flushed with anger.

 "What sort of proposal is that to make a man? I know enough of law to
 understand that Mary would be had as accomplice. Do you think I would
 leave her alone to face the music while I slunk away? No, sir; let
 them do their worst upon me, but for Heaven's sake, Mr. Holmes, find
 some way of keeping my poor Mary out of the courts."

 Holmes for a second time held out his hand to the sailor.

 "I was only testing you, and you ring true every time. Well, it is a
 great responsibility that I take upon myself, but I have given
 Hopkins an excellent hint, and if he can't avail himself of it I can
 do no more. See here, Captain Croker, we'll do this in due form of
 law. You are the prisoner. Watson, you are a British jury, and I
 never met a man who was more eminently fitted to represent one. I am
 the judge. Now, gentleman of the jury, you have heard the evidence.
 Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?"

 "Not guilty, my lord," said I.

 "Vox populi, vox Dei. You are acquitted, Captain Croker. So long as
 the law does not find some other victim you are safe from me. Come
 back to this lady in a year, and may her future and yours justify us
 in the judgment which we have pronounced this night."






                    THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND STAIN

 I had intended "The Adventure of the Abbey Grange" to be the last of
 those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which I should ever
 communicate to the public. This resolution of mine was not due to any
 lack of material, since I have notes of many hundreds of cases to
 which I have never alluded, nor was it caused by any waning interest
 on the part of my readers in the singular personality and unique
 methods of this remarkable man. The real reason lay in the reluctance
 which Mr. Holmes has shown to the continued publication of his
 experiences. So long as he was in actual professional practice the
 records of his successes were of some practical value to him; but
 since he has definitely retired from London and betaken himself to
 study and bee-farming on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become
 hateful to him, and he has peremptorily requested that his wishes in
 this matter should be strictly observed. It was only upon my
 representing to him that I had given a promise that "The Adventure of
 the Second Stain" should be published when the times were ripe, and
 pointing out to him that it is only appropriate that this long series
 of episodes should culminate in the most important international case
 which he has ever been called upon to handle, that I at last
 succeeded in obtaining his consent that a carefully-guarded account
 of the incident should at last be laid before the public. If in
 telling the story I seem to be somewhat vague in certain details the
 public will readily understand that there is an excellent reason for
 my reticence.

 It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be
 nameless, that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found two
 visitors of European fame within the walls of our humble room in
 Baker Street. The one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and dominant,
 was none other than the illustrious Lord Bellinger, twice Premier of
 Britain. The other, dark, clear-cut, and elegant, hardly yet of
 middle age, and endowed with every beauty of body and of mind, was
 the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope, Secretary for European Affairs,
 and the most rising statesman in the country. They sat side by side
 upon our paper-littered settee, and it was easy to see from their
 worn and anxious faces that it was business of the most pressing
 importance which had brought them. The Premier's thin, blue-veined
 hands were clasped tightly over the ivory head of his umbrella, and
 his gaunt, ascetic face looked gloomily from Holmes to me. The
 European Secretary pulled nervously at his moustache and fidgeted
 with the seals of his watch-chain.

 "When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, which was at eight o'clock
 this morning, I at once informed the Prime Minister. It was at his
 suggestion that we have both come to you."

 "Have you informed the police?"

 "No, sir," said the Prime Minister, with the quick, decisive manner
 for which he was famous. "We have not done so, nor is it possible
 that we should do so. To inform the police must, in the long run,
 mean to inform the public. This is what we particularly desire to
 avoid."

 "And why, sir?"

 "Because the document in question is of such immense importance that
 its publication might very easily--I might almost say probably--lead
 to European complications of the utmost moment. It is not too much to
 say that peace or war may hang upon the issue. Unless its recovery
 can be attended with the utmost secrecy, then it may as well not be
 recovered at all, for all that is aimed at by those who have taken it
 is that its contents should be generally known."

 "I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I should be much obliged if
 you would tell me exactly the circumstances under which this document
 disappeared."

 "That can be done in a very few words, Mr. Holmes. The letter--for it
 was a letter from a foreign potentate--was received six days ago. It
 was of such importance that I have never left it in my safe, but I
 have taken it across each evening to my house in Whitehall Terrace,
 and kept it in my bedroom in a locked despatch-box. It was there last
 night. Of that I am certain. I actually opened the box while I was
 dressing for dinner, and saw the document inside. This morning it was
 gone. The despatch-box had stood beside the glass upon my
 dressing-table all night. I am a light sleeper, and so is my wife. We
 are both prepared to swear that no one could have entered the room
 during the night. And yet I repeat that the paper is gone."

 "What time did you dine?"

 "Half-past seven."

 "How long was it before you went to bed?"

 "My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up for her. It was
 half-past eleven before we went to our room."

 "Then for four hours the despatch-box had lain unguarded?"

 "No one is ever permitted to enter that room save the housemaid in
 the morning, and my valet, or my wife's maid, during the rest of the
 day. They are both trusty servants who have been with us for some
 time. Besides, neither of them could possibly have known that there
 was anything more valuable than the ordinary departmental papers in
 my despatch-box."

 "Who did know of the existence of that letter?"

 "No one in the house."

 "Surely your wife knew?"

 "No, sir; I had said nothing to my wife until I missed the paper this
 morning."

 The Premier nodded approvingly.

 "I have long known, sir, how high is your sense of public duty," said
 he. "I am convinced that in the case of a secret of this importance
 it would rise superior to the most intimate domestic ties."

 The European Secretary bowed.

 "You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this morning I have never
 breathed one word to my wife upon this matter."

 "Could she have guessed?"

 "No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have guessed--nor could anyone have
 guessed."

 "Have you lost any documents before?"

 "No, sir."

 "Who is there in England who did know of the existence of this
 letter?"

 "Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday; but the
 pledge of secrecy which attends every Cabinet meeting was increased
 by the solemn warning which was given by the Prime Minister. Good
 heavens, to think that within a few hours I should myself have lost
 it!" His handsome face was distorted with a spasm of despair, and his
 hands tore at his hair. For a moment we caught a glimpse of the
 natural man, impulsive, ardent, keenly sensitive. The next the
 aristocratic mask was replaced, and the gentle voice had returned.
 "Besides the members of the Cabinet there are two, or possibly three,
 departmental officials who know of the letter. No one else in
 England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you."

 "But abroad?"

 "I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the man who wrote it.
 I am well convinced that his Ministers--that the usual official
 channels have not been employed."

 Holmes considered for some little time.

 "Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly what this document is,
 and why its disappearance should have such momentous consequences?"

 The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance and the Premier's shaggy
 eyebrows gathered in a frown.

 "Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin one of pale blue colour.
 There is a seal of red wax stamped with a crouching lion. It is
 addressed in large, bold handwriting to--"

 "I fear, sir," said Holmes, "that, interesting and indeed essential
 as these details are, my inquiries must go more to the root of
 things. What was the letter?"

 "That is a State secret of the utmost importance, and I fear that I
 cannot tell you, nor do I see that it is necessary. If by the aid of
 the powers which you are said to possess you can find such an
 envelope as I describe with its enclosure, you will have deserved
 well of your country, and earned any reward which it lies in our
 power to bestow."

 Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile.

 "You are two of the most busy men in the country," said he, "and in
 my own small way I have also a good many calls upon me. I regret
 exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter, and any
 continuation of this interview would be a waste of time."

 The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, fierce gleam of his
 deep-set eyes before which a Cabinet has cowered. "I am not
 accustomed, sir--" he began, but mastered his anger and resumed his
 seat. For a minute or more we all sat in silence. Then the old
 statesman shrugged his shoulders.

 "We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right, and
 it is unreasonable for us to expect you to act unless we give you our
 entire confidence."

 "I agree with you, sir," said the younger statesman.

 "Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your honour and that of
 your colleague, Dr. Watson. I may appeal to your patriotism also, for
 I could not imagine a greater misfortune for the country than that
 this affair should come out."

 "You may safely trust us."

 "The letter, then, is from a certain foreign potentate who has been
 ruffled by some recent Colonial developments of this country. It has
 been written hurriedly and upon his own responsibility entirely.
 Inquiries have shown that his Ministers know nothing of the matter.
 At the same time it is couched in so unfortunate a manner, and
 certain phrases in it are of so provocative a character, that its
 publication would undoubtedly lead to a most dangerous state of
 feeling in this country. There would be such a ferment, sir, that I
 do not hesitate to say that within a week of the publication of that
 letter this country would be involved in a great war."

 Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of paper and handed it to the
 Premier.

 "Exactly. It was he. And it is this letter--this letter which may
 well mean the expenditure of a thousand millions and the lives of a
 hundred thousand men--which has become lost in this unaccountable
 fashion."

 "Have you informed the sender?"

 "Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been despatched."

 "Perhaps he desires the publication of the letter."

 "No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that he already
 understands that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed manner.
 It would be a greater blow to him and to his country than to us if
 this letter were to come out."

 "If this is so, whose interest is it that the letter should come out?
 Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?"

 "There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high international
 politics. But if you consider the European situation you will have no
 difficulty in perceiving the motive. The whole of Europe is an armed
 camp. There is a double league which makes a fair balance of military
 power. Great Britain holds the scales. If Britain were driven into
 war with one confederacy, it would assure the supremacy of the other
 confederacy, whether they joined in the war or not. Do you follow?"

 "Very clearly. It is then the interest of the enemies of this
 potentate to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a breach
 between his country and ours?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the hands of
 an enemy?"

 "To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe. It is probably speeding
 on its way thither at the present instant as fast as steam can take
 it."

 Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his chest and groaned aloud.
 The Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder.

 "It is your misfortune, my dear fellow. No one can blame you. There
 is no precaution which you have neglected. Now, Mr. Holmes, you are
 in full possession of the facts. What course do you recommend?"

 Holmes shook his head mournfully.

 "You think, sir, that unless this document is recovered there will be
 war?"

 "I think it is very probable."

 "Then, sir, prepare for war."

 "That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes."

 "Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that it was taken after
 eleven-thirty at night, since I understand that Mr. Hope and his wife
 were both in the room from that hour until the loss was found out. It
 was taken, then, yesterday evening between seven-thirty and
 eleven-thirty, probably near the earlier hour, since whoever took it
 evidently knew that it was there and would naturally secure it as
 early as possible. Now, sir, if a document of this importance were
 taken at that hour, where can it be now? No one has any reason to
 retain it. It has been passed rapidly on to those who need it. What
 chance have we now to overtake or even to trace it? It is beyond our
 reach."

 The Prime Minister rose from the settee.

 "What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. I feel that the
 matter is indeed out of our hands."

 "Let us presume, for argument's sake, that the document was taken by
 the maid or by the valet--"

 "They are both old and tried servants."

 "I understand you to say that your room is on the second floor, that
 there is no entrance from without, and that from within no one could
 go up unobserved. It must, then, be somebody in the house who has
 taken it. To whom would the thief take it? To one of several
 international spies and secret agents, whose names are tolerably
 familiar to me. There are three who may be said to be the heads of
 their profession. I will begin my research by going round and finding
 if each of them is at his post. If one is missing--especially if he
 has disappeared since last night--we will have some indication as to
 where the document has gone."

 "Why should he be missing?" asked the European Secretary. "He would
 take the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as not."

 "I fancy not. These agents work independently, and their relations
 with the Embassies are often strained."

 The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.

 "I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would take so valuable a
 prize to head-quarters with his own hands. I think that your course
 of action is an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we cannot neglect all
 our other duties on account of this one misfortune. Should there be
 any fresh developments during the day we shall communicate with you,
 and you will no doubt let us know the results of your own inquiries."

 The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.

 When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe in
 silence, and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought. I had
 opened the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational crime
 which had occurred in London the night before, when my friend gave an
 exclamation, sprang to his feet, and laid his pipe down upon the
 mantelpiece.

 "Yes," said he, "there is no better way of approaching it. The
 situation is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we could be
 sure which of them has taken it, it is just possible that it has not
 yet passed out of his hands. After all, it is a question of money
 with these fellows, and I have the British Treasury behind me. If
 it's on the market I'll buy it--if it means another penny on the
 income-tax. It is conceivable that the fellow might hold it back to
 see what bids come from this side before he tries his luck on the
 other. There are only those three capable of playing so bold a game;
 there are Oberstein, La Rothiere, and Eduardo Lucas. I will see each
 of them."

 I glanced at my morning paper.

 "Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?"

 "Yes."

 "You will not see him."

 "Why not?"

 "He was murdered in his house last night."

 My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our adventures
 that it was with a sense of exultation that I realized how completely
 I had astonished him. He stared in amazement, and then snatched the
 paper from my hands. This was the paragraph which I had been engaged
 in reading when he rose from his chair:

                          Murder in Westminster
 A crime of mysterious character was committed last night at 16,
 Godolphin Street, one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows of
 eighteenth-century houses which lie between the river and the Abbey,
 almost in the shadow of the great Tower of the Houses of Parliament.
 This small but select mansion has been inhabited for some years by
 Mr. Eduardo Lucas, well known in society circles both on account of
 his charming personality and because he has the well-deserved
 reputation of being one of the best amateur tenors in the country.
 Mr. Lucas is an unmarried man, thirty-four years of age, and his
 establishment consists of Mrs. Pringle, an elderly housekeeper, and
 of Mitton, his valet. The former retires early and sleeps at the top
 of the house. The valet was out for the evening, visiting a friend at
 Hammersmith. From ten o'clock onwards Mr. Lucas had the house to
 himself. What occurred during that time has not yet transpired, but
 at a quarter to twelve Police-constable Barrett, passing along
 Godolphin Street, observed that the door of No. 16 was ajar. He
 knocked, but received no answer. Perceiving a light in the front room
 he advanced into the passage and again knocked, but without reply. He
 then pushed open the door and entered. The room was in a state of
 wild disorder, the furniture being all swept to one side, and one
 chair lying on its back in the centre. Beside this chair, and still
 grasping one of its legs, lay the unfortunate tenant of the house. He
 had been stabbed to the heart and must have died instantly. The knife
 with which the crime had been committed was a curved Indian dagger,
 plucked down from a trophy of Oriental arms which adorned one of the
 walls. Robbery does not appear to have been the motive of the crime,
 for there had been no attempt to remove the valuable contents of the
 room. Mr. Eduardo Lucas was so well known and popular that his
 violent and mysterious fate will arouse painful interest and intense
 sympathy in a wide-spread circle of friends.

 "Well, Watson, what do you make of this?" asked Holmes, after a long
 pause.

 "It is an amazing coincidence."

 "A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named as
 possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death during
 the very hours when we know that that drama was being enacted. The
 odds are enormous against its being coincidence. No figures could
 express them. No, my dear Watson, the two events are connected--must
 be connected. It is for us to find the connection."

 "But now the official police must know all."

 "Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. They
 know--and shall know--nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only we know of
 both events, and can trace the relation between them. There is one
 obvious point which would, in any case, have turned my suspicions
 against Lucas. Godolphin Street, Westminster, is only a few minutes'
 walk from Whitehall Terrace. The other secret agents whom I have
 named live in the extreme West-end. It was easier, therefore, for
 Lucas than for the others to establish a connection or receive a
 message from the European Secretary's household--a small thing, and
 yet where events are compressed into a few hours it may prove
 essential. Halloa! what have we here?"

 Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady's card upon her salver. Holmes
 glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it over to me.

 "Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough to step
 up," said he.

 A moment later our modest apartment, already so distinguished that
 morning, was further honoured by the entrance of the most lovely
 woman in London. I had often heard of the beauty of the youngest
 daughter of the Duke of Belminster, but no description of it, and no
 contemplation of colourless photographs, had prepared me for the
 subtle, delicate charm and the beautiful colouring of that exquisite
 head. And yet as we saw it that autumn morning, it was not its beauty
 which would be the first thing to impress the observer. The cheek was
 lovely, but it was paled with emotion; the eyes were bright, but it
 was the brightness of fever; the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn
 in an effort after self-command. Terror--not beauty--was what sprang
 first to the eye as our fair visitor stood framed for an instant in
 the open door.

 "Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?"

 "Yes, madam, he has been here."

 "Mr. Holmes, I implore you not to tell him that I came here." Holmes
 bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.

 "Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position. I beg that you
 will sit down and tell me what you desire; but I fear that I cannot
 make any unconditional promise."

 She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to the
 window. It was a queenly presence--tall, graceful, and intensely
 womanly.

 "Mr. Holmes," she said, and her white-gloved hands clasped and
 unclasped as she spoke--"I will speak frankly to you in the hope that
 it may induce you to speak frankly in return. There is complete
 confidence between my husband and me on all matters save one. That
 one is politics. On this his lips are sealed. He tells me nothing.
 Now, I am aware that there was a most deplorable occurrence in our
 house last night. I know that a paper has disappeared. But because
 the matter is political my husband refuses to take me into his
 complete confidence. Now it is essential--essential, I say--that I
 should thoroughly understand it. You are the only other person, save
 only these politicians, who knows the true facts. I beg you, then,
 Mr. Holmes, to tell me exactly what has happened and what it will
 lead to. Tell me all, Mr. Holmes. Let no regard for your client's
 interests keep you silent, for I assure you that his interests, if he
 would only see it, would be best served by taking me into his
 complete confidence. What was this paper which was stolen?"

 "Madam, what you ask me is really impossible."

 She groaned and sank her face in her hands.

 "You must see that this is so, madam. If your husband thinks fit to
 keep you in the dark over this matter, is it for me, who has only
 learned the true facts under the pledge of professional secrecy, to
 tell what he has withheld? It is not fair to ask it. It is him whom
 you must ask."

 "I have asked him. I come to you as a last resource. But without your
 telling me anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a great service
 if you would enlighten me on one point."

 "What is it, madam?"

 "Is my husband's political career likely to suffer through this
 incident?"

 "Well, madam, unless it is set right it may certainly have a very
 unfortunate effect."

 "Ah!" She drew in her breath sharply as one whose doubts are
 resolved.

 "One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an expression which my husband
 dropped in the first shock of this disaster I understood that
 terrible public consequences might arise from the loss of this
 document."

 "If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it."

 "Of what nature are they?"

 "Nay, madam, there again you ask me more than I can possibly answer."

 "Then I will take up no more of your time. I cannot blame you, Mr.
 Holmes, for having refused to speak more freely, and you on your side
 will not, I am sure, think the worse of me because I desire, even
 against his will, to share my husband's anxieties. Once more I beg
 that you will say nothing of my visit." She looked back at us from
 the door, and I had a last impression of that beautiful haunted face,
 the startled eyes, and the drawn mouth. Then she was gone.

 "Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department," said Holmes, with a
 smile, when the dwindling frou-frou of skirts had ended in the slam
 of the front door. "What was the fair lady's game? What did she
 really want?"

 "Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very natural."

 "Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson--her manner, her suppressed
 excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking questions.
 Remember that she comes of a caste who do not lightly show emotion."

 "She was certainly much moved."

 "Remember also the curious earnestness with which she assured us that
 it was best for her husband that she should know all. What did she
 mean by that? And you must have observed, Watson, how she manoeuvred
 to have the light at her back. She did not wish us to read her
 expression."

 "Yes; she chose the one chair in the room."

 "And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable. You remember the
 woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No powder on
 her nose--that proved to be the correct solution. How can you build
 on such a quicksand? Their most trivial action may mean volumes, or
 their most extraordinary conduct may depend upon a hairpin or a
 curling-tongs. Good morning, Watson."

 "You are off?"

 "Yes; I will wile away the morning at Godolphin Street with our
 friends of the regular establishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies the
 solution of our problem, though I must admit that I have not an
 inkling as to what form it may take. It is a capital mistake to
 theorize in advance of the facts. Do you stay on guard, my good
 Watson, and receive any fresh visitors. I'll join you at lunch if I
 am able."

 All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood which his
 friends would call taciturn, and others morose. He ran out and ran
 in, smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin, sank into
 reveries, devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and hardly answered
 the casual questions which I put to him. It was evident to me that
 things were not going well with him or his quest. He would say
 nothing of the case, and it was from the papers that I learned the
 particulars of the inquest, and the arrest with the subsequent
 release of John Mitton, the valet of the deceased. The coroner's jury
 brought in the obvious "Wilful Murder," but the parties remained as
 unknown as ever. No motive was suggested. The room was full of
 articles of value, but none had been taken. The dead man's papers had
 not been tampered with. They were carefully examined, and showed that
 he was a keen student of international politics, an indefatigable
 gossip, a remarkable linguist, and an untiring letter-writer. He had
 been on intimate terms with the leading politicians of several
 countries. But nothing sensational was discovered among the documents
 which filled his drawers. As to his relations with women, they
 appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial. He had many
 acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no one whom he loved.
 His habits were regular, his conduct inoffensive. His death was an
 absolute mystery, and likely to remain so.

 As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a counsel of
 despair as an alternative to absolute inaction. But no case could be
 sustained against him. He had visited friends in Hammersmith that
 night. The alibi was complete. It is true that he started home at an
 hour which should have brought him to Westminster before the time
 when the crime was discovered, but his own explanation that he had
 walked part of the way seemed probable enough in view of the fineness
 of the night. He had actually arrived at twelve o'clock, and appeared
 to be overwhelmed by the unexpected tragedy. He had always been on
 good terms with his master. Several of the dead man's
 possessions--notably a small case of razors--had been found in the
 valet's boxes, but he explained that they had been presents from the
 deceased, and the housekeeper was able to corroborate the story.
 Mitton had been in Lucas's employment for three years. It was
 noticeable that Lucas did not take Mitton on the Continent with him.
 Sometimes he visited Paris for three months on end, but Mitton was
 left in charge of the Godolphin Street house. As to the housekeeper,
 she had heard nothing on the night of the crime. If her master had a
 visitor he had himself admitted him.

 So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could follow
 it in the papers. If Holmes knew more he kept his own counsel, but,
 as he told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him into his
 confidence in the case, I knew that he was in close touch with every
 development. Upon the fourth day there appeared a long telegram from
 Paris which seemed to solve the whole question.

 A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police [said the Daily
 Telegraph] which raises the veil which hung round the tragic fate of
 Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by violence last Monday night at
 Godolphin Street, Westminster. Our readers will remember that the
 deceased gentleman was found stabbed in his room, and that some
 suspicion attached to his valet, but that the case broke down on an
 alibi. Yesterday a lady, who has been known as Mme. Henri Fournaye,
 occupying a small villa in the Rue Austerlitz, was reported to the
 authorities by her servants as being insane. An examination showed
 that she had indeed developed mania of a dangerous and permanent
 form. On inquiry the police have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye
 only returned from a journey to London on Tuesday last, and there is
 evidence to connect her with the crime at Westminster. A comparison
 of photographs has proved conclusively that M. Henri Fournaye and
 Eduardo Lucas were really one and the same person, and that the
 deceased had for some reason lived a double life in London and Paris.
 Mme. Fournaye, who is of Creole origin, is of an extremely excitable
 nature, and has suffered in the past from attacks of jealousy which
 have amounted to frenzy. It is conjectured that it was in one of
 these that she committed the terrible crime which has caused such a
 sensation in London. Her movements upon the Monday night have not yet
 been traced, but it is undoubted that a woman answering to her
 description attracted much attention at Charing Cross Station on
 Tuesday morning by the wildness of her appearance and the violence of
 her gestures. It is probable, therefore, that the crime was either
 committed when insane, or that its immediate effect was to drive the
 unhappy woman out of her mind. At present she is unable to give any
 coherent account of the past, and the doctors hold out no hopes of
 the re-establishment of her reason. There is evidence that a woman,
 who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen for some hours on Monday
 night watching the house in Godolphin Street.

 "What do you think of that, Holmes?" I had read the account aloud to
 him, while he finished his breakfast.

 "My dear Watson," said he, as he rose from the table and paced up and
 down the room, "you are most long-suffering, but if I have told you
 nothing in the last three days it is because there is nothing to
 tell. Even now this report from Paris does not help us much."

 "Surely it is final as regards the man's death."

 "The man's death is a mere incident--a trivial episode--in comparison
 with our real task, which is to trace this document and save a
 European catastrophe. Only one important thing has happened in the
 last three days, and that is that nothing has happened. I get reports
 almost hourly from the Government, and it is certain that nowhere in
 Europe is there any sign of trouble. Now, if this letter were
 loose--no, it can't be loose--but if it isn't loose, where can it be?
 Who has it? Why is it held back? That's the question that beats in my
 brain like a hammer. Was it, indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should
 meet his death on the night when the letter disappeared? Did the
 letter ever reach him? If so, why is it not among his papers? Did
 this mad wife of his carry it off with her? If so, is it in her house
 in Paris? How could I search for it without the French police having
 their suspicions aroused? It is a case, my dear Watson, where the law
 is as dangerous to us as the criminals are. Every man's hand is
 against us, and yet the interests at stake are colossal. Should I
 bring it to a successful conclusion it will certainly represent the
 crowning glory of my career. Ah, here is my latest from the front!"
 He glanced hurriedly at the note which had been handed in. "Halloa!
 Lestrade seems to have observed something of interest. Put on your
 hat, Watson, and we will stroll down together to Westminster."

 It was my first visit to the scene of the crime--a high, dingy,
 narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century which
 gave it birth. Lestrade's bulldog features gazed out at us from the
 front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big constable had
 opened the door and let us in. The room into which we were shown was
 that in which the crime had been committed, but no trace of it now
 remained, save an ugly, irregular stain upon the carpet. This carpet
 was a small square drugget in the centre of the room, surrounded by a
 broad expanse of beautiful, old-fashioned wood-flooring in square
 blocks highly polished. Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy
 of weapons, one of which had been used on that tragic night. In the
 window was a sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the
 apartment, the pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a
 taste which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.

 "Seen the Paris news?" asked Lestrade.

 Holmes nodded.

 "Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time. No doubt
 it's just as they say. She knocked at the door--surprise visit, I
 guess, for he kept his life in water-tight compartments. He let her
 in--couldn't keep her in the street. She told him how she had traced
 him, reproached him, one thing led to another, and then with that
 dagger so handy the end soon came. It wasn't all done in an instant,
 though, for these chairs were all swept over yonder, and he had one
 in his hand as if he had tried to hold her off with it. We've got it
 all clear as if we had seen it."

 Holmes raised his eyebrows.

 "And yet you have sent for me?"

 "Ah, yes, that's another matter--a mere trifle, but the sort of thing
 you take an interest in--queer, you know, and what you might call
 freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact--can't have, on the
 face of it."

 "What is it, then?"

 "Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful to
 keep things in their position. Nothing has been moved. Officer in
 charge here day and night. This morning, as the man was buried and
 the investigation over--so far as this room is concerned--we thought
 we could tidy up a bit. This carpet. You see, it is not fastened
 down; only just laid there. We had occasion to raise it. We found--"

 "Yes? You found--"

 Holmes's face grew tense with anxiety.

 "Well, I'm sure you would never guess in a hundred years what we did
 find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal must have
 soaked through, must it not?"

 "Undoubtedly it must."

 "Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on the
 white woodwork to correspond."

 "No stain! But there must--"

 "Yes; so you would say. But the fact remains that there isn't."

 He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it over, he
 showed that it was indeed as he said.

 "But the underside is as stained as the upper. It must have left a
 mark."

 Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous expert.

 "Now I'll show you the explanation. There is a second stain, but it
 does not correspond with the other. See for yourself." As he spoke he
 turned over another portion of the carpet, and there, sure enough,
 was a great crimson spill upon the square white facing of the
 old-fashioned floor. "What do you make of that, Mr. Holmes?"

 "Why, it is simple enough. The two stains did correspond, but the
 carpet has been turned round. As it was square and unfastened it was
 easily done."

 "The official police don't need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them that
 the carpet must have been turned round. That's clear enough, for the
 stains lie above each other--if you lay it over this way. But what I
 want to know is, who shifted the carpet, and why?"

 I could see from Holmes's rigid face that he was vibrating with
 inward excitement.

 "Look here, Lestrade," said he, "has that constable in the passage
 been in charge of the place all the time?"

 "Yes, he has."

 "Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. Don't do it before us.
 We'll wait here. You take him into the back room. You'll be more
 likely to get a confession out of him alone. Ask him how he dared to
 admit people and leave them alone in this room. Don't ask him if he
 has done it. Take it for granted. Tell him you know someone has been
 here. Press him. Tell him that a full confession is his only chance
 of forgiveness. Do exactly what I tell you!"

 "By George, if he knows I'll have it out of him!" cried Lestrade. He
 darted into the hall, and a few moments later his bullying voice
 sounded from the back room.

 "Now, Watson, now!" cried Holmes, with frenzied eagerness. All the
 demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless manner burst
 out in a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget from the floor, and
 in an instant was down on his hands and knees clawing at each of the
 squares of wood beneath it. One turned sideways as he dug his nails
 into the edge of it. It hinged back like the lid of a box. A small
 black cavity opened beneath it. Holmes plunged his eager hand into
 it, and drew it out with a bitter snarl of anger and disappointment.
 It was empty.

 "Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!" The wooden lid was
 replaced, and the drugget had only just been drawn straight when
 Lestrade's voice was heard in the passage. He found Holmes leaning
 languidly against the mantelpiece, resigned and patient, endeavouring
 to conceal his irrepressible yawns.

 "Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes. I can see that you are bored
 to death with the whole affair. Well, he has confessed, all right.
 Come in here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of your most
 inexcusable conduct."

 The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.

 "I meant no harm, sir, I'm sure. The young woman came to the door
 last evening--mistook the house, she did. And then we got talking.
 It's lonesome, when you're on duty here all day."

 "Well, what happened then?"

 "She wanted to see where the crime was done--had read about it in the
 papers, she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken young
 woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting her have a peep. When she
 saw that mark on the carpet, down she dropped on the floor, and lay
 as if she were dead. I ran to the back and got some water, but I
 could not bring her to. Then I went round the corner to the Ivy Plant
 for some brandy, and by the time I had brought it back the young
 woman had recovered and was off--ashamed of herself, I dare say, and
 dared not face me."

 "How about moving that drugget?"

 "Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back. You
 see, she fell on it, and it lies on a polished floor with nothing to
 keep it in place. I straightened it out afterwards."

 "It's a lesson to you that you can't deceive me, Constable
 MacPherson," said Lestrade, with dignity. "No doubt you thought that
 your breach of duty could never be discovered, and yet a mere glance
 at that drugget was enough to convince me that someone had been
 admitted to the room. It's lucky for you, my man, that nothing is
 missing, or you would find yourself in Queer Street. I'm sorry to
 have called you down over such a petty business, Mr. Holmes, but I
 thought the point of the second stain not corresponding with the
 first would interest you."

 "Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this woman only been here
 once, constable?"

 "Yes, sir, only once."

 "Who was she?"

 "Don't know the name, sir. Was answering an advertisement about
 type-writing, and came to the wrong number--very pleasant, genteel
 young woman, sir."

 "Tall? Handsome?"

 "Yes, sir; she was a well-grown young woman. I suppose you might say
 she was handsome. Perhaps some would say she was very handsome. 'Oh,
 officer, do let me have a peep!' says she. She had pretty, coaxing
 ways, as you might say, and I thought there was no harm in letting
 her just put her head through the door."

 "How was she dressed?"

 "Quiet, sir--a long mantle down to her feet."

 "What time was it?"

 "It was just growing dusk at the time. They were lighting the lamps
 as I came back with the brandy."

 "Very good," said Holmes. "Come, Watson, I think that we have more
 important work elsewhere."

 As we left the house Lestrade remained in the front room, while the
 repentant constable opened the door to let us out. Holmes turned on
 the step and held up something in his hand. The constable stared
 intently.

 "Good Lord, sir!" he cried, with amazement on his face. Holmes put
 his finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast-pocket, and
 burst out laughing as we turned down the street. "Excellent!" said
 he. "Come, friend Watson, the curtain rings up for the last act. You
 will be relieved to hear that there will be no war, that the Right
 Honourable Trelawney Hope will suffer no set-back in his brilliant
 career, that the indiscreet Sovereign will receive no punishment for
 his indiscretion, that the Prime Minister will have no European
 complication to deal with, and that with a little tact and management
 upon our part nobody will be a penny the worse for what might have
 been a very ugly incident."

 My mind filled with admiration for this extraordinary man.

 "You have solved it!" I cried.

 "Hardly that, Watson. There are some points which are as dark as
 ever. But we have so much that it will be our own fault if we cannot
 get the rest. We will go straight to Whitehall Terrace and bring the
 matter to a head."

 When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary it was for
 Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes inquired. We were
 shown into the morning-room.

 "Mr. Holmes!" said the lady, and her face was pink with her
 indignation, "this is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon your
 part. I desired, as I have explained, to keep my visit to you a
 secret, lest my husband should think that I was intruding into his
 affairs. And yet you compromise me by coming here and so showing that
 there are business relations between us."

 "Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative. I have been
 commissioned to recover this immensely important paper. I must
 therefore ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in my hands."

 The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an instant
 from her beautiful face. Her eyes glazed--she tottered--I thought
 that she would faint. Then with a grand effort she rallied from the
 shock, and a supreme astonishment and indignation chased every other
 expression from her features.

 "You--you insult me, Mr. Holmes."

 "Come, come, madam, it is useless. Give up the letter."

 She darted to the bell.

 "The butler shall show you out."

 "Do not ring, Lady Hilda. If you do, then all my earnest efforts to
 avoid a scandal will be frustrated. Give up the letter and all will
 be set right. If you will work with me I can arrange everything. If
 you work against me I must expose you."

 She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed upon his
 as if she would read his very soul. Her hand was on the bell, but she
 had forborne to ring it.

 "You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very manly thing, Mr.
 Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman. You say that you know
 something. What is it that you know?"

 "Pray sit down, madam. You will hurt yourself there if you fall. I
 will not speak until you sit down. Thank you."

 "I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes."

 "One is enough, Lady Hilda. I know of your visit to Eduardo Lucas, of
 your giving him this document, of your ingenious return to the room
 last night, and of the manner in which you took the letter from the
 hiding-place under the carpet."

 She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she
 could speak.

 "You are mad, Mr. Holmes--you are mad!" she cried, at last.

 He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket. It was the face
 of a woman cut out of a portrait.

 "I have carried this because I thought it might be useful," said he.
 "The policeman has recognised it."

 She gave a gasp and her head dropped back in the chair.

 "Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The matter may still be
 adjusted. I have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty ends when
 I have returned the lost letter to your husband. Take my advice and
 be frank with me; it is your only chance."

 Her courage was admirable. Even now she would not own defeat.

 "I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some absurd
 illusion."

 Holmes rose from his chair.

 "I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my best for you; I can
 see that it is all in vain."

 He rang the bell. The butler entered.

 "Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?"

 "He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one."

 Holmes glanced at his watch.

 "Still a quarter of an hour," said he. "Very good, I shall wait."

 The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda was
 down on her knees at Holmes's feet, her hands out-stretched, her
 beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears.

 "Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!" she pleaded, in a frenzy of
 supplication. "For Heaven's sake, don't tell him! I love him so! I
 would not bring one shadow on his life, and this I know would break
 his noble heart."

 Holmes raised the lady. "I am thankful, madam, that you have come to
 your senses even at this last moment! There is not an instant to
 lose. Where is the letter?"

 She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out a long
 blue envelope.

 "Here it is, Mr. Holmes. Would to Heaven I had never seen it!"

 "How can we return it?" Holmes muttered. "Quick, quick, we must think
 of some way! Where is the despatch-box?"

 "Still in his bedroom."

 "What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam, bring it here!" 

 A moment later she had appeared with a red flat box in her hand.

 "How did you open it before? You have a duplicate key? Yes, of course
 you have. Open it!"

 From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key. The box flew
 open. It was stuffed with papers. Holmes thrust the blue envelope
 deep down into the heart of them, between the leaves of some other
 document. The box was shut, locked, and returned to the bedroom.

 "Now we are ready for him," said Holmes; "we have still ten minutes.
 I am going far to screen you, Lady Hilda. In return you will spend
 the time in telling me frankly the real meaning of this extraordinary
 affair."

 "Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything," cried the lady. "Oh, Mr.
 Holmes, I would cut off my right hand before I gave him a moment of
 sorrow! There is no woman in all London who loves her husband as I
 do, and yet if he knew how I have acted--how I have been compelled to
 act--he would never forgive me. For his own honour stands so high
 that he could not forget or pardon a lapse in another. Help me, Mr.
 Holmes! My happiness, his happiness, our very lives are at stake!"

 "Quick, madam, the time grows short!"

 "It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indiscreet letter written
 before my marriage--a foolish letter, a letter of an impulsive,
 loving girl. I meant no harm, and yet he would have thought it
 criminal. Had he read that letter his confidence would have been for
 ever destroyed. It is years since I wrote it. I had thought that the
 whole matter was forgotten. Then at last I heard from this man,
 Lucas, that it had passed into his hands, and that he would lay it
 before my husband. I implored his mercy. He said that he would return
 my letter if I would bring him a certain document which he described
 in my husband's despatch-box. He had some spy in the office who had
 told him of its existence. He assured me that no harm could come to
 my husband. Put yourself in my position, Mr. Holmes! What was I to
 do?"

 "Take your husband into your confidence."

 "I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the one side seemed certain
 ruin; on the other, terrible as it seemed to take my husband's paper,
 still in a matter of politics I could not understand the
 consequences, while in a matter of love and trust they were only too
 clear to me. I did it, Mr. Holmes! I took an impression of his key;
 this man Lucas furnished a duplicate. I opened his despatch-box, took
 the paper, and conveyed it to Godolphin Street."

 "What happened there, madam?"

 "I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas opened it. I followed him into
 his room, leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I feared to be
 alone with the man. I remember that there was a woman outside as I
 entered. Our business was soon done. He had my letter on his desk; I
 handed him the document. He gave me the letter. At this instant there
 was a sound at the door. There were steps in the passage. Lucas
 quickly turned back the drugget, thrust the document into some
 hiding-place there, and covered it over.

 "What happened after that is like some fearful dream. I have a vision
 of a dark, frantic face, of a woman's voice, which screamed in
 French, 'My waiting is not in vain. At last, at last I have found you
 with her!' There was a savage struggle. I saw him with a chair in his
 hand, a knife gleamed in hers. I rushed from the horrible scene, ran
 from the house, and only next morning in the paper did I learn the
 dreadful result. That night I was happy, for I had my letter, and I
 had not seen yet what the future would bring.

 "It was the next morning that I realized that I had only exchanged
 one trouble for another. My husband's anguish at the loss of his
 paper went to my heart. I could hardly prevent myself from there and
 then kneeling down at his feet and telling him what I had done. But
 that again would mean a confession of the past. I came to you that
 morning in order to understand the full enormity of my offence. From
 the instant that I grasped it my whole mind was turned to the one
 thought of getting back my husband's paper. It must still be where
 Lucas had placed it, for it was concealed before this dreadful woman
 entered the room. If it had not been for her coming, I should not
 have known where his hiding-place was. How was I to get into the
 room? For two days I watched the place, but the door was never left
 open. Last night I made a last attempt. What I did and how I
 succeeded, you have already learned. I brought the paper back with
 me, and thought of destroying it since I could see no way of
 returning it, without confessing my guilt to my husband. Heavens, I
 hear his step upon the stair!"

 The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room.

 "Any news, Mr. Holmes, any news?" he cried.

 "I have some hopes."

 "Ah, thank heaven!" His face became radiant. "The Prime Minister is
 lunching with me. May he share your hopes? He has nerves of steel,
 and yet I know that he has hardly slept since this terrible event.
 Jacobs, will you ask the Prime Minister to come up? As to you, dear,
 I fear that this is a matter of politics. We will join you in a few
 minutes in the dining-room."

 The Prime Minister's manner was subdued, but I could see by the gleam
 of his eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that he shared the
 excitement of his young colleague.

 "I understand that you have something to report, Mr. Holmes?"

 "Purely negative as yet," my friend answered. "I have inquired at
 every point where it might be, and I am sure that there is no danger
 to be apprehended."

 "But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We cannot live for ever on such
 a volcano. We must have something definite."

 "I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am here. The more I think
 of the matter the more convinced I am that the letter has never left
 this house."

 "Mr. Holmes!"

 "If it had it would certainly have been public by now."

 "But why should anyone take it in order to keep it in his house?"

 "I am not convinced that anyone did take it."

 "Then how could it leave the despatch-box?"

 "I am not convinced that it ever did leave the despatch-box."

 "Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You have my assurance
 that it left the box."

 "Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?"

 "No; it was not necessary."

 "You may conceivably have overlooked it."

 "Impossible, I say."

 "But I am not convinced of it; I have known such things to happen. I
 presume there are other papers there. Well, it may have got mixed
 with them."

 "It was on the top."

 "Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it."

 "No, no; I had everything out."

 "Surely it is easily decided, Hope," said the Premier. "Let us have
 the despatch-box brought in."

 The Secretary rang the bell.

 "Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a farcical waste of
 time, but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall be done.
 Thank you, Jacobs; put it here. I have always had the key on my
 watch-chain. Here are the papers, you see. Letter from Lord Merrow,
 report from Sir Charles Hardy, memorandum from Belgrade, note on the
 Russo-German grain taxes, letter from Madrid, note from Lord
 Flowers--good heavens! what is this? Lord Bellinger! Lord Bellinger!"

 The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.

 "Yes, it is it--and the letter is intact. Hope, I congratulate you."

 "Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my heart. But this is
 inconceivable--impossible. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a sorcerer!
 How did you know it was there?"

 "Because I knew it was nowhere else."

 "I cannot believe my eyes!" He ran wildly to the door. "Where is my
 wife? I must tell her that all is well. Hilda! Hilda!" we heard his
 voice on the stairs.

 The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.

 "Come, sir," said he. "There is more in this than meets the eye. How
 came the letter back in the box?"

 Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those wonderful
 eyes.

 "We also have our diplomatic secrets," said he, and picking up his
 hat he turned to the door.






                      THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES





                            Table of contents
    Mr. Sherlock Holmes
    The Curse of the Baskervilles
    The Problem
    Sir Henry Baskerville
    Three Broken Threads
    Baskerville Hall
    The Stapletons of Merripit House
    First Report of Dr. Watson
    Second Report of Dr. Watson
    Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson
    The Man on the Tor
    Death on the Moor
    Fixing the Nets
    The Hound of the Baskervilles
    A Retrospection















      CHAPTER I
      Mr. Sherlock Holmes


 Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save
 upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was
 seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked
 up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the night before.
 It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which
 is known as a "Penang lawyer." Just under the head was a broad silver
 band nearly an inch across. "To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his
 friends of the C.C.H.," was engraved upon it, with the date "1884."
 It was just such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner
 used to carry--dignified, solid, and reassuring.

 "Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"

 Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign
 of my occupation.

 "How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the
 back of your head."

 "I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front
 of me," said he. "But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of our
 visitor's stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss him and
 have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir becomes of
 importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of
 it."

 "I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my
 companion, "that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man,
 well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of their
 appreciation."

 "Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!"

 "I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a
 country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot."

 "Why so?"

 "Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been
 so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner
 carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident
 that he has done a great amount of walking with it."

 "Perfectly sound!" said Holmes.

 "And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.' I should guess
 that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has
 possibly given some surgical assistance, and which has made him a
 small presentation in return."

 "Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back his
 chair and lighting a cigarette. "I am bound to say that in all the
 accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own small
 achievements you have habitually underrated your own abilities. It
 may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of
 light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power
 of stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in
 your debt."

 He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words
 gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his
 indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had made to
 give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think that I had
 so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way which earned his
 approval. He now took the stick from my hands and examined it for a
 few minutes with his naked eyes. Then with an expression of interest
 he laid down his cigarette, and carrying the cane to the window, he
 looked over it again with a convex lens.

 "Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his
 favourite corner of the settee. "There are certainly one or two
 indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis for several
 deductions."

 "Has anything escaped me?" I asked with some self-importance. "I
 trust that there is nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?"

 "I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were
 erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank,
 that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the
 truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance. The man is
 certainly a country practitioner. And he walks a good deal."

 "Then I was right."

 "To that extent."

 "But that was all."

 "No, no, my dear Watson, not all--by no means all. I would suggest,
 for example, that a presentation to a doctor is more likely to come
 from a hospital than from a hunt, and that when the initials 'C.C.'
 are placed before that hospital the words 'Charing Cross' very
 naturally suggest themselves."

 "You may be right."

 "The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a
 working hypothesis we have a fresh basis from which to start our
 construction of this unknown visitor."

 "Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand for 'Charing Cross
 Hospital,' what further inferences may we draw?"

 "Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!"

 "I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has
 practised in town before going to the country."

 "I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look at it
 in this light. On what occasion would it be most probable that such a
 presentation would be made? When would his friends unite to give him
 a pledge of their good will? Obviously at the moment when Dr.
 Mortimer withdrew from the service of the hospital in order to start
 in practice for himself. We know there has been a presentation. We
 believe there has been a change from a town hospital to a country
 practice. Is it, then, stretching our inference too far to say that
 the presentation was on the occasion of the change?"

 "It certainly seems probable."

 "Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the staff of
 the hospital, since only a man well-established in a London practice
 could hold such a position, and such a one would not drift into the
 country. What was he, then? If he was in the hospital and yet not on
 the staff he could only have been a house-surgeon or a
 house-physician--little more than a senior student. And he left five
 years ago--the date is on the stick. So your grave, middle-aged
 family practitioner vanishes into thin air, my dear Watson, and there
 emerges a young fellow under thirty, amiable, unambitious,
 absent-minded, and the possessor of a favourite dog, which I should
 describe roughly as being larger than a terrier and smaller than a
 mastiff."

 I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his settee
 and blew little wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.

 "As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you," said I,
 "but at least it is not difficult to find out a few particulars about
 the man's age and professional career." From my small medical shelf I
 took down the Medical Directory and turned up the name. There were
 several Mortimers, but only one who could be our visitor. I read his
 record aloud.

 "Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.
 House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital. Winner
 of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology, with essay entitled
 'Is Disease a Reversion?' Corresponding member of the Swedish
 Pathological Society. Author of 'Some Freaks of Atavism' (Lancet
 1882). 'Do We Progress?' (Journal of Psychology, March, 1883).
 Medical Officer for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High
 Barrow."

 "No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said Holmes with a
 mischievous smile, "but a country doctor, as you very astutely
 observed. I think that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As to
 the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable, unambitious,
 and absent-minded. It is my experience that it is only an amiable man
 in this world who receives testimonials, only an unambitious one who
 abandons a London career for the country, and only an absent-minded
 one who leaves his stick and not his visiting-card after waiting an
 hour in your room."

 "And the dog?"

 "Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master.
 Being a heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle, and
 the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible. The dog's jaw, as
 shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in my opinion
 for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff. It may have
 been--yes, by Jove, it is a curly-haired spaniel."

 He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the
 recess of the window. There was such a ring of conviction in his
 voice that I glanced up in surprise.

 "My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?"

 "For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our very
 door-step, and there is the ring of its owner. Don't move, I beg you,
 Watson. He is a professional brother of yours, and your presence may
 be of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson,
 when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life,
 and you know not whether for good or ill. What does Dr. James
 Mortimer, the man of science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist
 in crime? Come in!"

 The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had
 expected a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin
 man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two keen,
 gray eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly from behind a
 pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional but rather
 slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers
 frayed. Though young, his long back was already bowed, and he walked
 with a forward thrust of his head and a general air of peering
 benevolence. As he entered his eyes fell upon the stick in Holmes's
 hand, and he ran towards it with an exclamation of joy. "I am so very
 glad," said he. "I was not sure whether I had left it here or in the
 Shipping Office. I would not lose that stick for the world."

 "A presentation, I see," said Holmes.

 "Yes, sir."

 "From Charing Cross Hospital?"

 "From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage."

 "Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking his head.

 Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment.

 "Why was it bad?"

 "Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your marriage,
 you say?"

 "Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopes
 of a consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home of my own."

 "Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all," said Holmes. "And
 now, Dr. James Mortimer--"

 "Mister, sir, Mister--a humble M.R.C.S."

 "And a man of precise mind, evidently."

 "A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the
 shores of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock
 Holmes whom I am addressing and not--"

 "No, this is my friend Dr. Watson."

 "Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in
 connection with that of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr.
 Holmes. I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such
 well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you have any objection
 to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your
 skull, sir, until the original is available, would be an ornament to
 any anthropological museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but
 I confess that I covet your skull."

 Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. "You are an
 enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in
 mine," said he. "I observe from your forefinger that you make your
 own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one."

 The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the
 other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as
 agile and restless as the antennae of an insect.

 Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the
 interest which he took in our curious companion.

 "I presume, sir," said he at last, "that it was not merely for the
 purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the honour to
 call here last night and again to-day?"

 "No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing
 that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I
 am myself an unpractical man and because I am suddenly confronted
 with a most serious and extraordinary problem. Recognizing, as I do,
 that you are the second highest expert in Europe--"

 "Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?"
 asked Holmes with some asperity.

 "To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur
 Bertillon must always appeal strongly."

 "Then had you not better consult him?"

 "I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical
 man of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir,
 that I have not inadvertently--"

 "Just a little," said Holmes. "I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do
 wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the
 exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my assistance."





      CHAPTER II
      The Curse of the Baskervilles


 "I have in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. James Mortimer.

 "I observed it as you entered the room," said Holmes.

 "It is an old manuscript."

 "Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery."

 "How can you say that, sir?"

 "You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the
 time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could
 not give the date of a document within a decade or so. You may
 possibly have read my little monograph upon the subject. I put that
 at 1730."

 "The exact date is 1742." Dr. Mortimer drew it from his
 breast-pocket. "This family paper was committed to my care by Sir
 Charles Baskerville, whose sudden and tragic death some three months
 ago created so much excitement in Devonshire. I may say that I was
 his personal friend as well as his medical attendant. He was a
 strong-minded man, sir, shrewd, practical, and as unimaginative as I
 am myself. Yet he took this document very seriously, and his mind was
 prepared for just such an end as did eventually overtake him."

 Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it
 upon his knee.

 "You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s and the
 short. It is one of several indications which enabled me to fix the
 date."

 I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script.
 At the head was written: "Baskerville Hall," and below in large,
 scrawling figures: "1742."

 "It appears to be a statement of some sort."

 "Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the
 Baskerville family."

 "But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon
 which you wish to consult me?"

 "Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be
 decided within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is
 intimately connected with the affair. With your permission I will
 read it to you."

 Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and
 closed his eyes, with an air of resignation. Dr. Mortimer turned the
 manuscript to the light and read in a high, cracking voice the
 following curious, old-world narrative:--

 "Of the origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles there have been many
 statements, yet as I come in a direct line from Hugo Baskerville, and
 as I had the story from my father, who also had it from his, I have
 set it down with all belief that it occurred even as is here set
 forth. And I would have you believe, my sons, that the same Justice
 which punishes sin may also most graciously forgive it, and that no
 ban is so heavy but that by prayer and repentance it may be removed.
 Learn then from this story not to fear the fruits of the past, but
 rather to be circumspect in the future, that those foul passions
 whereby our family has suffered so grievously may not again be loosed
 to our undoing.

 "Know then that in the time of the Great Rebellion (the history of
 which by the learned Lord Clarendon I most earnestly commend to your
 attention) this Manor of Baskerville was held by Hugo of that name,
 nor can it be gainsaid that he was a most wild, profane, and godless
 man. This, in truth, his neighbours might have pardoned, seeing that
 saints have never flourished in those parts, but there was in him a
 certain wanton and cruel humour which made his name a byword through
 the West. It chanced that this Hugo came to love (if, indeed, so dark
 a passion may be known under so bright a name) the daughter of a
 yeoman who held lands near the Baskerville estate. But the young
 maiden, being discreet and of good repute, would ever avoid him, for
 she feared his evil name. So it came to pass that one Michaelmas this
 Hugo, with five or six of his idle and wicked companions, stole down
 upon the farm and carried off the maiden, her father and brothers
 being from home, as he well knew. When they had brought her to the
 Hall the maiden was placed in an upper chamber, while Hugo and his
 friends sat down to a long carouse, as was their nightly custom. Now,
 the poor lass upstairs was like to have her wits turned at the
 singing and shouting and terrible oaths which came up to her from
 below, for they say that the words used by Hugo Baskerville, when he
 was in wine, were such as might blast the man who said them. At last
 in the stress of her fear she did that which might have daunted the
 bravest or most active man, for by the aid of the growth of ivy which
 covered (and still covers) the south wall she came down from under
 the eaves, and so homeward across the moor, there being three leagues
 betwixt the Hall and her father's farm.

 "It chanced that some little time later Hugo left his guests to carry
 food and drink--with other worse things, perchance--to his captive,
 and so found the cage empty and the bird escaped. Then, as it would
 seem, he became as one that hath a devil, for, rushing down the
 stairs into the dining-hall, he sprang upon the great table, flagons
 and trenchers flying before him, and he cried aloud before all the
 company that he would that very night render his body and soul to the
 Powers of Evil if he might but overtake the wench. And while the
 revellers stood aghast at the fury of the man, one more wicked or, it
 may be, more drunken than the rest, cried out that they should put
 the hounds upon her. Whereat Hugo ran from the house, crying to his
 grooms that they should saddle his mare and unkennel the pack, and
 giving the hounds a kerchief of the maid's, he swung them to the
 line, and so off full cry in the moonlight over the moor.

 "Now, for some space the revellers stood agape, unable to understand
 all that had been done in such haste. But anon their bemused wits
 awoke to the nature of the deed which was like to be done upon the
 moorlands. Everything was now in an uproar, some calling for their
 pistols, some for their horses, and some for another flask of wine.
 But at length some sense came back to their crazed minds, and the
 whole of them, thirteen in number, took horse and started in pursuit.
 The moon shone clear above them, and they rode swiftly abreast,
 taking that course which the maid must needs have taken if she were
 to reach her own home.

 "They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the night
 shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him to know if he had
 seen the hunt. And the man, as the story goes, was so crazed with
 fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he said that he had
 indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. 'But
 I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville passed me
 upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a hound of
 hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.' So the drunken
 squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward. But soon their skins
 turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the
 black mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle
 and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a great
 fear was on them, but they still followed over the moor, though each,
 had he been alone, would have been right glad to have turned his
 horse's head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last upon
 the hounds. These, though known for their valour and their breed,
 were whimpering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as
 we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some, with starting
 hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them.

 "The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may guess,
 than when they started. The most of them would by no means advance,
 but three of them, the boldest, or it may be the most drunken, rode
 forward down the goyal. Now, it opened into a broad space in which
 stood two of those great stones, still to be seen there, which were
 set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was
 shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the
 unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of fatigue. But
 it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of
 Hugo Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon the heads
 of these three daredevil roysterers, but it was that, standing over
 Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great,
 black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever
 mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing tore
 the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its
 blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with
 fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. One,
 it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and the other
 twain were but broken men for the rest of their days.

 "Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound which is said
 to have plagued the family so sorely ever since. If I have set it
 down it is because that which is clearly known hath less terror than
 that which is but hinted at and guessed. Nor can it be denied that
 many of the family have been unhappy in their deaths, which have been
 sudden, bloody, and mysterious. Yet may we shelter ourselves in the
 infinite goodness of Providence, which would not forever punish the
 innocent beyond that third or fourth generation which is threatened
 in Holy Writ. To that Providence, my sons, I hereby commend you, and
 I counsel you by way of caution to forbear from crossing the moor in
 those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted.

 "[This from Hugo Baskerville to his sons Rodger and John, with
 instructions that they say nothing thereof to their sister
 Elizabeth.]"

 When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he
 pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr.
 Sherlock Holmes. The latter yawned and tossed the end of his
 cigarette into the fire.

 "Well?" said he.

 "Do you not find it interesting?"

 "To a collector of fairy tales."

 Dr. Mortimer drew a folded newspaper out of his pocket.

 "Now, Mr. Holmes, we will give you something a little more recent.
 This is the Devon County Chronicle of May 14th of this year. It is a
 short account of the facts elicited at the death of Sir Charles
 Baskerville which occurred a few days before that date."

 My friend leaned a little forward and his expression became intent.
 Our visitor readjusted his glasses and began:--

 "The recent sudden death of Sir Charles Baskerville, whose name has
 been mentioned as the probable Liberal candidate for Mid-Devon at the
 next election, has cast a gloom over the county. Though Sir Charles
 had resided at Baskerville Hall for a comparatively short period his
 amiability of character and extreme generosity had won the affection
 and respect of all who had been brought into contact with him. In
 these days of nouveaux riches it is refreshing to find a case where
 the scion of an old county family which has fallen upon evil days is
 able to make his own fortune and to bring it back with him to restore
 the fallen grandeur of his line. Sir Charles, as is well known, made
 large sums of money in South African speculation. More wise than
 those who go on until the wheel turns against them, he realized his
 gains and returned to England with them. It is only two years since
 he took up his residence at Baskerville Hall, and it is common talk
 how large were those schemes of reconstruction and improvement which
 have been interrupted by his death. Being himself childless, it was
 his openly expressed desire that the whole country-side should,
 within his own lifetime, profit by his good fortune, and many will
 have personal reasons for bewailing his untimely end. His generous
 donations to local and county charities have been frequently
 chronicled in these columns.

 "The circumstances connected with the death of Sir Charles cannot be
 said to have been entirely cleared up by the inquest, but at least
 enough has been done to dispose of those rumours to which local
 superstition has given rise. There is no reason whatever to suspect
 foul play, or to imagine that death could be from any but natural
 causes. Sir Charles was a widower, and a man who may be said to have
 been in some ways of an eccentric habit of mind. In spite of his
 considerable wealth he was simple in his personal tastes, and his
 indoor servants at Baskerville Hall consisted of a married couple
 named Barrymore, the husband acting as butler and the wife as
 housekeeper. Their evidence, corroborated by that of several friends,
 tends to show that Sir Charles's health has for some time been
 impaired, and points especially to some affection of the heart,
 manifesting itself in changes of colour, breathlessness, and acute
 attacks of nervous depression. Dr. James Mortimer, the friend and
 medical attendant of the deceased, has given evidence to the same
 effect.

 "The facts of the case are simple. Sir Charles Baskerville was in the
 habit every night before going to bed of walking down the famous Yew
 Alley of Baskerville Hall. The evidence of the Barrymores shows that
 this had been his custom. On the 4th of May Sir Charles had declared
 his intention of starting next day for London, and had ordered
 Barrymore to prepare his luggage. That night he went out as usual for
 his nocturnal walk, in the course of which he was in the habit of
 smoking a cigar. He never returned. At twelve o'clock Barrymore,
 finding the hall door still open, became alarmed, and, lighting a
 lantern, went in search of his master. The day had been wet, and Sir
 Charles's footmarks were easily traced down the Alley. Half-way down
 this walk there is a gate which leads out on to the moor. There were
 indications that Sir Charles had stood for some little time here. He
 then proceeded down the Alley, and it was at the far end of it that
 his body was discovered. One fact which has not been explained is the
 statement of Barrymore that his master's footprints altered their
 character from the time that he passed the moor-gate, and that he
 appeared from thence onward to have been walking upon his toes. One
 Murphy, a gipsy horse-dealer, was on the moor at no great distance at
 the time, but he appears by his own confession to have been the worse
 for drink. He declares that he heard cries, but is unable to state
 from what direction they came. No signs of violence were to be
 discovered upon Sir Charles's person, and though the doctor's
 evidence pointed to an almost incredible facial distortion--so great
 that Dr. Mortimer refused at first to believe that it was indeed his
 friend and patient who lay before him--it was explained that that is
 a symptom which is not unusual in cases of dyspnoea and death from
 cardiac exhaustion. This explanation was borne out by the post-mortem
 examination, which showed long-standing organic disease, and the
 coroner's jury returned a verdict in accordance with the medical
 evidence. It is well that this is so, for it is obviously of the
 utmost importance that Sir Charles's heir should settle at the Hall
 and continue the good work which has been so sadly interrupted. Had
 the prosaic finding of the coroner not finally put an end to the
 romantic stories which have been whispered in connection with the
 affair, it might have been difficult to find a tenant for Baskerville
 Hall. It is understood that the next of kin is Mr. Henry Baskerville,
 if he be still alive, the son of Sir Charles Baskerville's younger
 brother. The young man when last heard of was in America, and
 inquiries are being instituted with a view to informing him of his
 good fortune."

 Dr. Mortimer refolded his paper and replaced it in his pocket.

 "Those are the public facts, Mr. Holmes, in connection with the death
 of Sir Charles Baskerville."

 "I must thank you," said Sherlock Holmes, "for calling my attention
 to a case which certainly presents some features of interest. I had
 observed some newspaper comment at the time, but I was exceedingly
 preoccupied by that little affair of the Vatican cameos, and in my
 anxiety to oblige the Pope I lost touch with several interesting
 English cases. This article, you say, contains all the public facts?"

 "It does."

 "Then let me have the private ones." He leaned back, put his
 finger-tips together, and assumed his most impassive and judicial
 expression.

 "In doing so," said Dr. Mortimer, who had begun to show signs of some
 strong emotion, "I am telling that which I have not confided to
 anyone. My motive for withholding it from the coroner's inquiry is
 that a man of science shrinks from placing himself in the public
 position of seeming to indorse a popular superstition. I had the
 further motive that Baskerville Hall, as the paper says, would
 certainly remain untenanted if anything were done to increase its
 already rather grim reputation. For both these reasons I thought that
 I was justified in telling rather less than I knew, since no
 practical good could result from it, but with you there is no reason
 why I should not be perfectly frank.

 "The moor is very sparsely inhabited, and those who live near each
 other are thrown very much together. For this reason I saw a good
 deal of Sir Charles Baskerville. With the exception of Mr. Frankland,
 of Lafter Hall, and Mr. Stapleton, the naturalist, there are no other
 men of education within many miles. Sir Charles was a retiring man,
 but the chance of his illness brought us together, and a community of
 interests in science kept us so. He had brought back much scientific
 information from South Africa, and many a charming evening we have
 spent together discussing the comparative anatomy of the Bushman and
 the Hottentot.

 "Within the last few months it became increasingly plain to me that
 Sir Charles's nervous system was strained to the breaking point. He
 had taken this legend which I have read you exceedingly to heart--so
 much so that, although he would walk in his own grounds, nothing
 would induce him to go out upon the moor at night. Incredible as it
 may appear to you, Mr. Holmes, he was honestly convinced that a
 dreadful fate overhung his family, and certainly the records which he
 was able to give of his ancestors were not encouraging. The idea of
 some ghastly presence constantly haunted him, and on more than one
 occasion he has asked me whether I had on my medical journeys at
 night ever seen any strange creature or heard the baying of a hound.
 The latter question he put to me several times, and always with a
 voice which vibrated with excitement.

 "I can well remember driving up to his house in the evening some
 three weeks before the fatal event. He chanced to be at his hall
 door. I had descended from my gig and was standing in front of him,
 when I saw his eyes fix themselves over my shoulder, and stare past
 me with an expression of the most dreadful horror. I whisked round
 and had just time to catch a glimpse of something which I took to be
 a large black calf passing at the head of the drive. So excited and
 alarmed was he that I was compelled to go down to the spot where the
 animal had been and look around for it. It was gone, however, and the
 incident appeared to make the worst impression upon his mind. I
 stayed with him all the evening, and it was on that occasion, to
 explain the emotion which he had shown, that he confided to my
 keeping that narrative which I read to you when first I came. I
 mention this small episode because it assumes some importance in view
 of the tragedy which followed, but I was convinced at the time that
 the matter was entirely trivial and that his excitement had no
 justification.

 "It was at my advice that Sir Charles was about to go to London. His
 heart was, I knew, affected, and the constant anxiety in which he
 lived, however chimerical the cause of it might be, was evidently
 having a serious effect upon his health. I thought that a few months
 among the distractions of town would send him back a new man. Mr.
 Stapleton, a mutual friend who was much concerned at his state of
 health, was of the same opinion. At the last instant came this
 terrible catastrophe.

 "On the night of Sir Charles's death Barrymore the butler, who made
 the discovery, sent Perkins the groom on horseback to me, and as I
 was sitting up late I was able to reach Baskerville Hall within an
 hour of the event. I checked and corroborated all the facts which
 were mentioned at the inquest. I followed the footsteps down the Yew
 Alley, I saw the spot at the moor-gate where he seemed to have
 waited, I remarked the change in the shape of the prints after that
 point, I noted that there were no other footsteps save those of
 Barrymore on the soft gravel, and finally I carefully examined the
 body, which had not been touched until my arrival. Sir Charles lay on
 his face, his arms out, his fingers dug into the ground, and his
 features convulsed with some strong emotion to such an extent that I
 could hardly have sworn to his identity. There was certainly no
 physical injury of any kind. But one false statement was made by
 Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were no traces upon the
 ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I did--some little
 distance off, but fresh and clear."

 "Footprints?"

 "Footprints."

 "A man's or a woman's?"

 Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice
 sank almost to a whisper as he answered:--

 "Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"





      CHAPTER III
      The Problem


 I confess at these words a shudder passed through me. There was a
 thrill in the doctor's voice which showed that he was himself deeply
 moved by that which he told us. Holmes leaned forward in his
 excitement and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which shot from
 them when he was keenly interested.

 "You saw this?"

 "As clearly as I see you."

 "And you said nothing?"

 "What was the use?"

 "How was it that no one else saw it?"

 "The marks were some twenty yards from the body and no one gave them
 a thought. I don't suppose I should have done so had I not known this
 legend."

 "There are many sheep-dogs on the moor?"

 "No doubt, but this was no sheep-dog."

 "You say it was large?"

 "Enormous."

 "But it had not approached the body?"

 "No."

 "What sort of night was it?"

 "Damp and raw."

 "But not actually raining?"

 "No."

 "What is the Alley like?"

 "There are two lines of old yew hedge, twelve feet high and
 impenetrable. The walk in the centre is about eight feet across."

 "Is there anything between the hedges and the walk?"

 "Yes, there is a strip of grass about six feet broad on either side."

 "I understand that the yew hedge is penetrated at one point by a
 gate?"

 "Yes, the wicket-gate which leads on to the moor."

 "Is there any other opening?"

 "None."

 "So that to reach the Yew Alley one either has to come down it from
 the house or else to enter it by the moor-gate?"

 "There is an exit through a summer-house at the far end."

 "Had Sir Charles reached this?"

 "No; he lay about fifty yards from it."

 "Now, tell me, Dr. Mortimer--and this is important--the marks which
 you saw were on the path and not on the grass?"

 "No marks could show on the grass."

 "Were they on the same side of the path as the moor-gate?"

 "Yes; they were on the edge of the path on the same side as the
 moor-gate."

 "You interest me exceedingly. Another point. Was the wicket-gate
 closed?"

 "Closed and padlocked."

 "How high was it?"

 "About four feet high."

 "Then anyone could have got over it?"

 "Yes."

 "And what marks did you see by the wicket-gate?"

 "None in particular."

 "Good heaven! Did no one examine?"

 "Yes, I examined myself."

 "And found nothing?"

 "It was all very confused. Sir Charles had evidently stood there for
 five or ten minutes."

 "How do you know that?"

 "Because the ash had twice dropped from his cigar."

 "Excellent! This is a colleague, Watson, after our own heart. But the
 marks?"

 "He had left his own marks all over that small patch of gravel. I
 could discern no others."

 Sherlock Holmes struck his hand against his knee with an impatient
 gesture.

 "If I had only been there!" he cried. "It is evidently a case of
 extraordinary interest, and one which presented immense opportunities
 to the scientific expert. That gravel page upon which I might have
 read so much has been long ere this smudged by the rain and defaced
 by the clogs of curious peasants. Oh, Dr. Mortimer, Dr. Mortimer, to
 think that you should not have called me in! You have indeed much to
 answer for."

 "I could not call you in, Mr. Holmes, without disclosing these facts
 to the world, and I have already given my reasons for not wishing to
 do so. Besides, besides--"

 "Why do you hesitate?"

 "There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of
 detectives is helpless."

 "You mean that the thing is supernatural?"

 "I did not positively say so."

 "No, but you evidently think it."

 "Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several
 incidents which are hard to reconcile with the settled order of
 Nature."

 "For example?"

 "I find that before the terrible event occurred several people had
 seen a creature upon the moor which corresponds with this Baskerville
 demon, and which could not possibly be any animal known to science.
 They all agreed that it was a huge creature, luminous, ghastly, and
 spectral. I have cross-examined these men, one of them a hard-headed
 countryman, one a farrier, and one a moorland farmer, who all tell
 the same story of this dreadful apparition, exactly corresponding to
 the hell-hound of the legend. I assure you that there is a reign of
 terror in the district, and that it is a hardy man who will cross the
 moor at night."

 "And you, a trained man of science, believe it to be supernatural?"

 "I do not know what to believe."

 Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

 "I have hitherto confined my investigations to this world," said he.
 "In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of
 Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task. Yet you must
 admit that the footmark is material."

 "The original hound was material enough to tug a man's throat out,
 and yet he was diabolical as well."

 "I see that you have quite gone over to the supernaturalists. But
 now, Dr. Mortimer, tell me this. If you hold these views, why have
 you come to consult me at all? You tell me in the same breath that it
 is useless to investigate Sir Charles's death, and that you desire me
 to do it."

 "I did not say that I desired you to do it."

 "Then, how can I assist you?"

 "By advising me as to what I should do with Sir Henry Baskerville,
 who arrives at Waterloo Station"--Dr. Mortimer looked at his
 watch--"in exactly one hour and a quarter."

 "He being the heir?"

 "Yes. On the death of Sir Charles we inquired for this young
 gentleman and found that he had been farming in Canada. From the
 accounts which have reached us he is an excellent fellow in every
 way. I speak not as a medical man but as a trustee and executor of
 Sir Charles's will."

 "There is no other claimant, I presume?"

 "None. The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace was
 Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir
 Charles was the elder. The second brother, who died young, is the
 father of this lad Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black sheep of
 the family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville strain, and was
 the very image, they tell me, of the family picture of old Hugo. He
 made England too hot to hold him, fled to Central America, and died
 there in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles.
 In one hour and five minutes I meet him at Waterloo Station. I have
 had a wire that he arrived at Southampton this morning. Now, Mr.
 Holmes, what would you advise me to do with him?"

 "Why should he not go to the home of his fathers?"

 "It seems natural, does it not? And yet, consider that every
 Baskerville who goes there meets with an evil fate. I feel sure that
 if Sir Charles could have spoken with me before his death he would
 have warned me against bringing this, the last of the old race, and
 the heir to great wealth, to that deadly place. And yet it cannot be
 denied that the prosperity of the whole poor, bleak country-side
 depends upon his presence. All the good work which has been done by
 Sir Charles will crash to the ground if there is no tenant of the
 Hall. I fear lest I should be swayed too much by my own obvious
 interest in the matter, and that is why I bring the case before you
 and ask for your advice."

 Holmes considered for a little time.

 "Put into plain words, the matter is this," said he. "In your opinion
 there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for
 a Baskerville--that is your opinion?"

 "At least I might go the length of saying that there is some evidence
 that this may be so."

 "Exactly. But surely, if your supernatural theory be correct, it
 could work the young man evil in London as easily as in Devonshire. A
 devil with merely local powers like a parish vestry would be too
 inconceivable a thing."

 "You put the matter more flippantly, Mr. Holmes, than you would
 probably do if you were brought into personal contact with these
 things. Your advice, then, as I understand it, is that the young man
 will be as safe in Devonshire as in London. He comes in fifty
 minutes. What would you recommend?"

 "I recommend, sir, that you take a cab, call off your spaniel who is
 scratching at my front door, and proceed to Waterloo to meet Sir
 Henry Baskerville."

 "And then?"

 "And then you will say nothing to him at all until I have made up my
 mind about the matter."

 "How long will it take you to make up your mind?"

 "Twenty-four hours. At ten o'clock to-morrow, Dr. Mortimer, I will be
 much obliged to you if you will call upon me here, and it will be of
 help to me in my plans for the future if you will bring Sir Henry
 Baskerville with you."

 "I will do so, Mr. Holmes." He scribbled the appointment on his
 shirtcuff and hurried off in his strange, peering, absent-minded
 fashion. Holmes stopped him at the head of the stair.

 "Only one more question, Dr. Mortimer. You say that before Sir
 Charles Baskerville's death several people saw this apparition upon
 the moor?"

 "Three people did."

 "Did any see it after?"

 "I have not heard of any."

 "Thank you. Good morning."

 Holmes returned to his seat with that quiet look of inward
 satisfaction which meant that he had a congenial task before him.

 "Going out, Watson?"

 "Unless I can help you."

 "No, my dear fellow, it is at the hour of action that I turn to you
 for aid. But this is splendid, really unique from some points of
 view. When you pass Bradley's, would you ask him to send up a pound
 of the strongest shag tobacco? Thank you. It would be as well if you
 could make it convenient not to return before evening. Then I should
 be very glad to compare impressions as to this most interesting
 problem which has been submitted to us this morning."

 I knew that seclusion and solitude were very necessary for my friend
 in those hours of intense mental concentration during which he
 weighed every particle of evidence, constructed alternative theories,
 balanced one against the other, and made up his mind as to which
 points were essential and which immaterial. I therefore spent the day
 at my club and did not return to Baker Street until evening. It was
 nearly nine o'clock when I found myself in the sitting-room once
 more.

 My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had broken
 out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the light of the lamp
 upon the table was blurred by it. As I entered, however, my fears
 were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of strong coarse tobacco
 which took me by the throat and set me coughing. Through the haze I
 had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressing-gown coiled up in an
 armchair with his black clay pipe between his lips. Several rolls of
 paper lay around him.

 "Caught cold, Watson?" said he.

 "No, it's this poisonous atmosphere."

 "I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it."

 "Thick! It is intolerable."

 "Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I
 perceive."

 "My dear Holmes!"

 "Am I right?"

 "Certainly, but how?"

 He laughed at my bewildered expression.

 "There is a delightful freshness about you, Watson, which makes it a
 pleasure to exercise any small powers which I possess at your
 expense. A gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns
 immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his
 boots. He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man with
 intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not
 obvious?"

 "Well, it is rather obvious."

 "The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever
 observes. Where do you think that I have been?"

 "A fixture also."

 "On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire."

 "In spirit?"

 "Exactly. My body has remained in this arm-chair and has, I regret to
 observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an
 incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to
 Stamford's for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my
 spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I could
 find my way about."

 "A large scale map, I presume?"

 "Very large." He unrolled one section and held it over his knee.
 "Here you have the particular district which concerns us. That is
 Baskerville Hall in the middle."

 "With a wood round it?"

 "Exactly. I fancy the Yew Alley, though not marked under that name,
 must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you perceive, upon
 the right of it. This small clump of buildings here is the hamlet of
 Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters. Within a
 radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a very few scattered
 dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the narrative.
 There is a house indicated here which may be the residence of the
 naturalist--Stapleton, if I remember right, was his name. Here are
 two moorland farm-houses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles
 away the great convict prison of Princetown. Between and around these
 scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then, is
 the stage upon which tragedy has been played, and upon which we may
 help to play it again."

 "It must be a wild place."

 "Yes, the setting is a worthy one. If the devil did desire to have a
 hand in the affairs of men--"

 "Then you are yourself inclining to the supernatural explanation."

 "The devil's agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not? There
 are two questions waiting for us at the outset. The one is whether
 any crime has been committed at all; the second is, what is the crime
 and how was it committed? Of course, if Dr. Mortimer's surmise should
 be correct, and we are dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws
 of Nature, there is an end of our investigation. But we are bound to
 exhaust all other hypotheses before falling back upon this one. I
 think we'll shut that window again, if you don't mind. It is a
 singular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a
 concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to the length of
 getting into a box to think, but that is the logical outcome of my
 convictions. Have you turned the case over in your mind?"

 "Yes, I have thought a good deal of it in the course of the day."

 "What do you make of it?"

 "It is very bewildering."

 "It has certainly a character of its own. There are points of
 distinction about it. That change in the footprints, for example.
 What do you make of that?"

 "Mortimer said that the man had walked on tiptoe down that portion of
 the alley."

 "He only repeated what some fool had said at the inquest. Why should
 a man walk on tiptoe down the alley?"

 "What then?"

 "He was running, Watson--running desperately, running for his life,
 running until he burst his heart and fell dead upon his face."

 "Running from what?"

 "There lies our problem. There are indications that the man was
 crazed with fear before ever he began to run."

 "How can you say that?"

 "I am presuming that the cause of his fears came to him across the
 moor. If that were so, and it seems most probable, only a man who had
 lost his wits would have run from the house instead of towards it. If
 the gipsy's evidence may be taken as true, he ran with cries for help
 in the direction where help was least likely to be. Then, again, whom
 was he waiting for that night, and why was he waiting for him in the
 Yew Alley rather than in his own house?"

 "You think that he was waiting for someone?"

 "The man was elderly and infirm. We can understand his taking an
 evening stroll, but the ground was damp and the night inclement. Is
 it natural that he should stand for five or ten minutes, as Dr.
 Mortimer, with more practical sense than I should have given him
 credit for, deduced from the cigar ash?"

 "But he went out every evening."

 "I think it unlikely that he waited at the moor-gate every evening.
 On the contrary, the evidence is that he avoided the moor. That night
 he waited there. It was the night before he made his departure for
 London. The thing takes shape, Watson. It becomes coherent. Might I
 ask you to hand me my violin, and we will postpone all further
 thought upon this business until we have had the advantage of meeting
 Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning."





      CHAPTER IV
      Sir Henry Baskerville


 Our breakfast-table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in his
 dressing-gown for the promised interview. Our clients were punctual
 to their appointment, for the clock had just struck ten when Dr.
 Mortimer was shown up, followed by the young baronet. The latter was
 a small, alert, dark-eyed man about thirty years of age, very
 sturdily built, with thick black eyebrows and a strong, pugnacious
 face. He wore a ruddy-tinted tweed suit and had the weather-beaten
 appearance of one who has spent most of his time in the open air, and
 yet there was something in his steady eye and the quiet assurance of
 his bearing which indicated the gentleman.

 "This is Sir Henry Baskerville," said Dr. Mortimer.

 "Why, yes," said he, "and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
 that if my friend here had not proposed coming round to you this
 morning I should have come on my own account. I understand that you
 think out little puzzles, and I've had one this morning which wants
 more thinking out than I am able to give it."

 "Pray take a seat, Sir Henry. Do I understand you to say that you
 have yourself had some remarkable experience since you arrived in
 London?"

 "Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes. Only a joke, as like as not.
 It was this letter, if you can call it a letter, which reached me
 this morning."

 He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all bent over it. It was
 of common quality, grayish in colour. The address, "Sir Henry
 Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel," was printed in rough characters;
 the postmark "Charing Cross," and the date of posting the preceding
 evening.

 "Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Hotel?" asked
 Holmes, glancing keenly across at our visitor.

 "No one could have known. We only decided after I met Dr. Mortimer."

 "But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there?"

 "No, I had been staying with a friend," said the doctor. "There was
 no possible indication that we intended to go to this hotel."

 "Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your movements."
 Out of the envelope he took a half-sheet of foolscap paper folded
 into four. This he opened and spread flat upon the table. Across the
 middle of it a single sentence had been formed by the expedient of
 pasting printed words upon it. It ran:

 As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor.

 The word "moor" only was printed in ink.

 "Now," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "perhaps you will tell me, Mr.
 Holmes, what in thunder is the meaning of that, and who it is that
 takes so much interest in my affairs?"

 "What do you make of it, Dr. Mortimer? You must allow that there is
 nothing supernatural about this, at any rate?"

 "No, sir, but it might very well come from someone who was convinced
 that the business is supernatural."

 "What business?" asked Sir Henry sharply. "It seems to me that all
 you gentlemen know a great deal more than I do about my own affairs."

 "You shall share our knowledge before you leave this room, Sir Henry.
 I promise you that," said Sherlock Holmes. "We will confine ourselves
 for the present with your permission to this very interesting
 document, which must have been put together and posted yesterday
 evening. Have you yesterday's Times, Watson?"

 "It is here in the corner."

 "Might I trouble you for it--the inside page, please, with the
 leading articles?" He glanced swiftly over it, running his eyes up
 and down the columns. "Capital article this on free trade. Permit me
 to give you an extract from it.

 "'You may be cajoled into imagining that your own special trade or
 your own industry will be encouraged by a protective tariff, but it
 stands to reason that such legislation must in the long run keep away
 wealth from the country, diminish the value of our imports, and lower
 the general conditions of life in this island.'

 "What do you think of that, Watson?" cried Holmes in high glee,
 rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. "Don't you think that
 is an admirable sentiment?"

 Dr. Mortimer looked at Holmes with an air of professional interest,
 and Sir Henry Baskerville turned a pair of puzzled dark eyes upon me.

 "I don't know much about the tariff and things of that kind," said
 he; "but it seems to me we've got a bit off the trail so far as that
 note is concerned."

 "On the contrary, I think we are particularly hot upon the trail, Sir
 Henry. Watson here knows more about my methods than you do, but I
 fear that even he has not quite grasped the significance of this
 sentence."

 "No, I confess that I see no connection."

 "And yet, my dear Watson, there is so very close a connection that
 the one is extracted out of the other. 'You,' 'your,' 'your,' 'life,'
 'reason,' 'value,' 'keep away,' 'from the.' Don't you see now whence
 these words have been taken?"

 "By thunder, you're right! Well, if that isn't smart!" cried Sir
 Henry.

 "If any possible doubt remained it is settled by the fact that 'keep
 away' and 'from the' are cut out in one piece."

 "Well, now--so it is!"

 "Really, Mr. Holmes, this exceeds anything which I could have
 imagined," said Dr. Mortimer, gazing at my friend in amazement. "I
 could understand anyone saying that the words were from a newspaper;
 but that you should name which, and add that it came from the leading
 article, is really one of the most remarkable things which I have
 ever known. How did you do it?"

 "I presume, Doctor, that you could tell the skull of a negro from
 that of an Esquimau?"

 "Most certainly."

 "But how?"

 "Because that is my special hobby. The differences are obvious. The
 supra-orbital crest, the facial angle, the maxillary curve, the--"

 "But this is my special hobby, and the differences are equally
 obvious. There is as much difference to my eyes between the leaded
 bourgeois type of a Times article and the slovenly print of an
 evening half-penny paper as there could be between your negro and
 your Esquimau. The detection of types is one of the most elementary
 branches of knowledge to the special expert in crime, though I
 confess that once when I was very young I confused the Leeds Mercury
 with the Western Morning News. But a Times leader is entirely
 distinctive, and these words could have been taken from nothing else.
 As it was done yesterday the strong probability was that we should
 find the words in yesterday's issue."

 "So far as I can follow you, then, Mr. Holmes," said Sir Henry
 Baskerville, "someone cut out this message with a scissors--"

 "Nail-scissors," said Holmes. "You can see that it was a very
 short-bladed scissors, since the cutter had to take two snips over
 'keep away.'"

 "That is so. Someone, then, cut out the message with a pair of
 short-bladed scissors, pasted it with paste--"

 "Gum," said Holmes.

 "With gum on to the paper. But I want to know why the word 'moor'
 should have been written?"

 "Because he could not find it in print. The other words were all
 simple and might be found in any issue, but 'moor' would be less
 common."

 "Why, of course, that would explain it. Have you read anything else
 in this message, Mr. Holmes?"

 "There are one or two indications, and yet the utmost pains have been
 taken to remove all clues. The address, you observe is printed in
 rough characters. But the Times is a paper which is seldom found in
 any hands but those of the highly educated. We may take it,
 therefore, that the letter was composed by an educated man who wished
 to pose as an uneducated one, and his effort to conceal his own
 writing suggests that that writing might be known, or come to be
 known, by you. Again, you will observe that the words are not gummed
 on in an accurate line, but that some are much higher than others.
 'Life,' for example is quite out of its proper place. That may point
 to carelessness or it may point to agitation and hurry upon the part
 of the cutter. On the whole I incline to the latter view, since the
 matter was evidently important, and it is unlikely that the composer
 of such a letter would be careless. If he were in a hurry it opens up
 the interesting question why he should be in a hurry, since any
 letter posted up to early morning would reach Sir Henry before he
 would leave his hotel. Did the composer fear an interruption--and
 from whom?"

 "We are coming now rather into the region of guesswork," said Dr.
 Mortimer.

 "Say, rather, into the region where we balance probabilities and
 choose the most likely. It is the scientific use of the imagination,
 but we have always some material basis on which to start our
 speculation. Now, you would call it a guess, no doubt, but I am
 almost certain that this address has been written in a hotel."

 "How in the world can you say that?"

 "If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen and the
 ink have given the writer trouble. The pen has spluttered twice in a
 single word, and has run dry three times in a short address, showing
 that there was very little ink in the bottle. Now, a private pen or
 ink-bottle is seldom allowed to be in such a state, and the
 combination of the two must be quite rare. But you know the hotel ink
 and the hotel pen, where it is rare to get anything else. Yes, I have
 very little hesitation in saying that could we examine the
 waste-paper baskets of the hotels around Charing Cross until we found
 the remains of the mutilated Times leader we could lay our hands
 straight upon the person who sent this singular message. Halloa!
 Halloa! What's this?"

 He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon which the words were
 pasted, holding it only an inch or two from his eyes.

 "Well?"

 "Nothing," said he, throwing it down. "It is a blank half-sheet of
 paper, without even a water-mark upon it. I think we have drawn as
 much as we can from this curious letter; and now, Sir Henry, has
 anything else of interest happened to you since you have been in
 London?"

 "Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not."

 "You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?"

 "I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime novel," said
 our visitor. "Why in thunder should anyone follow or watch me?"

 "We are coming to that. You have nothing else to report to us before
 we go into this matter?"

 "Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting."

 "I think anything out of the ordinary routine of life well worth
 reporting."

 Sir Henry smiled.

 "I don't know much of British life yet, for I have spent nearly all
 my time in the States and in Canada. But I hope that to lose one of
 your boots is not part of the ordinary routine of life over here."

 "You have lost one of your boots?"

 "My dear sir," cried Dr. Mortimer, "it is only mislaid. You will find
 it when you return to the hotel. What is the use of troubling Mr.
 Holmes with trifles of this kind?"

 "Well, he asked me for anything outside the ordinary routine."

 "Exactly," said Holmes, "however foolish the incident may seem. You
 have lost one of your boots, you say?"

 "Well, mislaid it, anyhow. I put them both outside my door last
 night, and there was only one in the morning. I could get no sense
 out of the chap who cleans them. The worst of it is that I only
 bought the pair last night in the Strand, and I have never had them
 on."

 "If you have never worn them, why did you put them out to be
 cleaned?"

 "They were tan boots and had never been varnished. That was why I put
 them out."

 "Then I understand that on your arrival in London yesterday you went
 out at once and bought a pair of boots?"

 "I did a good deal of shopping. Dr. Mortimer here went round with me.
 You see, if I am to be squire down there I must dress the part, and
 it may be that I have got a little careless in my ways out West.
 Among other things I bought these brown boots--gave six dollars for
 them--and had one stolen before ever I had them on my feet."

 "It seems a singularly useless thing to steal," said Sherlock Holmes.
 "I confess that I share Dr. Mortimer's belief that it will not be
 long before the missing boot is found."

 "And, now, gentlemen," said the baronet with decision, "it seems to
 me that I have spoken quite enough about the little that I know. It
 is time that you kept your promise and gave me a full account of what
 we are all driving at."

 "Your request is a very reasonable one," Holmes answered. "Dr.
 Mortimer, I think you could not do better than to tell your story as
 you told it to us."

 Thus encouraged, our scientific friend drew his papers from his
 pocket, and presented the whole case as he had done upon the morning
 before. Sir Henry Baskerville listened with the deepest attention,
 and with an occasional exclamation of surprise.

 "Well, I seem to have come into an inheritance with a vengeance,"
 said he when the long narrative was finished. "Of course, I've heard
 of the hound ever since I was in the nursery. It's the pet story of
 the family, though I never thought of taking it seriously before. But
 as to my uncle's death--well, it all seems boiling up in my head, and
 I can't get it clear yet. You don't seem quite to have made up your
 mind whether it's a case for a policeman or a clergyman."

 "Precisely."

 "And now there's this affair of the letter to me at the hotel. I
 suppose that fits into its place."

 "It seems to show that someone knows more than we do about what goes
 on upon the moor," said Dr. Mortimer.

 "And also," said Holmes, "that someone is not ill-disposed towards
 you, since they warn you of danger."

 "Or it may be that they wish, for their own purposes, to scare me
 away."

 "Well, of course, that is possible also. I am very much indebted to
 you, Dr. Mortimer, for introducing me to a problem which presents
 several interesting alternatives. But the practical point which we
 now have to decide, Sir Henry, is whether it is or is not advisable
 for you to go to Baskerville Hall."

 "Why should I not go?"

 "There seems to be danger."

 "Do you mean danger from this family fiend or do you mean danger from
 human beings?"

 "Well, that is what we have to find out."

 "Whichever it is, my answer is fixed. There is no devil in hell, Mr.
 Holmes, and there is no man upon earth who can prevent me from going
 to the home of my own people, and you may take that to be my final
 answer." His dark brows knitted and his face flushed to a dusky red
 as he spoke. It was evident that the fiery temper of the Baskervilles
 was not extinct in this their last representative. "Meanwhile," said
 he, "I have hardly had time to think over all that you have told me.
 It's a big thing for a man to have to understand and to decide at one
 sitting. I should like to have a quiet hour by myself to make up my
 mind. Now, look here, Mr. Holmes, it's half-past eleven now and I am
 going back right away to my hotel. Suppose you and your friend, Dr.
 Watson, come round and lunch with us at two. I'll be able to tell you
 more clearly then how this thing strikes me."

 "Is that convenient to you, Watson?"

 "Perfectly."

 "Then you may expect us. Shall I have a cab called?"

 "I'd prefer to walk, for this affair has flurried me rather."

 "I'll join you in a walk, with pleasure," said his companion.

 "Then we meet again at two o'clock. Au revoir, and good-morning!"

 We heard the steps of our visitors descend the stair and the bang of
 the front door. In an instant Holmes had changed from the languid
 dreamer to the man of action.

 "Your hat and boots, Watson, quick! Not a moment to lose!" He rushed
 into his room in his dressing-gown and was back again in a few
 seconds in a frock-coat. We hurried together down the stairs and into
 the street. Dr. Mortimer and Baskerville were still visible about two
 hundred yards ahead of us in the direction of Oxford Street.

 "Shall I run on and stop them?"

 "Not for the world, my dear Watson. I am perfectly satisfied with
 your company if you will tolerate mine. Our friends are wise, for it
 is certainly a very fine morning for a walk."

 He quickened his pace until we had decreased the distance which
 divided us by about half. Then, still keeping a hundred yards behind,
 we followed into Oxford Street and so down Regent Street. Once our
 friends stopped and stared into a shop window, upon which Holmes did
 the same. An instant afterwards he gave a little cry of satisfaction,
 and, following the direction of his eager eyes, I saw that a hansom
 cab with a man inside which had halted on the other side of the
 street was now proceeding slowly onward again.

 "There's our man, Watson! Come along! We'll have a good look at him,
 if we can do no more."

 At that instant I was aware of a bushy black beard and a pair of
 piercing eyes turned upon us through the side window of the cab.
 Instantly the trapdoor at the top flew up, something was screamed to
 the driver, and the cab flew madly off down Regent Street. Holmes
 looked eagerly round for another, but no empty one was in sight. Then
 he dashed in wild pursuit amid the stream of the traffic, but the
 start was too great, and already the cab was out of sight.

 "There now!" said Holmes bitterly as he emerged panting and white
 with vexation from the tide of vehicles. "Was ever such bad luck and
 such bad management, too? Watson, Watson, if you are an honest man
 you will record this also and set it against my successes!"

 "Who was the man?"

 "I have not an idea."

 "A spy?"

 "Well, it was evident from what we have heard that Baskerville has
 been very closely shadowed by someone since he has been in town. How
 else could it be known so quickly that it was the Northumberland
 Hotel which he had chosen? If they had followed him the first day I
 argued that they would follow him also the second. You may have
 observed that I twice strolled over to the window while Dr. Mortimer
 was reading his legend."

 "Yes, I remember."

 "I was looking out for loiterers in the street, but I saw none. We
 are dealing with a clever man, Watson. This matter cuts very deep,
 and though I have not finally made up my mind whether it is a
 benevolent or a malevolent agency which is in touch with us, I am
 conscious always of power and design. When our friends left I at once
 followed them in the hopes of marking down their invisible attendant.
 So wily was he that he had not trusted himself upon foot, but he had
 availed himself of a cab so that he could loiter behind or dash past
 them and so escape their notice. His method had the additional
 advantage that if they were to take a cab he was all ready to follow
 them. It has, however, one obvious disadvantage."

 "It puts him in the power of the cabman."

 "Exactly."

 "What a pity we did not get the number!"

 "My dear Watson, clumsy as I have been, you surely do not seriously
 imagine that I neglected to get the number? No. 2704 is our man. But
 that is no use to us for the moment."

 "I fail to see how you could have done more."

 "On observing the cab I should have instantly turned and walked in
 the other direction. I should then at my leisure have hired a second
 cab and followed the first at a respectful distance, or, better
 still, have driven to the Northumberland Hotel and waited there. When
 our unknown had followed Baskerville home we should have had the
 opportunity of playing his own game upon himself and seeing where he
 made for. As it is, by an indiscreet eagerness, which was taken
 advantage of with extraordinary quickness and energy by our opponent,
 we have betrayed ourselves and lost our man."

 We had been sauntering slowly down Regent Street during this
 conversation, and Dr. Mortimer, with his companion, had long vanished
 in front of us.

 "There is no object in our following them," said Holmes. "The shadow
 has departed and will not return. We must see what further cards we
 have in our hands and play them with decision. Could you swear to
 that man's face within the cab?"

 "I could swear only to the beard."

 "And so could I--from which I gather that in all probability it was a
 false one. A clever man upon so delicate an errand has no use for a
 beard save to conceal his features. Come in here, Watson!"

 He turned into one of the district messenger offices, where he was
 warmly greeted by the manager.

 "Ah, Wilson, I see you have not forgotten the little case in which I
 had the good fortune to help you?"

 "No, sir, indeed I have not. You saved my good name, and perhaps my
 life."

 "My dear fellow, you exaggerate. I have some recollection, Wilson,
 that you had among your boys a lad named Cartwright, who showed some
 ability during the investigation."

 "Yes, sir, he is still with us."

 "Could you ring him up?--thank you! And I should be glad to have
 change of this five-pound note."

 A lad of fourteen, with a bright, keen face, had obeyed the summons
 of the manager. He stood now gazing with great reverence at the
 famous detective.

 "Let me have the Hotel Directory," said Holmes. "Thank you! Now,
 Cartwright, there are the names of twenty-three hotels here, all in
 the immediate neighbourhood of Charing Cross. Do you see?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "You will visit each of these in turn."

 "Yes, sir."

 "You will begin in each case by giving the outside porter one
 shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings."

 "Yes, sir."

 "You will tell him that you want to see the waste-paper of yesterday.
 You will say that an important telegram has miscarried and that you
 are looking for it. You understand?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "But what you are really looking for is the centre page of the Times
 with some holes cut in it with scissors. Here is a copy of the Times.
 It is this page. You could easily recognize it, could you not?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "In each case the outside porter will send for the hall porter, to
 whom also you will give a shilling. Here are twenty-three shillings.
 You will then learn in possibly twenty cases out of the twenty-three
 that the waste of the day before has been burned or removed. In the
 three other cases you will be shown a heap of paper and you will look
 for this page of the Times among it. The odds are enormously against
 your finding it. There are ten shillings over in case of emergencies.
 Let me have a report by wire at Baker Street before evening. And now,
 Watson, it only remains for us to find out by wire the identity of
 the cabman, No. 2704, and then we will drop into one of the Bond
 Street picture galleries and fill in the time until we are due at the
 hotel."





      CHAPTER V
      Three Broken Threads


 Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of
 detaching his mind at will. For two hours the strange business in
 which we had been involved appeared to be forgotten, and he was
 entirely absorbed in the pictures of the modern Belgian masters. He
 would talk of nothing but art, of which he had the crudest ideas,
 from our leaving the gallery until we found ourselves at the
 Northumberland Hotel.

 "Sir Henry Baskerville is upstairs expecting you," said the clerk.
 "He asked me to show you up at once when you came."

 "Have you any objection to my looking at your register?" said Holmes.

 "Not in the least."

 The book showed that two names had been added after that of
 Baskerville. One was Theophilus Johnson and family, of Newcastle; the
 other Mrs. Oldmore and maid, of High Lodge, Alton.

 "Surely that must be the same Johnson whom I used to know," said
 Holmes to the porter. "A lawyer, is he not, gray-headed, and walks
 with a limp?"

 "No, sir; this is Mr. Johnson, the coal-owner, a very active
 gentleman, not older than yourself."

 "Surely you are mistaken about his trade?"

 "No, sir! he has used this hotel for many years, and he is very well
 known to us."

 "Ah, that settles it. Mrs. Oldmore, too; I seem to remember the name.
 Excuse my curiosity, but often in calling upon one friend one finds
 another."

 "She is an invalid lady, sir. Her husband was once mayor of
 Gloucester. She always comes to us when she is in town."

 "Thank you; I am afraid I cannot claim her acquaintance. We have
 established a most important fact by these questions, Watson," he
 continued in a low voice as we went upstairs together. "We know now
 that the people who are so interested in our friend have not settled
 down in his own hotel. That means that while they are, as we have
 seen, very anxious to watch him, they are equally anxious that he
 should not see them. Now, this is a most suggestive fact."

 "What does it suggest?"

 "It suggests--halloa, my dear fellow, what on earth is the matter?"

 As we came round the top of the stairs we had run up against Sir
 Henry Baskerville himself. His face was flushed with anger, and he
 held an old and dusty boot in one of his hands. So furious was he
 that he was hardly articulate, and when he did speak it was in a much
 broader and more Western dialect than any which we had heard from him
 in the morning.

 "Seems to me they are playing me for a sucker in this hotel," he
 cried. "They'll find they've started in to monkey with the wrong man
 unless they are careful. By thunder, if that chap can't find my
 missing boot there will be trouble. I can take a joke with the best,
 Mr. Holmes, but they've got a bit over the mark this time."

 "Still looking for your boot?"

 "Yes, sir, and mean to find it."

 "But, surely, you said that it was a new brown boot?"

 "So it was, sir. And now it's an old black one."

 "What! you don't mean to say--?"

 "That's just what I do mean to say. I only had three pairs in the
 world--the new brown, the old black, and the patent leathers, which I
 am wearing. Last night they took one of my brown ones, and to-day
 they have sneaked one of the black. Well, have you got it? Speak out,
 man, and don't stand staring!"

 An agitated German waiter had appeared upon the scene.

 "No, sir; I have made inquiry all over the hotel, but I can hear no
 word of it."

 "Well, either that boot comes back before sundown or I'll see the
 manager and tell him that I go right straight out of this hotel."

 "It shall be found, sir--I promise you that if you will have a little
 patience it will be found."

 "Mind it is, for it's the last thing of mine that I'll lose in this
 den of thieves. Well, well, Mr. Holmes, you'll excuse my troubling
 you about such a trifle--"

 "I think it's well worth troubling about."

 "Why, you look very serious over it."

 "How do you explain it?"

 "I just don't attempt to explain it. It seems the very maddest,
 queerest thing that ever happened to me."

 "The queerest perhaps--" said Holmes, thoughtfully.

 "What do you make of it yourself?"

 "Well, I don't profess to understand it yet. This case of yours is
 very complex, Sir Henry. When taken in conjunction with your uncle's
 death I am not sure that of all the five hundred cases of capital
 importance which I have handled there is one which cuts so deep. But
 we hold several threads in our hands, and the odds are that one or
 other of them guides us to the truth. We may waste time in following
 the wrong one, but sooner or later we must come upon the right."

 We had a pleasant luncheon in which little was said of the business
 which had brought us together. It was in the private sitting-room to
 which we afterwards repaired that Holmes asked Baskerville what were
 his intentions.

 "To go to Baskerville Hall."

 "And when?"

 "At the end of the week."

 "On the whole," said Holmes, "I think that your decision is a wise
 one. I have ample evidence that you are being dogged in London, and
 amid the millions of this great city it is difficult to discover who
 these people are or what their object can be. If their intentions are
 evil they might do you a mischief, and we should be powerless to
 prevent it. You did not know, Dr. Mortimer, that you were followed
 this morning from my house?"

 Dr. Mortimer started violently.

 "Followed! By whom?"

 "That, unfortunately, is what I cannot tell you. Have you among your
 neighbours or acquaintances on Dartmoor any man with a black, full
 beard?"

 "No--or, let me see--why, yes. Barrymore, Sir Charles's butler, is a
 man with a full, black beard."

 "Ha! Where is Barrymore?"

 "He is in charge of the Hall."

 "We had best ascertain if he is really there, or if by any
 possibility he might be in London."

 "How can you do that?"

 "Give me a telegraph form. 'Is all ready for Sir Henry?' That will
 do. Address to Mr. Barrymore, Baskerville Hall. What is the nearest
 telegraph-office? Grimpen. Very good, we will send a second wire to
 the postmaster, Grimpen: 'Telegram to Mr. Barrymore to be delivered
 into his own hand. If absent, please return wire to Sir Henry
 Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel.' That should let us know before
 evening whether Barrymore is at his post in Devonshire or not."

 "That's so," said Baskerville. "By the way, Dr. Mortimer, who is this
 Barrymore, anyhow?"

 "He is the son of the old caretaker, who is dead. They have looked
 after the Hall for four generations now. So far as I know, he and his
 wife are as respectable a couple as any in the county."

 "At the same time," said Baskerville, "it's clear enough that so long
 as there are none of the family at the Hall these people have a
 mighty fine home and nothing to do."

 "That is true."

 "Did Barrymore profit at all by Sir Charles's will?" asked Holmes.

 "He and his wife had five hundred pounds each."

 "Ha! Did they know that they would receive this?"

 "Yes; Sir Charles was very fond of talking about the provisions of
 his will."

 "That is very interesting."

 "I hope," said Dr. Mortimer, "that you do not look with suspicious
 eyes upon everyone who received a legacy from Sir Charles, for I also
 had a thousand pounds left to me."

 "Indeed! And anyone else?"

 "There were many insignificant sums to individuals, and a large
 number of public charities. The residue all went to Sir Henry."

 "And how much was the residue?"

 "Seven hundred and forty thousand pounds."

 Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I had no idea that so
 gigantic a sum was involved," said he.

 "Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, but we did not know
 how very rich he was until we came to examine his securities. The
 total value of the estate was close on to a million."

 "Dear me! It is a stake for which a man might well play a desperate
 game. And one more question, Dr. Mortimer. Supposing that anything
 happened to our young friend here--you will forgive the unpleasant
 hypothesis!--who would inherit the estate?"

 "Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles's younger brother died
 unmarried, the estate would descend to the Desmonds, who are distant
 cousins. James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in Westmoreland."

 "Thank you. These details are all of great interest. Have you met Mr.
 James Desmond?"

 "Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles. He is a man of
 venerable appearance and of saintly life. I remember that he refused
 to accept any settlement from Sir Charles, though he pressed it upon
 him."

 "And this man of simple tastes would be the heir to Sir Charles's
 thousands."

 "He would be the heir to the estate because that is entailed. He
 would also be the heir to the money unless it were willed otherwise
 by the present owner, who can, of course, do what he likes with it."

 "And have you made your will, Sir Henry?"

 "No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I've had no time, for it was only
 yesterday that I learned how matters stood. But in any case I feel
 that the money should go with the title and estate. That was my poor
 uncle's idea. How is the owner going to restore the glories of the
 Baskervilles if he has not money enough to keep up the property?
 House, land, and dollars must go together."

 "Quite so. Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind with you as to the
 advisability of your going down to Devonshire without delay. There is
 only one provision which I must make. You certainly must not go
 alone."

 "Dr. Mortimer returns with me."

 "But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend to, and his house is
 miles away from yours. With all the good will in the world he may be
 unable to help you. No, Sir Henry, you must take with you someone, a
 trusty man, who will be always by your side."

 "Is it possible that you could come yourself, Mr. Holmes?"

 "If matters came to a crisis I should endeavour to be present in
 person; but you can understand that, with my extensive consulting
 practice and with the constant appeals which reach me from many
 quarters, it is impossible for me to be absent from London for an
 indefinite time. At the present instant one of the most revered names
 in England is being besmirched by a blackmailer, and only I can stop
 a disastrous scandal. You will see how impossible it is for me to go
 to Dartmoor."

 "Whom would you recommend, then?"

 Holmes laid his hand upon my arm.

 "If my friend would undertake it there is no man who is better worth
 having at your side when you are in a tight place. No one can say so
 more confidently than I."

 The proposition took me completely by surprise, but before I had time
 to answer, Baskerville seized me by the hand and wrung it heartily.

 "Well, now, that is real kind of you, Dr. Watson," said he. "You see
 how it is with me, and you know just as much about the matter as I
 do. If you will come down to Baskerville Hall and see me through I'll
 never forget it."

 The promise of adventure had always a fascination for me, and I was
 complimented by the words of Holmes and by the eagerness with which
 the baronet hailed me as a companion.

 "I will come, with pleasure," said I. "I do not know how I could
 employ my time better."

 "And you will report very carefully to me," said Holmes. "When a
 crisis comes, as it will do, I will direct how you shall act. I
 suppose that by Saturday all might be ready?"

 "Would that suit Dr. Watson?"

 "Perfectly."

 "Then on Saturday, unless you hear to the contrary, we shall meet at
 the 10.30 train from Paddington."

 We had risen to depart when Baskerville gave a cry, of triumph, and
 diving into one of the corners of the room he drew a brown boot from
 under a cabinet.

 "My missing boot!" he cried.

 "May all our difficulties vanish as easily!" said Sherlock Holmes.

 "But it is a very singular thing," Dr. Mortimer remarked. "I searched
 this room carefully before lunch."

 "And so did I," said Baskerville. "Every inch of it."

 "There was certainly no boot in it then."

 "In that case the waiter must have placed it there while we were
 lunching."

 The German was sent for but professed to know nothing of the matter,
 nor could any inquiry clear it up. Another item had been added to
 that constant and apparently purposeless series of small mysteries
 which had succeeded each other so rapidly. Setting aside the whole
 grim story of Sir Charles's death, we had a line of inexplicable
 incidents all within the limits of two days, which included the
 receipt of the printed letter, the black-bearded spy in the hansom,
 the loss of the new brown boot, the loss of the old black boot, and
 now the return of the new brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the
 cab as we drove back to Baker Street, and I knew from his drawn brows
 and keen face that his mind, like my own, was busy in endeavouring to
 frame some scheme into which all these strange and apparently
 disconnected episodes could be fitted. All afternoon and late into
 the evening he sat lost in tobacco and thought.

 Just before dinner two telegrams were handed in. The first ran:

 Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall.
 Baskerville.

 The second:

 Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but sorry to report unable
 to trace cut sheet of Times.
 Cartwright.

 "There go two of my threads, Watson. There is nothing more
 stimulating than a case where everything goes against you. We must
 cast round for another scent."

 "We have still the cabman who drove the spy."

 "Exactly. I have wired to get his name and address from the Official
 Registry. I should not be surprised if this were an answer to my
 question."

 The ring at the bell proved to be something even more satisfactory
 than an answer, however, for the door opened and a rough-looking
 fellow entered who was evidently the man himself.

 "I got a message from the head office that a gent at this address had
 been inquiring for 2704," said he. "I've driven my cab this seven
 years and never a word of complaint. I came here straight from the
 Yard to ask you to your face what you had against me."

 "I have nothing in the world against you, my good man," said Holmes.
 "On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you will give me
 a clear answer to my questions."

 "Well, I've had a good day and no mistake," said the cabman, with a
 grin. "What was it you wanted to ask, sir?"

 "First of all your name and address, in case I want you again."

 "John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough. My cab is out of
 Shipley's Yard, near Waterloo Station."

 Sherlock Holmes made a note of it.

 "Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who came and watched this
 house at ten o'clock this morning and afterwards followed the two
 gentlemen down Regent Street."

 The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed. "Why, there's no
 good my telling you things, for you seem to know as much as I do
 already," said he. "The truth is that the gentleman told me that he
 was a detective and that I was to say nothing about him to anyone."

 "My good fellow, this is a very serious business, and you may find
 yourself in a pretty bad position if you try to hide anything from
 me. You say that your fare told you that he was a detective?"

 "Yes, he did."

 "When did he say this?"

 "When he left me."

 "Did he say anything more?"

 "He mentioned his name."

 Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me. "Oh, he mentioned his
 name, did he? That was imprudent. What was the name that he
 mentioned?"

 "His name," said the cabman, "was Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

 Never have I seen my friend more completely taken aback than by the
 cabman's reply. For an instant he sat in silent amazement. Then he
 burst into a hearty laugh.

 "A touch, Watson--an undeniable touch!" said he. "I feel a foil as
 quick and supple as my own. He got home upon me very prettily that
 time. So his name was Sherlock Holmes, was it?"

 "Yes, sir, that was the gentleman's name."

 "Excellent! Tell me where you picked him up and all that occurred."

 "He hailed me at half-past nine in Trafalgar Square. He said that he
 was a detective, and he offered me two guineas if I would do exactly
 what he wanted all day and ask no questions. I was glad enough to
 agree. First we drove down to the Northumberland Hotel and waited
 there until two gentlemen came out and took a cab from the rank. We
 followed their cab until it pulled up somewhere near here."

 "This very door," said Holmes.

 "Well, I couldn't be sure of that, but I dare say my fare knew all
 about it. We pulled up half-way down the street and waited an hour
 and a half. Then the two gentlemen passed us, walking, and we
 followed down Baker Street and along--"

 "I know," said Holmes.

 "Until we got three-quarters down Regent Street. Then my gentleman
 threw up the trap, and he cried that I should drive right away to
 Waterloo Station as hard as I could go. I whipped up the mare and we
 were there under the ten minutes. Then he paid up his two guineas,
 like a good one, and away he went into the station. Only just as he
 was leaving he turned round and he said: 'It might interest you to
 know that you have been driving Mr. Sherlock Holmes.' That's how I
 come to know the name."

 "I see. And you saw no more of him?"

 "Not after he went into the station."

 "And how would you describe Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

 The cabman scratched his head. "Well, he wasn't altogether such an
 easy gentleman to describe. I'd put him at forty years of age, and he
 was of a middle height, two or three inches shorter than you, sir. He
 was dressed like a toff, and he had a black beard, cut square at the
 end, and a pale face. I don't know as I could say more than that."

 "Colour of his eyes?"

 "No, I can't say that."

 "Nothing more that you can remember?"

 "No, sir; nothing."

 "Well, then, here is your half-sovereign. There's another one waiting
 for you if you can bring any more information. Good night!"

 "Good night, sir, and thank you!"

 John Clayton departed chuckling, and Holmes turned to me with a shrug
 of his shoulders and a rueful smile.

 "Snap goes our third thread, and we end where we began," said he.
 "The cunning rascal! He knew our number, knew that Sir Henry
 Baskerville had consulted me, spotted who I was in Regent Street,
 conjectured that I had got the number of the cab and would lay my
 hands on the driver, and so sent back this audacious message. I tell
 you, Watson, this time we have got a foeman who is worthy of our
 steel. I've been checkmated in London. I can only wish you better
 luck in Devonshire. But I'm not easy in my mind about it."

 "About what?"

 "About sending you. It's an ugly business, Watson, an ugly dangerous
 business, and the more I see of it the less I like it. Yes, my dear
 fellow, you may laugh, but I give you my word that I shall be very
 glad to have you back safe and sound in Baker Street once more."





      CHAPTER VI
      Baskerville Hall


 Sir Henry Baskerville and Dr. Mortimer were ready upon the appointed
 day, and we started as arranged for Devonshire. Mr. Sherlock Holmes
 drove with me to the station and gave me his last parting injunctions
 and advice.

 "I will not bias your mind by suggesting theories or suspicions,
 Watson," said he; "I wish you simply to report facts in the fullest
 possible manner to me, and you can leave me to do the theorizing."

 "What sort of facts?" I asked.

 "Anything which may seem to have a bearing however indirect upon the
 case, and especially the relations between young Baskerville and his
 neighbours or any fresh particulars concerning the death of Sir
 Charles. I have made some inquiries myself in the last few days, but
 the results have, I fear, been negative. One thing only appears to be
 certain, and that is that Mr. James Desmond, who is the next heir, is
 an elderly gentleman of a very amiable disposition, so that this
 persecution does not arise from him. I really think that we may
 eliminate him entirely from our calculations. There remain the people
 who will actually surround Sir Henry Baskerville upon the moor."

 "Would it not be well in the first place to get rid of this Barrymore
 couple?"

 "By no means. You could not make a greater mistake. If they are
 innocent it would be a cruel injustice, and if they are guilty we
 should be giving up all chance of bringing it home to them. No, no,
 we will preserve them upon our list of suspects. Then there is a
 groom at the Hall, if I remember right. There are two moorland
 farmers. There is our friend Dr. Mortimer, whom I believe to be
 entirely honest, and there is his wife, of whom we know nothing.
 There is this naturalist, Stapleton, and there is his sister, who is
 said to be a young lady of attractions. There is Mr. Frankland, of
 Lafter Hall, who is also an unknown factor, and there are one or two
 other neighbours. These are the folk who must be your very special
 study."

 "I will do my best."

 "You have arms, I suppose?"

 "Yes, I thought it as well to take them."

 "Most certainly. Keep your revolver near you night and day, and never
 relax your precautions."

 Our friends had already secured a first-class carriage and were
 waiting for us upon the platform.

 "No, we have no news of any kind," said Dr. Mortimer in answer to my
 friend's questions. "I can swear to one thing, and that is that we
 have not been shadowed during the last two days. We have never gone
 out without keeping a sharp watch, and no one could have escaped our
 notice."

 "You have always kept together, I presume?"

 "Except yesterday afternoon. I usually give up one day to pure
 amusement when I come to town, so I spent it at the Museum of the
 College of Surgeons."

 "And I went to look at the folk in the park," said Baskerville. "But
 we had no trouble of any kind."

 "It was imprudent, all the same," said Holmes, shaking his head and
 looking very grave. "I beg, Sir Henry, that you will not go about
 alone. Some great misfortune will befall you if you do. Did you get
 your other boot?"

 "No, sir, it is gone forever."

 "Indeed. That is very interesting. Well, good-bye," he added as the
 train began to glide down the platform. "Bear in mind, Sir Henry, one
 of the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr. Mortimer has read
 to us, and avoid the moor in those hours of darkness when the powers
 of evil are exalted."

 I looked back at the platform when we had left it far behind, and saw
 the tall, austere figure of Holmes standing motionless and gazing
 after us.

 The journey was a swift and pleasant one, and I spent it in making
 the more intimate acquaintance of my two companions and in playing
 with Dr. Mortimer's spaniel. In a very few hours the brown earth had
 become ruddy, the brick had changed to granite, and red cows grazed
 in well-hedged fields where the lush grasses and more luxuriant
 vegetation spoke of a richer, if a damper, climate. Young Baskerville
 stared eagerly out of the window, and cried aloud with delight as he
 recognized the familiar features of the Devon scenery.

 "I've been over a good part of the world since I left it, Dr.
 Watson," said he; "but I have never seen a place to compare with it."

 "I never saw a Devonshire man who did not swear by his county," I
 remarked.

 "It depends upon the breed of men quite as much as on the county,"
 said Dr. Mortimer. "A glance at our friend here reveals the rounded
 head of the Celt, which carries inside it the Celtic enthusiasm and
 power of attachment. Poor Sir Charles's head was of a very rare type,
 half Gaelic, half Ivernian in its characteristics. But you were very
 young when you last saw Baskerville Hall, were you not?"

 "I was a boy in my 'teens at the time of my father's death, and had
 never seen the Hall, for he lived in a little cottage on the South
 Coast. Thence I went straight to a friend in America. I tell you it
 is all as new to me as it is to Dr. Watson, and I'm as keen as
 possible to see the moor."

 "Are you? Then your wish is easily granted, for there is your first
 sight of the moor," said Dr. Mortimer, pointing out of the carriage
 window.

 Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood
 there rose in the distance a gray, melancholy hill, with a strange
 jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some fantastic
 landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time, his eyes fixed
 upon it, and I read upon his eager face how much it meant to him,
 this first sight of that strange spot where the men of his blood had
 held sway so long and left their mark so deep. There he sat, with his
 tweed suit and his American accent, in the corner of a prosaic
 railway-carriage, and yet as I looked at his dark and expressive face
 I felt more than ever how true a descendant he was of that long line
 of high-blooded, fiery, and masterful men. There were pride, valour,
 and strength in his thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his
 large hazel eyes. If on that forbidding moor a difficult and
 dangerous quest should lie before us, this was at least a comrade for
 whom one might venture to take a risk with the certainty that he
 would bravely share it.

 The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all descended.
 Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with a pair of cobs
 was waiting. Our coming was evidently a great event, for
 station-master and porters clustered round us to carry out our
 luggage. It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was surprised to
 observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly men in dark
 uniforms, who leaned upon their short rifles and glanced keenly at us
 as we passed. The coachman, a hard-faced, gnarled little fellow,
 saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were flying
 swiftly down the broad, white road. Rolling pasture lands curved
 upward on either side of us, and old gabled houses peeped out from
 amid the thick green foliage, but behind the peaceful and sunlit
 country-side there rose ever, dark against the evening sky, the long,
 gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills.

 The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward
 through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on either
 side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart's-tongue ferns.
 Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light of the
 sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed over a narrow granite
 bridge, and skirted a noisy stream which gushed swiftly down, foaming
 and roaring amid the gray boulders. Both road and stream wound up
 through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir. At every turn
 Baskerville gave an exclamation of delight, looking eagerly about him
 and asking countless questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but
 to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon the country-side, which bore so
 clearly the mark of the waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes
 and fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels
 died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation--sad
 gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of
 the returning heir of the Baskervilles.

 "Halloa!" cried Dr. Mortimer, "what is this?"

 A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor, lay
 in front of us. On the summit, hard and clear like an equestrian
 statue upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark and stern, his
 rifle poised ready over his forearm. He was watching the road along
 which we travelled.

 "What is this, Perkins?" asked Dr. Mortimer.

 Our driver half turned in his seat.

 "There's a convict escaped from Princetown, sir. He's been out three
 days now, and the warders watch every road and every station, but
 they've had no sight of him yet. The farmers about here don't like
 it, sir, and that's a fact."

 "Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can give
 information."

 "Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing compared
 to the chance of having your throat cut. You see, it isn't like any
 ordinary convict. This is a man that would stick at nothing."

 "Who is he, then?"

 "It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer."

 I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had taken
 an interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of the crime and the
 wanton brutality which had marked all the actions of the assassin.
 The commutation of his death sentence had been due to some doubts as
 to his complete sanity, so atrocious was his conduct. Our wagonette
 had topped a rise and in front of us rose the huge expanse of the
 moor, mottled with gnarled and craggy cairns and tors. A cold wind
 swept down from it and set us shivering. Somewhere there, on that
 desolate plain, was lurking this fiendish man, hiding in a burrow
 like a wild beast, his heart full of malignancy against the whole
 race which had cast him out. It needed but this to complete the grim
 suggestiveness of the barren waste, the chilling wind, and the
 darkling sky. Even Baskerville fell silent and pulled his overcoat
 more closely around him.

 We had left the fertile country behind and beneath us. We looked back
 on it now, the slanting rays of a low sun turning the streams to
 threads of gold and glowing on the red earth new turned by the plough
 and the broad tangle of the woodlands. The road in front of us grew
 bleaker and wilder over huge russet and olive slopes, sprinkled with
 giant boulders. Now and then we passed a moorland cottage, walled and
 roofed with stone, with no creeper to break its harsh outline.
 Suddenly we looked down into a cup-like depression, patched with
 stunted oaks and firs which had been twisted and bent by the fury of
 years of storm. Two high, narrow towers rose over the trees. The
 driver pointed with his whip.

 "Baskerville Hall," said he.

 Its master had risen and was staring with flushed cheeks and shining
 eyes. A few minutes later we had reached the lodge-gates, a maze of
 fantastic tracery in wrought iron, with weather-bitten pillars on
 either side, blotched with lichens, and surmounted by the boars'
 heads of the Baskervilles. The lodge was a ruin of black granite and
 bared ribs of rafters, but facing it was a new building, half
 constructed, the first fruit of Sir Charles's South African gold.

 Through the gateway we passed into the avenue, where the wheels were
 again hushed amid the leaves, and the old trees shot their branches
 in a sombre tunnel over our heads. Baskerville shuddered as he looked
 up the long, dark drive to where the house glimmered like a ghost at
 the farther end.

 "Was it here?" he asked in a low voice.

 "No, no, the Yew Alley is on the other side."

 The young heir glanced round with a gloomy face.

 "It's no wonder my uncle felt as if trouble were coming on him in
 such a place as this," said he. "It's enough to scare any man. I'll
 have a row of electric lamps up here inside of six months, and you
 won't know it again, with a thousand candle-power Swan and Edison
 right here in front of the hall door."

 The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the house lay
 before us. In the fading light I could see that the centre was a
 heavy block of building from which a porch projected. The whole front
 was draped in ivy, with a patch clipped bare here and there where a
 window or a coat-of-arms broke through the dark veil. From this
 central block rose the twin towers, ancient, crenelated, and pierced
 with many loopholes. To right and left of the turrets were more
 modern wings of black granite. A dull light shone through heavy
 mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys which rose from the
 steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single black column of smoke.

 "Welcome, Sir Henry! Welcome to Baskerville Hall!"

 A tall man had stepped from the shadow of the porch to open the door
 of the wagonette. The figure of a woman was silhouetted against the
 yellow light of the hall. She came out and helped the man to hand
 down our bags.

 "You don't mind my driving straight home, Sir Henry?" said Dr.
 Mortimer. "My wife is expecting me."

 "Surely you will stay and have some dinner?"

 "No, I must go. I shall probably find some work awaiting me. I would
 stay to show you over the house, but Barrymore will be a better guide
 than I. Good-bye, and never hesitate night or day to send for me if I
 can be of service."

 The wheels died away down the drive while Sir Henry and I turned into
 the hall, and the door clanged heavily behind us. It was a fine
 apartment in which we found ourselves, large, lofty, and heavily
 raftered with huge balks of age-blackened oak. In the great
 old-fashioned fireplace behind the high iron dogs a log-fire crackled
 and snapped. Sir Henry and I held out our hands to it, for we were
 numb from our long drive. Then we gazed round us at the high, thin
 window of old stained glass, the oak panelling, the stags' heads, the
 coats-of-arms upon the walls, all dim and sombre in the subdued light
 of the central lamp.

 "It's just as I imagined it," said Sir Henry. "Is it not the very
 picture of an old family home? To think that this should be the same
 hall in which for five hundred years my people have lived. It strikes
 me solemn to think of it."

 I saw his dark face lit up with a boyish enthusiasm as he gazed about
 him. The light beat upon him where he stood, but long shadows trailed
 down the walls and hung like a black canopy above him. Barrymore had
 returned from taking our luggage to our rooms. He stood in front of
 us now with the subdued manner of a well-trained servant. He was a
 remarkable-looking man, tall, handsome, with a square black beard and
 pale, distinguished features.

 "Would you wish dinner to be served at once, sir?"

 "Is it ready?"

 "In a very few minutes, sir. You will find hot water in your rooms.
 My wife and I will be happy, Sir Henry, to stay with you until you
 have made your fresh arrangements, but you will understand that under
 the new conditions this house will require a considerable staff."

 "What new conditions?"

 "I only meant, sir, that Sir Charles led a very retired life, and we
 were able to look after his wants. You would, naturally, wish to have
 more company, and so you will need changes in your household."

 "Do you mean that your wife and you wish to leave?"

 "Only when it is quite convenient to you, sir."

 "But your family have been with us for several generations, have they
 not? I should be sorry to begin my life here by breaking an old
 family connection."

 I seemed to discern some signs of emotion upon the butler's white
 face.

 "I feel that also, sir, and so does my wife. But to tell the truth,
 sir, we were both very much attached to Sir Charles, and his death
 gave us a shock and made these surroundings very painful to us. I
 fear that we shall never again be easy in our minds at Baskerville
 Hall."

 "But what do you intend to do?"

 "I have no doubt, sir, that we shall succeed in establishing
 ourselves in some business. Sir Charles's generosity has given us the
 means to do so. And now, sir, perhaps I had best show you to your
 rooms."

 A square balustraded gallery ran round the top of the old hall,
 approached by a double stair. From this central point two long
 corridors extended the whole length of the building, from which all
 the bedrooms opened. My own was in the same wing as Baskerville's and
 almost next door to it. These rooms appeared to be much more modern
 than the central part of the house, and the bright paper and numerous
 candles did something to remove the sombre impression which our
 arrival had left upon my mind.

 But the dining-room which opened out of the hall was a place of
 shadow and gloom. It was a long chamber with a step separating the
 dais where the family sat from the lower portion reserved for their
 dependents. At one end a minstrel's gallery overlooked it. Black
 beams shot across above our heads, with a smoke-darkened ceiling
 beyond them. With rows of flaring torches to light it up, and the
 colour and rude hilarity of an old-time banquet, it might have
 softened; but now, when two black-clothed gentlemen sat in the little
 circle of light thrown by a shaded lamp, one's voice became hushed
 and one's spirit subdued. A dim line of ancestors, in every variety
 of dress, from the Elizabethan knight to the buck of the Regency,
 stared down upon us and daunted us by their silent company. We talked
 little, and I for one was glad when the meal was over and we were
 able to retire into the modern billiard-room and smoke a cigarette.

 "My word, it isn't a very cheerful place," said Sir Henry. "I suppose
 one can tone down to it, but I feel a bit out of the picture at
 present. I don't wonder that my uncle got a little jumpy if he lived
 all alone in such a house as this. However, if it suits you, we will
 retire early to-night, and perhaps things may seem more cheerful in
 the morning."

 I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed and looked out from my
 window. It opened upon the grassy space which lay in front of the
 hall door. Beyond, two copses of trees moaned and swung in a rising
 wind. A half moon broke through the rifts of racing clouds. In its
 cold light I saw beyond the trees a broken fringe of rocks, and the
 long, low curve of the melancholy moor. I closed the curtain, feeling
 that my last impression was in keeping with the rest.

 And yet it was not quite the last. I found myself weary and yet
 wakeful, tossing restlessly from side to side, seeking for the sleep
 which would not come. Far away a chiming clock struck out the
 quarters of the hours, but otherwise a deathly silence lay upon the
 old house. And then suddenly, in the very dead of the night, there
 came a sound to my ears, clear, resonant, and unmistakable. It was
 the sob of a woman, the muffled, strangling gasp of one who is torn
 by an uncontrollable sorrow. I sat up in bed and listened intently.
 The noise could not have been far away and was certainly in the
 house. For half an hour I waited with every nerve on the alert, but
 there came no other sound save the chiming clock and the rustle of
 the ivy on the wall.





      CHAPTER VII
      The Stapletons of Merripit House


 The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to efface
 from our minds the grim and gray impression which had been left upon
 both of us by our first experience of Baskerville Hall. As Sir Henry
 and I sat at breakfast the sunlight flooded in through the high
 mullioned windows, throwing watery patches of colour from the coats
 of arms which covered them. The dark panelling glowed like bronze in
 the golden rays, and it was hard to realize that this was indeed the
 chamber which had struck such a gloom into our souls upon the evening
 before.

 "I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to blame!"
 said the baronet. "We were tired with our journey and chilled by our
 drive, so we took a gray view of the place. Now we are fresh and
 well, so it is all cheerful once more."

 "And yet it was not entirely a question of imagination," I answered.
 "Did you, for example, happen to hear someone, a woman I think,
 sobbing in the night?"

 "That is curious, for I did when I was half asleep fancy that I heard
 something of the sort. I waited quite a time, but there was no more
 of it, so I concluded that it was all a dream."

 "I heard it distinctly, and I am sure that it was really the sob of a
 woman."

 "We must ask about this right away." He rang the bell and asked
 Barrymore whether he could account for our experience. It seemed to
 me that the pallid features of the butler turned a shade paler still
 as he listened to his master's question.

 "There are only two women in the house, Sir Henry," he answered. "One
 is the scullery-maid, who sleeps in the other wing. The other is my
 wife, and I can answer for it that the sound could not have come from
 her."

 And yet he lied as he said it, for it chanced that after breakfast I
 met Mrs. Barrymore in the long corridor with the sun full upon her
 face. She was a large, impassive, heavy-featured woman with a stern
 set expression of mouth. But her tell-tale eyes were red and glanced
 at me from between swollen lids. It was she, then, who wept in the
 night, and if she did so her husband must know it. Yet he had taken
 the obvious risk of discovery in declaring that it was not so. Why
 had he done this? And why did she weep so bitterly? Already round
 this pale-faced, handsome, black-bearded man there was gathering an
 atmosphere of mystery and of gloom. It was he who had been the first
 to discover the body of Sir Charles, and we had only his word for all
 the circumstances which led up to the old man's death. Was it
 possible that it was Barrymore after all whom we had seen in the cab
 in Regent Street? The beard might well have been the same. The cabman
 had described a somewhat shorter man, but such an impression might
 easily have been erroneous. How could I settle the point forever?
 Obviously the first thing to do was to see the Grimpen postmaster,
 and find whether the test telegram had really been placed in
 Barrymore's own hands. Be the answer what it might, I should at least
 have something to report to Sherlock Holmes.

 Sir Henry had numerous papers to examine after breakfast, so that the
 time was propitious for my excursion. It was a pleasant walk of four
 miles along the edge of the moor, leading me at last to a small gray
 hamlet, in which two larger buildings, which proved to be the inn and
 the house of Dr. Mortimer, stood high above the rest. The postmaster,
 who was also the village grocer, had a clear recollection of the
 telegram.

 "Certainly, sir," said he, "I had the telegram delivered to Mr.
 Barrymore exactly as directed."

 "Who delivered it?"

 "My boy here. James, you delivered that telegram to Mr. Barrymore at
 the Hall last week, did you not?"

 "Yes, father, I delivered it."

 "Into his own hands?" I asked.

 "Well, he was up in the loft at the time, so that I could not put it
 into his own hands, but I gave it into Mrs. Barrymore's hands, and
 she promised to deliver it at once."

 "Did you see Mr. Barrymore?"

 "No, sir; I tell you he was in the loft."

 "If you didn't see him, how do you know he was in the loft?"

 "Well, surely his own wife ought to know where he is," said the
 postmaster testily. "Didn't he get the telegram? If there is any
 mistake it is for Mr. Barrymore himself to complain."

 It seemed hopeless to pursue the inquiry any farther, but it was
 clear that in spite of Holmes's ruse we had no proof that Barrymore
 had not been in London all the time. Suppose that it were so--suppose
 that the same man had been the last who had seen Sir Charles alive,
 and the first to dog the new heir when he returned to England. What
 then? Was he the agent of others or had he some sinister design of
 his own? What interest could he have in persecuting the Baskerville
 family? I thought of the strange warning clipped out of the leading
 article of the Times. Was that his work or was it possibly the doing
 of someone who was bent upon counteracting his schemes? The only
 conceivable motive was that which had been suggested by Sir Henry,
 that if the family could be scared away a comfortable and permanent
 home would be secured for the Barrymores. But surely such an
 explanation as that would be quite inadequate to account for the deep
 and subtle scheming which seemed to be weaving an invisible net round
 the young baronet. Holmes himself had said that no more complex case
 had come to him in all the long series of his sensational
 investigations. I prayed, as I walked back along the gray, lonely
 road, that my friend might soon be freed from his preoccupations and
 able to come down to take this heavy burden of responsibility from my
 shoulders.

 Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running feet
 behind me and by a voice which called me by name. I turned, expecting
 to see Dr. Mortimer, but to my surprise it was a stranger who was
 pursuing me. He was a small, slim, clean-shaven, prim-faced man,
 flaxen-haired and lean-jawed, between thirty and forty years of age,
 dressed in a gray suit and wearing a straw hat. A tin box for
 botanical specimens hung over his shoulder and he carried a green
 butterfly-net in one of his hands.

 "You will, I am sure, excuse my presumption, Dr. Watson," said he, as
 he came panting up to where I stood. "Here on the moor we are homely
 folk and do not wait for formal introductions. You may possibly have
 heard my name from our mutual friend, Mortimer. I am Stapleton, of
 Merripit House."

 "Your net and box would have told me as much," said I, "for I knew
 that Mr. Stapleton was a naturalist. But how did you know me?"

 "I have been calling on Mortimer, and he pointed you out to me from
 the window of his surgery as you passed. As our road lay the same way
 I thought that I would overtake you and introduce myself. I trust
 that Sir Henry is none the worse for his journey?"

 "He is very well, thank you."

 "We were all rather afraid that after the sad death of Sir Charles
 the new baronet might refuse to live here. It is asking much of a
 wealthy man to come down and bury himself in a place of this kind,
 but I need not tell you that it means a very great deal to the
 country-side. Sir Henry has, I suppose, no superstitious fears in the
 matter?"

 "I do not think that it is likely."

 "Of course you know the legend of the fiend dog which haunts the
 family?"

 "I have heard it."

 "It is extraordinary how credulous the peasants are about here! Any
 number of them are ready to swear that they have seen such a creature
 upon the moor." He spoke with a smile, but I seemed to read in his
 eyes that he took the matter more seriously. "The story took a great
 hold upon the imagination of Sir Charles, and I have no doubt that it
 led to his tragic end."

 "But how?"

 "His nerves were so worked up that the appearance of any dog might
 have had a fatal effect upon his diseased heart. I fancy that he
 really did see something of the kind upon that last night in the Yew
 Alley. I feared that some disaster might occur, for I was very fond
 of the old man, and I knew that his heart was weak."

 "How did you know that?"

 "My friend Mortimer told me."

 "You think, then, that some dog pursued Sir Charles, and that he died
 of fright in consequence?"

 "Have you any better explanation?"

 "I have not come to any conclusion."

 "Has Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

 The words took away my breath for an instant, but a glance at the
 placid face and steadfast eyes of my companion showed that no
 surprise was intended.

 "It is useless for us to pretend that we do not know you, Dr.
 Watson," said he. "The records of your detective have reached us
 here, and you could not celebrate him without being known yourself.
 When Mortimer told me your name he could not deny your identity. If
 you are here, then it follows that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is interesting
 himself in the matter, and I am naturally curious to know what view
 he may take."

 "I am afraid that I cannot answer that question."

 "May I ask if he is going to honour us with a visit himself?"

 "He cannot leave town at present. He has other cases which engage his
 attention."

 "What a pity! He might throw some light on that which is so dark to
 us. But as to your own researches, if there is any possible way in
 which I can be of service to you I trust that you will command me. If
 I had any indication of the nature of your suspicions or how you
 propose to investigate the case, I might perhaps even now give you
 some aid or advice."

 "I assure you that I am simply here upon a visit to my friend, Sir
 Henry, and that I need no help of any kind."

 "Excellent!" said Stapleton. "You are perfectly right to be wary and
 discreet. I am justly reproved for what I feel was an unjustifiable
 intrusion, and I promise you that I will not mention the matter
 again."

 We had come to a point where a narrow grassy path struck off from the
 road and wound away across the moor. A steep, boulder-sprinkled hill
 lay upon the right which had in bygone days been cut into a granite
 quarry. The face which was turned towards us formed a dark cliff,
 with ferns and brambles growing in its niches. From over a distant
 rise there floated a gray plume of smoke.

 "A moderate walk along this moor-path brings us to Merripit House,"
 said he. "Perhaps you will spare an hour that I may have the pleasure
 of introducing you to my sister."

 My first thought was that I should be by Sir Henry's side. But then I
 remembered the pile of papers and bills with which his study table
 was littered. It was certain that I could not help with those. And
 Holmes had expressly said that I should study the neighbours upon the
 moor. I accepted Stapleton's invitation, and we turned together down
 the path.

 "It is a wonderful place, the moor," said he, looking round over the
 undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged granite
 foaming up into fantastic surges. "You never tire of the moor. You
 cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains. It is so vast,
 and so barren, and so mysterious."

 "You know it well, then?"

 "I have only been here two years. The residents would call me a
 newcomer. We came shortly after Sir Charles settled. But my tastes
 led me to explore every part of the country round, and I should think
 that there are few men who know it better than I do."

 "Is it hard to know?"

 "Very hard. You see, for example, this great plain to the north here
 with the queer hills breaking out of it. Do you observe anything
 remarkable about that?"

 "It would be a rare place for a gallop."

 "You would naturally think so and the thought has cost several their
 lives before now. You notice those bright green spots scattered
 thickly over it?"

 "Yes, they seem more fertile than the rest."

 Stapleton laughed.

 "That is the great Grimpen Mire," said he. "A false step yonder means
 death to man or beast. Only yesterday I saw one of the moor ponies
 wander into it. He never came out. I saw his head for quite a long
 time craning out of the bog-hole, but it sucked him down at last.
 Even in dry seasons it is a danger to cross it, but after these
 autumn rains it is an awful place. And yet I can find my way to the
 very heart of it and return alive. By George, there is another of
 those miserable ponies!"

 Something brown was rolling and tossing among the green sedges. Then
 a long, agonized, writhing neck shot upward and a dreadful cry echoed
 over the moor. It turned me cold with horror, but my companion's
 nerves seemed to be stronger than mine.

 "It's gone!" said he. "The mire has him. Two in two days, and many
 more, perhaps, for they get in the way of going there in the dry
 weather, and never know the difference until the mire has them in its
 clutches. It's a bad place, the great Grimpen Mire."

 "And you say you can penetrate it?"

 "Yes, there are one or two paths which a very active man can take. I
 have found them out."

 "But why should you wish to go into so horrible a place?"

 "Well, you see the hills beyond? They are really islands cut off on
 all sides by the impassable mire, which has crawled round them in the
 course of years. That is where the rare plants and the butterflies
 are, if you have the wit to reach them."

 "I shall try my luck some day."

 He looked at me with a surprised face.

 "For God's sake put such an idea out of your mind," said he. "Your
 blood would be upon my head. I assure you that there would not be the
 least chance of your coming back alive. It is only by remembering
 certain complex landmarks that I am able to do it."

 "Halloa!" I cried. "What is that?"

 A long, low moan, indescribably sad, swept over the moor. It filled
 the whole air, and yet it was impossible to say whence it came. From
 a dull murmur it swelled into a deep roar, and then sank back into a
 melancholy, throbbing murmur once again. Stapleton looked at me with
 a curious expression in his face.

 "Queer place, the moor!" said he.

 "But what is it?"

 "The peasants say it is the Hound of the Baskervilles calling for its
 prey. I've heard it once or twice before, but never quite so loud."

 I looked round, with a chill of fear in my heart, at the huge
 swelling plain, mottled with the green patches of rushes. Nothing
 stirred over the vast expanse save a pair of ravens, which croaked
 loudly from a tor behind us.

 "You are an educated man. You don't believe such nonsense as that?"
 said I. "What do you think is the cause of so strange a sound?"

 "Bogs make queer noises sometimes. It's the mud settling, or the
 water rising, or something."

 "No, no, that was a living voice."

 "Well, perhaps it was. Did you ever hear a bittern booming?"

 "No, I never did."

 "It's a very rare bird--practically extinct--in England now, but all
 things are possible upon the moor. Yes, I should not be surprised to
 learn that what we have heard is the cry of the last of the
 bitterns."

 "It's the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my life."

 "Yes, it's rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the hill-side
 yonder. What do you make of those?"

 The whole steep slope was covered with gray circular rings of stone,
 a score of them at least.

 "What are they? Sheep-pens?"

 "No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoric man
 lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived
 there since, we find all his little arrangements exactly as he left
 them. These are his wigwams with the roofs off. You can even see his
 hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity to go inside."

 "But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?"

 "Neolithic man--no date."

 "What did he do?"

 "He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for tin
 when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Look at the
 great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes, you will
 find some very singular points about the moor, Dr. Watson. Oh, excuse
 me an instant! It is surely Cyclopides."

 A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an instant
 Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed in pursuit
 of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the great mire,
 and my acquaintance never paused for an instant, bounding from tuft
 to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the air. His gray clothes
 and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made him not unlike some huge
 moth himself. I was standing watching his pursuit with a mixture of
 admiration for his extraordinary activity and fear lest he should
 lose his footing in the treacherous mire, when I heard the sound of
 steps, and turning round found a woman near me upon the path. She had
 come from the direction in which the plume of smoke indicated the
 position of Merripit House, but the dip of the moor had hid her until
 she was quite close.

 I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had been
 told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor, and I
 remembered that I had heard someone describe her as being a beauty.
 The woman who approached me was certainly that, and of a most
 uncommon type. There could not have been a greater contrast between
 brother and sister, for Stapleton was neutral tinted, with light hair
 and gray eyes, while she was darker than any brunette whom I have
 seen in England--slim, elegant, and tall. She had a proud, finely cut
 face, so regular that it might have seemed impassive were it not for
 the sensitive mouth and the beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her
 perfect figure and elegant dress she was, indeed, a strange
 apparition upon a lonely moorland path. Her eyes were on her brother
 as I turned, and then she quickened her pace towards me. I had raised
 my hat and was about to make some explanatory remark, when her own
 words turned all my thoughts into a new channel.

 "Go back!" she said. "Go straight back to London, instantly."

 I could only stare at her in stupid surprise. Her eyes blazed at me,
 and she tapped the ground impatiently with her foot.

 "Why should I go back?" I asked.

 "I cannot explain." She spoke in a low, eager voice, with a curious
 lisp in her utterance. "But for God's sake do what I ask you. Go back
 and never set foot upon the moor again."

 "But I have only just come."

 "Man, man!" she cried. "Can you not tell when a warning is for your
 own good? Go back to London! Start to-night! Get away from this place
 at all costs! Hush, my brother is coming! Not a word of what I have
 said. Would you mind getting that orchid for me among the mares-tails
 yonder? We are very rich in orchids on the moor, though, of course,
 you are rather late to see the beauties of the place."

 Stapleton had abandoned the chase and came back to us breathing hard
 and flushed with his exertions.

 "Halloa, Beryl!" said he, and it seemed to me that the tone of his
 greeting was not altogether a cordial one.

 "Well, Jack, you are very hot."

 "Yes, I was chasing a Cyclopides. He is very rare and seldom found in
 the late autumn. What a pity that I should have missed him!" He spoke
 unconcernedly, but his small light eyes glanced incessantly from the
 girl to me.

 "You have introduced yourselves, I can see."

 "Yes. I was telling Sir Henry that it was rather late for him to see
 the true beauties of the moor."

 "Why, who do you think this is?"

 "I imagine that it must be Sir Henry Baskerville."

 "No, no," said I. "Only a humble commoner, but his friend. My name is
 Dr. Watson."

 A flush of vexation passed over her expressive face. "We have been
 talking at cross purposes," said she.

 "Why, you had not very much time for talk," her brother remarked with
 the same questioning eyes.

 "I talked as if Dr. Watson were a resident instead of being merely a
 visitor," said she. "It cannot much matter to him whether it is early
 or late for the orchids. But you will come on, will you not, and see
 Merripit House?"

 A short walk brought us to it, a bleak moorland house, once the farm
 of some grazier in the old prosperous days, but now put into repair
 and turned into a modern dwelling. An orchard surrounded it, but the
 trees, as is usual upon the moor, were stunted and nipped, and the
 effect of the whole place was mean and melancholy. We were admitted
 by a strange, wizened, rusty-coated old manservant, who seemed in
 keeping with the house. Inside, however, there were large rooms
 furnished with an elegance in which I seemed to recognize the taste
 of the lady. As I looked from their windows at the interminable
 granite-flecked moor rolling unbroken to the farthest horizon I could
 not but marvel at what could have brought this highly educated man
 and this beautiful woman to live in such a place.

 "Queer spot to choose, is it not?" said he as if in answer to my
 thought. "And yet we manage to make ourselves fairly happy, do we
 not, Beryl?"

 "Quite happy," said she, but there was no ring of conviction in her
 words.

 "I had a school," said Stapleton. "It was in the north country. The
 work to a man of my temperament was mechanical and uninteresting, but
 the privilege of living with youth, of helping to mould those young
 minds, and of impressing them with one's own character and ideals,
 was very dear to me. However, the fates were against us. A serious
 epidemic broke out in the school and three of the boys died. It never
 recovered from the blow, and much of my capital was irretrievably
 swallowed up. And yet, if it were not for the loss of the charming
 companionship of the boys, I could rejoice over my own misfortune,
 for, with my strong tastes for botany and zoology, I find an
 unlimited field of work here, and my sister is as devoted to Nature
 as I am. All this, Dr. Watson, has been brought upon your head by
 your expression as you surveyed the moor out of our window."

 "It certainly did cross my mind that it might be a little dull--less
 for you, perhaps, than for your sister."

 "No, no, I am never dull," said she, quickly.

 "We have books, we have our studies, and we have interesting
 neighbours. Dr. Mortimer is a most learned man in his own line. Poor
 Sir Charles was also an admirable companion. We knew him well, and
 miss him more than I can tell. Do you think that I should intrude if
 I were to call this afternoon and make the acquaintance of Sir
 Henry?"

 "I am sure that he would be delighted."

 "Then perhaps you would mention that I propose to do so. We may in
 our humble way do something to make things more easy for him until he
 becomes accustomed to his new surroundings. Will you come upstairs,
 Dr. Watson, and inspect my collection of Lepidoptera? I think it is
 the most complete one in the south-west of England. By the time that
 you have looked through them lunch will be almost ready."

 But I was eager to get back to my charge. The melancholy of the moor,
 the death of the unfortunate pony, the weird sound which had been
 associated with the grim legend of the Baskervilles, all these things
 tinged my thoughts with sadness. Then on the top of these more or
 less vague impressions there had come the definite and distinct
 warning of Miss Stapleton, delivered with such intense earnestness
 that I could not doubt that some grave and deep reason lay behind it.
 I resisted all pressure to stay for lunch, and I set off at once upon
 my return journey, taking the grass-grown path by which we had come.

 It seems, however, that there must have been some short cut for those
 who knew it, for before I had reached the road I was astounded to see
 Miss Stapleton sitting upon a rock by the side of the track. Her face
 was beautifully flushed with her exertions, and she held her hand to
 her side.

 "I have run all the way in order to cut you off, Dr. Watson," said
 she. "I had not even time to put on my hat. I must not stop, or my
 brother may miss me. I wanted to say to you how sorry I am about the
 stupid mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir Henry. Please
 forget the words I said, which have no application whatever to you."

 "But I can't forget them, Miss Stapleton," said I. "I am Sir Henry's
 friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine. Tell me why
 it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should return to
 London."

 "A woman's whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will
 understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or do."

 "No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remember the look in
 your eyes. Please, please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton, for ever
 since I have been here I have been conscious of shadows all round me.
 Life has become like that great Grimpen Mire, with little green
 patches everywhere into which one may sink and with no guide to point
 the track. Tell me then what it was that you meant, and I will
 promise to convey your warning to Sir Henry."

 An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her face,
 but her eyes had hardened again when she answered me.

 "You make too much of it, Dr. Watson," said she. "My brother and I
 were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him very
 intimately, for his favourite walk was over the moor to our house. He
 was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over the family, and
 when this tragedy came I naturally felt that there must be some
 grounds for the fears which he had expressed. I was distressed
 therefore when another member of the family came down to live here,
 and I felt that he should be warned of the danger which he will run.
 That was all which I intended to convey.

 "But what is the danger?"

 "You know the story of the hound?"

 "I do not believe in such nonsense."

 "But I do. If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take him away
 from a place which has always been fatal to his family. The world is
 wide. Why should he wish to live at the place of danger?"

 "Because it is the place of danger. That is Sir Henry's nature. I
 fear that unless you can give me some more definite information than
 this it would be impossible to get him to move."

 "I cannot say anything definite, for I do not know anything
 definite."

 "I would ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton. If you meant no
 more than this when you first spoke to me, why should you not wish
 your brother to overhear what you said? There is nothing to which he,
 or anyone else, could object."

 "My brother is very anxious to have the Hall inhabited, for he thinks
 it is for the good of the poor folk upon the moor. He would be very
 angry if he knew that I have said anything which might induce Sir
 Henry to go away. But I have done my duty now and I will say no more.
 I must get back, or he will miss me and suspect that I have seen you.
 Good-bye!" She turned and had disappeared in a few minutes among the
 scattered boulders, while I, with my soul full of vague fears,
 pursued my way to Baskerville Hall.





      CHAPTER VIII
      First Report of Dr. Watson


 From this point onward I will follow the course of events by
 transcribing my own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes which lie before
 me on the table. One page is missing, but otherwise they are exactly
 as written and show my feelings and suspicions of the moment more
 accurately than my memory, clear as it is upon these tragic events,
 can possibly do.

 Baskerville Hall, October 13th.

 My dear Holmes:
 My previous letters and telegrams have kept you pretty well up to
 date as to all that has occurred in this most God-forsaken corner of
 the world. The longer one stays here the more does the spirit of the
 moor sink into one's soul, its vastness, and also its grim charm.
 When you are once out upon its bosom you have left all traces of
 modern England behind you, but on the other hand you are conscious
 everywhere of the homes and the work of the prehistoric people. On
 all sides of you as you walk are the houses of these forgotten folk,
 with their graves and the huge monoliths which are supposed to have
 marked their temples. As you look at their gray stone huts against
 the scarred hill-sides you leave your own age behind you, and if you
 were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the low door
 fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you would
 feel that his presence there was more natural than your own. The
 strange thing is that they should have lived so thickly on what must
 always have been most unfruitful soil. I am no antiquarian, but I
 could imagine that they were some unwarlike and harried race who were
 forced to accept that which none other would occupy.

 All this, however, is foreign to the mission on which you sent me and
 will probably be very uninteresting to your severely practical mind.
 I can still remember your complete indifference as to whether the sun
 moved round the earth or the earth round the sun. Let me, therefore,
 return to the facts concerning Sir Henry Baskerville.

 If you have not had any report within the last few days it is because
 up to to-day there was nothing of importance to relate. Then a very
 surprising circumstance occurred, which I shall tell you in due
 course. But, first of all, I must keep you in touch with some of the
 other factors in the situation.

 One of these, concerning which I have said little, is the escaped
 convict upon the moor. There is strong reason now to believe that he
 has got right away, which is a considerable relief to the lonely
 householders of this district. A fortnight has passed since his
 flight, during which he has not been seen and nothing has been heard
 of him. It is surely inconceivable that he could have held out upon
 the moor during all that time. Of course, so far as his concealment
 goes there is no difficulty at all. Any one of these stone huts would
 give him a hiding-place. But there is nothing to eat unless he were
 to catch and slaughter one of the moor sheep. We think, therefore,
 that he has gone, and the outlying farmers sleep the better in
 consequence.

 We are four able-bodied men in this household, so that we could take
 good care of ourselves, but I confess that I have had uneasy moments
 when I have thought of the Stapletons. They live miles from any help.
 There are one maid, an old manservant, the sister, and the brother,
 the latter not a very strong man. They would be helpless in the hands
 of a desperate fellow like this Notting Hill criminal, if he could
 once effect an entrance. Both Sir Henry and I were concerned at their
 situation, and it was suggested that Perkins the groom should go over
 to sleep there, but Stapleton would not hear of it.

 The fact is that our friend, the baronet, begins to display a
 considerable interest in our fair neighbour. It is not to be wondered
 at, for time hangs heavily in this lonely spot to an active man like
 him, and she is a very fascinating and beautiful woman. There is
 something tropical and exotic about her which forms a singular
 contrast to her cool and unemotional brother. Yet he also gives the
 idea of hidden fires. He has certainly a very marked influence over
 her, for I have seen her continually glance at him as she talked as
 if seeking approbation for what she said. I trust that he is kind to
 her. There is a dry glitter in his eyes, and a firm set of his thin
 lips, which goes with a positive and possibly a harsh nature. You
 would find him an interesting study.

 He came over to call upon Baskerville on that first day, and the very
 next morning he took us both to show us the spot where the legend of
 the wicked Hugo is supposed to have had its origin. It was an
 excursion of some miles across the moor to a place which is so dismal
 that it might have suggested the story. We found a short valley
 between rugged tors which led to an open, grassy space flecked over
 with the white cotton grass. In the middle of it rose two great
 stones, worn and sharpened at the upper end, until they looked like
 the huge corroding fangs of some monstrous beast. In every way it
 corresponded with the scene of the old tragedy. Sir Henry was much
 interested and asked Stapleton more than once whether he did really
 believe in the possibility of the interference of the supernatural in
 the affairs of men. He spoke lightly, but it was evident that he was
 very much in earnest. Stapleton was guarded in his replies, but it
 was easy to see that he said less than he might, and that he would
 not express his whole opinion out of consideration for the feelings
 of the baronet. He told us of similar cases, where families had
 suffered from some evil influence, and he left us with the impression
 that he shared the popular view upon the matter.

 On our way back we stayed for lunch at Merripit House, and it was
 there that Sir Henry made the acquaintance of Miss Stapleton. From
 the first moment that he saw her he appeared to be strongly attracted
 by her, and I am much mistaken if the feeling was not mutual. He
 referred to her again and again on our walk home, and since then
 hardly a day has passed that we have not seen something of the
 brother and sister. They dine here to-night, and there is some talk
 of our going to them next week. One would imagine that such a match
 would be very welcome to Stapleton, and yet I have more than once
 caught a look of the strongest disapprobation in his face when Sir
 Henry has been paying some attention to his sister. He is much
 attached to her, no doubt, and would lead a lonely life without her,
 but it would seem the height of selfishness if he were to stand in
 the way of her making so brilliant a marriage. Yet I am certain that
 he does not wish their intimacy to ripen into love, and I have
 several times observed that he has taken pains to prevent them from
 being tÃªte-Ã -tÃªte. By the way, your instructions to me never to allow
 Sir Henry to go out alone will become very much more onerous if a
 love affair were to be added to our other difficulties. My popularity
 would soon suffer if I were to carry out your orders to the letter.

 The other day--Thursday, to be more exact--Dr. Mortimer lunched with
 us. He has been excavating a barrow at Long Down, and has got a
 prehistoric skull which fills him with great joy. Never was there
 such a single-minded enthusiast as he! The Stapletons came in
 afterwards, and the good doctor took us all to the Yew Alley, at Sir
 Henry's request, to show us exactly how everything occurred upon that
 fatal night. It is a long, dismal walk, the Yew Alley, between two
 high walls of clipped hedge, with a narrow band of grass upon either
 side. At the far end is an old tumble-down summer-house. Half-way
 down is the moor-gate, where the old gentleman left his cigar-ash. It
 is a white wooden gate with a latch. Beyond it lies the wide moor. I
 remembered your theory of the affair and tried to picture all that
 had occurred. As the old man stood there he saw something coming
 across the moor, something which terrified him so that he lost his
 wits, and ran and ran until he died of sheer horror and exhaustion.
 There was the long, gloomy tunnel down which he fled. And from what?
 A sheep-dog of the moor? Or a spectral hound, black, silent, and
 monstrous? Was there a human agency in the matter? Did the pale,
 watchful Barrymore know more than he cared to say? It was all dim and
 vague, but always there is the dark shadow of crime behind it.

 One other neighbour I have met since I wrote last. This is Mr.
 Frankland, of Lafter Hall, who lives some four miles to the south of
 us. He is an elderly man, red-faced, white-haired, and choleric. His
 passion is for the British law, and he has spent a large fortune in
 litigation. He fights for the mere pleasure of fighting and is
 equally ready to take up either side of a question, so that it is no
 wonder that he has found it a costly amusement. Sometimes he will
 shut up a right of way and defy the parish to make him open it. At
 others he will with his own hands tear down some other man's gate and
 declare that a path has existed there from time immemorial, defying
 the owner to prosecute him for trespass. He is learned in old
 manorial and communal rights, and he applies his knowledge sometimes
 in favour of the villagers of Fernworthy and sometimes against them,
 so that he is periodically either carried in triumph down the village
 street or else burned in effigy, according to his latest exploit. He
 is said to have about seven lawsuits upon his hands at present, which
 will probably swallow up the remainder of his fortune and so draw his
 sting and leave him harmless for the future. Apart from the law he
 seems a kindly, good-natured person, and I only mention him because
 you were particular that I should send some description of the people
 who surround us. He is curiously employed at present, for, being an
 amateur astronomer, he has an excellent telescope, with which he lies
 upon the roof of his own house and sweeps the moor all day in the
 hope of catching a glimpse of the escaped convict. If he would
 confine his energies to this all would be well, but there are rumours
 that he intends to prosecute Dr. Mortimer for opening a grave without
 the consent of the next-of-kin, because he dug up the Neolithic skull
 in the barrow on Long Down. He helps to keep our lives from being
 monotonous and gives a little comic relief where it is badly needed.

 And now, having brought you up to date in the escaped convict, the
 Stapletons, Dr. Mortimer, and Frankland, of Lafter Hall, let me end
 on that which is most important and tell you more about the
 Barrymores, and especially about the surprising development of last
 night.

 First of all about the test telegram, which you sent from London in
 order to make sure that Barrymore was really here. I have already
 explained that the testimony of the postmaster shows that the test
 was worthless and that we have no proof one way or the other. I told
 Sir Henry how the matter stood, and he at once, in his downright
 fashion, had Barrymore up and asked him whether he had received the
 telegram himself. Barrymore said that he had.

 "Did the boy deliver it into your own hands?" asked Sir Henry.

 Barrymore looked surprised, and considered for a little time.

 "No," said he, "I was in the box-room at the time, and my wife
 brought it up to me."

 "Did you answer it yourself?"

 "No; I told my wife what to answer and she went down to write it."

 In the evening he recurred to the subject of his own accord.

 "I could not quite understand the object of your questions this
 morning, Sir Henry," said he. "I trust that they do not mean that I
 have done anything to forfeit your confidence?"

 Sir Henry had to assure him that it was not so and pacify him by
 giving him a considerable part of his old wardrobe, the London outfit
 having now all arrived.

 Mrs. Barrymore is of interest to me. She is a heavy, solid person,
 very limited, intensely respectable, and inclined to be puritanical.
 You could hardly conceive a less emotional subject. Yet I have told
 you how, on the first night here, I heard her sobbing bitterly, and
 since then I have more than once observed traces of tears upon her
 face. Some deep sorrow gnaws ever at her heart. Sometimes I wonder if
 she has a guilty memory which haunts her, and sometimes I suspect
 Barrymore of being a domestic tyrant. I have always felt that there
 was something singular and questionable in this man's character, but
 the adventure of last night brings all my suspicions to a head.

 And yet it may seem a small matter in itself. You are aware that I am
 not a very sound sleeper, and since I have been on guard in this
 house my slumbers have been lighter than ever. Last night, about two
 in the morning, I was aroused by a stealthy step passing my room. I
 rose, opened my door, and peeped out. A long black shadow was
 trailing down the corridor. It was thrown by a man who walked softly
 down the passage with a candle held in his hand. He was in shirt and
 trousers, with no covering to his feet. I could merely see the
 outline, but his height told me that it was Barrymore. He walked very
 slowly and circumspectly, and there was something indescribably
 guilty and furtive in his whole appearance.

 I have told you that the corridor is broken by the balcony which runs
 round the hall, but that it is resumed upon the farther side. I
 waited until he had passed out of sight and then I followed him. When
 I came round the balcony he had reached the end of the farther
 corridor, and I could see from the glimmer of light through an open
 door that he had entered one of the rooms. Now, all these rooms are
 unfurnished and unoccupied, so that his expedition became more
 mysterious than ever. The light shone steadily as if he were standing
 motionless. I crept down the passage as noiselessly as I could and
 peeped round the corner of the door.

 Barrymore was crouching at the window with the candle held against
 the glass. His profile was half turned towards me, and his face
 seemed to be rigid with expectation as he stared out into the
 blackness of the moor. For some minutes he stood watching intently.
 Then he gave a deep groan and with an impatient gesture he put out
 the light. Instantly I made my way back to my room, and very shortly
 came the stealthy steps passing once more upon their return journey.
 Long afterwards when I had fallen into a light sleep I heard a key
 turn somewhere in a lock, but I could not tell whence the sound came.
 What it all means I cannot guess, but there is some secret business
 going on in this house of gloom which sooner or later we shall get to
 the bottom of. I do not trouble you with my theories, for you asked
 me to furnish you only with facts. I have had a long talk with Sir
 Henry this morning, and we have made a plan of campaign founded upon
 my observations of last night. I will not speak about it just now,
 but it should make my next report interesting reading.





      CHAPTER IX
      Second Report of Dr. Watson


                         THE LIGHT UPON THE MOOR

 Baskerville Hall, Oct. 15th.

 My dear Holmes:
 If I was compelled to leave you without much news during the early
 days of my mission you must acknowledge that I am making up for lost
 time, and that events are now crowding thick and fast upon us. In my
 last report I ended upon my top note with Barrymore at the window,
 and now I have quite a budget already which will, unless I am much
 mistaken, considerably surprise you. Things have taken a turn which I
 could not have anticipated. In some ways they have within the last
 forty-eight hours become much clearer and in some ways they have
 become more complicated. But I will tell you all and you shall judge
 for yourself.

 Before breakfast on the morning following my adventure I went down
 the corridor and examined the room in which Barrymore had been on the
 night before. The western window through which he had stared so
 intently has, I noticed, one peculiarity above all other windows in
 the house--it commands the nearest outlook on the moor. There is an
 opening between two trees which enables one from this point of view
 to look right down upon it, while from all the other windows it is
 only a distant glimpse which can be obtained. It follows, therefore,
 that Barrymore, since only this window would serve the purpose, must
 have been looking out for something or somebody upon the moor. The
 night was very dark, so that I can hardly imagine how he could have
 hoped to see anyone. It had struck me that it was possible that some
 love intrigue was on foot. That would have accounted for his stealthy
 movements and also for the uneasiness of his wife. The man is a
 striking-looking fellow, very well equipped to steal the heart of a
 country girl, so that this theory seemed to have something to support
 it. That opening of the door which I had heard after I had returned
 to my room might mean that he had gone out to keep some clandestine
 appointment. So I reasoned with myself in the morning, and I tell you
 the direction of my suspicions, however much the result may have
 shown that they were unfounded.

 But whatever the true explanation of Barrymore's movements might be,
 I felt that the responsibility of keeping them to myself until I
 could explain them was more than I could bear. I had an interview
 with the baronet in his study after breakfast, and I told him all
 that I had seen. He was less surprised than I had expected.

 "I knew that Barrymore walked about nights, and I had a mind to speak
 to him about it," said he. "Two or three times I have heard his steps
 in the passage, coming and going, just about the hour you name."

 "Perhaps then he pays a visit every night to that particular window,"
 I suggested.

 "Perhaps he does. If so, we should be able to shadow him, and see
 what it is that he is after. I wonder what your friend Holmes would
 do, if he were here."

 "I believe that he would do exactly what you now suggest," said I.
 "He would follow Barrymore and see what he did."

 "Then we shall do it together."

 "But surely he would hear us."

 "The man is rather deaf, and in any case we must take our chance of
 that. We'll sit up in my room to-night and wait until he passes." Sir
 Henry rubbed his hands with pleasure, and it was evident that he
 hailed the adventure as a relief to his somewhat quiet life upon the
 moor.

 The baronet has been in communication with the architect who prepared
 the plans for Sir Charles, and with a contractor from London, so that
 we may expect great changes to begin here soon. There have been
 decorators and furnishers up from Plymouth, and it is evident that
 our friend has large ideas, and means to spare no pains or expense to
 restore the grandeur of his family. When the house is renovated and
 refurnished, all that he will need will be a wife to make it
 complete. Between ourselves there are pretty clear signs that this
 will not be wanting if the lady is willing, for I have seldom seen a
 man more infatuated with a woman than he is with our beautiful
 neighbour, Miss Stapleton. And yet the course of true love does not
 run quite as smoothly as one would under the circumstances expect.
 To-day, for example, its surface was broken by a very unexpected
 ripple, which has caused our friend considerable perplexity and
 annoyance.

 After the conversation which I have quoted about Barrymore, Sir Henry
 put on his hat and prepared to go out. As a matter of course I did
 the same.

 "What, are you coming, Watson?" he asked, looking at me in a curious
 way.

 "That depends on whether you are going on the moor," said I.

 "Yes, I am."

 "Well, you know what my instructions are. I am sorry to intrude, but
 you heard how earnestly Holmes insisted that I should not leave you,
 and especially that you should not go alone upon the moor."

 Sir Henry put his hand upon my shoulder with a pleasant smile.

 "My dear fellow," said he, "Holmes, with all his wisdom, did not
 foresee some things which have happened since I have been on the
 moor. You understand me? I am sure that you are the last man in the
 world who would wish to be a spoil-sport. I must go out alone."

 It put me in a most awkward position. I was at a loss what to say or
 what to do, and before I had made up my mind he picked up his cane
 and was gone.

 But when I came to think the matter over my conscience reproached me
 bitterly for having on any pretext allowed him to go out of my sight.
 I imagined what my feelings would be if I had to return to you and to
 confess that some misfortune had occurred through my disregard for
 your instructions. I assure you my cheeks flushed at the very
 thought. It might not even now be too late to overtake him, so I set
 off at once in the direction of Merripit House.

 I hurried along the road at the top of my speed without seeing
 anything of Sir Henry, until I came to the point where the moor path
 branches off. There, fearing that perhaps I had come in the wrong
 direction after all, I mounted a hill from which I could command a
 view--the same hill which is cut into the dark quarry. Thence I saw
 him at once. He was on the moor path, about a quarter of a mile off,
 and a lady was by his side who could only be Miss Stapleton. It was
 clear that there was already an understanding between them and that
 they had met by appointment. They were walking slowly along in deep
 conversation, and I saw her making quick little movements of her
 hands as if she were very earnest in what she was saying, while he
 listened intently, and once or twice shook his head in strong
 dissent. I stood among the rocks watching them, very much puzzled as
 to what I should do next. To follow them and break into their
 intimate conversation seemed to be an outrage, and yet my clear duty
 was never for an instant to let him out of my sight. To act the spy
 upon a friend was a hateful task. Still, I could see no better course
 than to observe him from the hill, and to clear my conscience by
 confessing to him afterwards what I had done. It is true that if any
 sudden danger had threatened him I was too far away to be of use, and
 yet I am sure that you will agree with me that the position was very
 difficult, and that there was nothing more which I could do.

 Our friend, Sir Henry, and the lady had halted on the path and were
 standing deeply absorbed in their conversation, when I was suddenly
 aware that I was not the only witness of their interview. A wisp of
 green floating in the air caught my eye, and another glance showed me
 that it was carried on a stick by a man who was moving among the
 broken ground. It was Stapleton with his butterfly-net. He was very
 much closer to the pair than I was, and he appeared to be moving in
 their direction. At this instant Sir Henry suddenly drew Miss
 Stapleton to his side. His arm was round her, but it seemed to me
 that she was straining away from him with her face averted. He
 stooped his head to hers, and she raised one hand as if in protest.
 Next moment I saw them spring apart and turn hurriedly round.
 Stapleton was the cause of the interruption. He was running wildly
 towards them, his absurd net dangling behind him. He gesticulated and
 almost danced with excitement in front of the lovers. What the scene
 meant I could not imagine, but it seemed to me that Stapleton was
 abusing Sir Henry, who offered explanations, which became more angry
 as the other refused to accept them. The lady stood by in haughty
 silence. Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in a
 peremptory way to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance at Sir
 Henry, walked off by the side of her brother. The naturalist's angry
 gestures showed that the lady was included in his displeasure. The
 baronet stood for a minute looking after them, and then he walked
 slowly back the way that he had come, his head hanging, the very
 picture of dejection.

 What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed to
 have witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend's knowledge. I
 ran down the hill therefore and met the baronet at the bottom. His
 face was flushed with anger and his brows were wrinkled, like one who
 is at his wit's ends what to do.

 "Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped from?" said he. "You don't
 mean to say that you came after me in spite of all?"

 I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to
 remain behind, how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed all
 that had occurred. For an instant his eyes blazed at me, but my
 frankness disarmed his anger, and he broke at last into a rather
 rueful laugh.

 "You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe
 place for a man to be private," said he, "but, by thunder, the whole
 country-side seems to have been out to see me do my wooing--and a
 mighty poor wooing at that! Where had you engaged a seat?"

 "I was on that hill."

 "Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother was well up to the front.
 Did you see him come out on us?"

 "Yes, I did."

 "Did he ever strike you as being crazy--this brother of hers?"

 "I can't say that he ever did."

 "I dare say not. I always thought him sane enough until to-day, but
 you can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in a
 strait-jacket. What's the matter with me, anyhow? You've lived near
 me for some weeks, Watson. Tell me straight, now! Is there anything
 that would prevent me from making a good husband to a woman that I
 loved?"

 "I should say not."

 "He can't object to my worldly position, so it must be myself that he
 has this down on. What has he against me? I never hurt man or woman
 in my life that I know of. And yet he would not so much as let me
 touch the tips of her fingers."

 "Did he say so?"

 "That, and a deal more. I tell you, Watson, I've only known her these
 few weeks, but from the first I just felt that she was made for me,
 and she, too--she was happy when she was with me, and that I'll
 swear. There's a light in a woman's eyes that speaks louder than
 words. But he has never let us get together, and it was only to-day
 for the first time that I saw a chance of having a few words with her
 alone. She was glad to meet me, but when she did it was not love that
 she would talk about, and she wouldn't have let me talk about it
 either if she could have stopped it. She kept coming back to it that
 this was a place of danger, and that she would never be happy until I
 had left it. I told her that since I had seen her I was in no hurry
 to leave it, and that if she really wanted me to go, the only way to
 work it was for her to arrange to go with me. With that I offered in
 as many words to marry her, but before she could answer, down came
 this brother of hers, running at us with a face on him like a madman.
 He was just white with rage, and those light eyes of his were blazing
 with fury. What was I doing with the lady? How dared I offer her
 attentions which were distasteful to her? Did I think that because I
 was a baronet I could do what I liked? If he had not been her brother
 I should have known better how to answer him. As it was I told him
 that my feelings towards his sister were such as I was not ashamed
 of, and that I hoped that she might honour me by becoming my wife.
 That seemed to make the matter no better, so then I lost my temper
 too, and I answered him rather more hotly than I should perhaps,
 considering that she was standing by. So it ended by his going off
 with her, as you saw, and here am I as badly puzzled a man as any in
 this county. Just tell me what it all means, Watson, and I'll owe you
 more than ever I can hope to pay."

 I tried one or two explanations, but, indeed, I was completely
 puzzled myself. Our friend's title, his fortune, his age, his
 character, and his appearance are all in his favour, and I know
 nothing against him unless it be this dark fate which runs in his
 family. That his advances should be rejected so brusquely without any
 reference to the lady's own wishes, and that the lady should accept
 the situation without protest, is very amazing. However, our
 conjectures were set at rest by a visit from Stapleton himself that
 very afternoon. He had come to offer apologies for his rudeness of
 the morning, and after a long private interview with Sir Henry in his
 study, the upshot of their conversation was that the breach is quite
 healed, and that we are to dine at Merripit House next Friday as a
 sign of it.

 "I don't say now that he isn't a crazy man," said Sir Henry; "I can't
 forget the look in his eyes when he ran at me this morning, but I
 must allow that no man could make a more handsome apology than he has
 done."

 "Did he give any explanation of his conduct?"

 "His sister is everything in his life, he says. That is natural
 enough, and I am glad that he should understand her value. They have
 always been together, and according to his account he has been a very
 lonely man with only her as a companion, so that the thought of
 losing her was really terrible to him. He had not understood, he
 said, that I was becoming attached to her, but when he saw with his
 own eyes that it was really so, and that she might be taken away from
 him, it gave him such a shock that for a time he was not responsible
 for what he said or did. He was very sorry for all that had passed,
 and he recognized how foolish and how selfish it was that he should
 imagine that he could hold a beautiful woman like his sister to
 himself for her whole life. If she had to leave him he had rather it
 was to a neighbour like myself than to anyone else. But in any case
 it was a blow to him, and it would take him some time before he could
 prepare himself to meet it. He would withdraw all opposition upon his
 part if I would promise for three months to let the matter rest and
 to be content with cultivating the lady's friendship during that time
 without claiming her love. This I promised, and so the matter rests."

 So there is one of our small mysteries cleared up. It is something to
 have touched bottom anywhere in this bog in which we are floundering.
 We know now why Stapleton looked with disfavour upon his sister's
 suitor--even when that suitor was so eligible a one as Sir Henry. And
 now I pass on to another thread which I have extricated out of the
 tangled skein, the mystery of the sobs in the night, of the
 tear-stained face of Mrs. Barrymore, of the secret journey of the
 butler to the western lattice window. Congratulate me, my dear
 Holmes, and tell me that I have not disappointed you as an
 agent--that you do not regret the confidence which you showed in me
 when you sent me down. All these things have by one night's work been
 thoroughly cleared.

 I have said "by one night's work," but, in truth, it was by two
 nights' work, for on the first we drew entirely blank. I sat up with
 Sir Henry in his rooms until nearly three o'clock in the morning, but
 no sound of any sort did we hear except the chiming clock upon the
 stairs. It was a most melancholy vigil, and ended by each of us
 falling asleep in our chairs. Fortunately we were not discouraged,
 and we determined to try again. The next night we lowered the lamp,
 and sat smoking cigarettes without making the least sound. It was
 incredible how slowly the hours crawled by, and yet we were helped
 through it by the same sort of patient interest which the hunter must
 feel as he watches the trap into which he hopes the game may wander.
 One struck, and two, and we had almost for the second time given it
 up in despair, when in an instant we both sat bolt upright in our
 chairs, with all our weary senses keenly on the alert once more. We
 had heard the creak of a step in the passage.

 Very stealthily we heard it pass along until it died away in the
 distance. Then the baronet gently opened his door and we set out in
 pursuit. Already our man had gone round the gallery, and the corridor
 was all in darkness. Softly we stole along until we had come into the
 other wing. We were just in time to catch a glimpse of the tall,
 black-bearded figure, his shoulders rounded, as he tip-toed down the
 passage. Then he passed through the same door as before, and the
 light of the candle framed it in the darkness and shot one single
 yellow beam across the gloom of the corridor. We shuffled cautiously
 towards it, trying every plank before we dared to put our whole
 weight upon it. We had taken the precaution of leaving our boots
 behind us, but, even so, the old boards snapped and creaked beneath
 our tread. Sometimes it seemed impossible that he should fail to hear
 our approach. However, the man is fortunately rather deaf, and he was
 entirely preoccupied in that which he was doing. When at last we
 reached the door and peeped through we found him crouching at the
 window, candle in hand, his white, intent face pressed against the
 pane, exactly as I had seen him two nights before.

 We had arranged no plan of campaign, but the baronet is a man to whom
 the most direct way is always the most natural. He walked into the
 room, and as he did so Barrymore sprang up from the window with a
 sharp hiss of his breath and stood, livid and trembling, before us.
 His dark eyes, glaring out of the white mask of his face, were full
 of horror and astonishment as he gazed from Sir Henry to me.

 "What are you doing here, Barrymore?"

 "Nothing, sir." His agitation was so great that he could hardly
 speak, and the shadows sprang up and down from the shaking of his
 candle. "It was the window, sir. I go round at night to see that they
 are fastened."

 "On the second floor?"

 "Yes, sir, all the windows."

 "Look here, Barrymore," said Sir Henry, sternly; "we have made up our
 minds to have the truth out of you, so it will save you trouble to
 tell it sooner rather than later. Come, now! No lies! What were you
 doing at that window?"

 The fellow looked at us in a helpless way, and he wrung his hands
 together like one who is in the last extremity of doubt and misery.

 "I was doing no harm, sir. I was holding a candle to the window."

 "And why were you holding a candle to the window?"

 "Don't ask me, Sir Henry--don't ask me! I give you my word, sir, that
 it is not my secret, and that I cannot tell it. If it concerned no
 one but myself I would not try to keep it from you."

 A sudden idea occurred to me, and I took the candle from the
 trembling hand of the butler.

 "He must have been holding it as a signal," said I. "Let us see if
 there is any answer." I held it as he had done, and stared out into
 the darkness of the night. Vaguely I could discern the black bank of
 the trees and the lighter expanse of the moor, for the moon was
 behind the clouds. And then I gave a cry of exultation, for a tiny
 pin-point of yellow light had suddenly transfixed the dark veil, and
 glowed steadily in the centre of the black square framed by the
 window.

 "There it is!" I cried.

 "No, no, sir, it is nothing--nothing at all!" the butler broke in; "I
 assure you, sir--"

 "Move your light across the window, Watson!" cried the baronet. "See,
 the other moves also! Now, you rascal, do you deny that it is a
 signal? Come, speak up! Who is your confederate out yonder, and what
 is this conspiracy that is going on?"

 The man's face became openly defiant.

 "It is my business, and not yours. I will not tell."

 "Then you leave my employment right away."

 "Very good, sir. If I must I must."

 "And you go in disgrace. By thunder, you may well be ashamed of
 yourself. Your family has lived with mine for over a hundred years
 under this roof, and here I find you deep in some dark plot against
 me."

 "No, no, sir; no, not against you!" It was a woman's voice, and Mrs.
 Barrymore, paler and more horror-struck than her husband, was
 standing at the door. Her bulky figure in a shawl and skirt might
 have been comic were it not for the intensity of feeling upon her
 face.

 "We have to go, Eliza. This is the end of it. You can pack our
 things," said the butler.

 "Oh, John, John, have I brought you to this? It is my doing, Sir
 Henry--all mine. He has done nothing except for my sake and because I
 asked him."

 "Speak out, then! What does it mean?"

 "My unhappy brother is starving on the moor. We cannot let him perish
 at our very gates. The light is a signal to him that food is ready
 for him, and his light out yonder is to show the spot to which to
 bring it."

 "Then your brother is--"

 "The escaped convict, sir--Selden, the criminal."

 "That's the truth, sir," said Barrymore. "I said that it was not my
 secret and that I could not tell it to you. But now you have heard
 it, and you will see that if there was a plot it was not against
 you."

 This, then, was the explanation of the stealthy expeditions at night
 and the light at the window. Sir Henry and I both stared at the woman
 in amazement. Was it possible that this stolidly respectable person
 was of the same blood as one of the most notorious criminals in the
 country?

 "Yes, sir, my name was Selden, and he is my younger brother. We
 humoured him too much when he was a lad, and gave him his own way in
 everything until he came to think that the world was made for his
 pleasure, and that he could do what he liked in it. Then as he grew
 older he met wicked companions, and the devil entered into him until
 he broke my mother's heart and dragged our name in the dirt. From
 crime to crime he sank lower and lower, until it is only the mercy of
 God which has snatched him from the scaffold; but to me, sir, he was
 always the little curly-headed boy that I had nursed and played with,
 as an elder sister would. That was why he broke prison, sir. He knew
 that I was here and that we could not refuse to help him. When he
 dragged himself here one night, weary and starving, with the warders
 hard at his heels, what could we do? We took him in and fed him and
 cared for him. Then you returned, sir, and my brother thought he
 would be safer on the moor than anywhere else until the hue and cry
 was over, so he lay in hiding there. But every second night we made
 sure if he was still there by putting a light in the window, and if
 there was an answer my husband took out some bread and meat to him.
 Every day we hoped that he was gone, but as long as he was there we
 could not desert him. That is the whole truth, as I am an honest
 Christian woman, and you will see that if there is blame in the
 matter it does not lie with my husband, but with me, for whose sake
 he has done all that he has."

 The woman's words came with an intense earnestness which carried
 conviction with them.

 "Is this true, Barrymore?"

 "Yes, Sir Henry. Every word of it."

 "Well, I cannot blame you for standing by your own wife. Forget what
 I have said. Go to your room, you two, and we shall talk further
 about this matter in the morning."

 When they were gone we looked out of the window again. Sir Henry had
 flung it open, and the cold night wind beat in upon our faces. Far
 away in the black distance there still glowed that one tiny point of
 yellow light.

 "I wonder he dares," said Sir Henry.

 "It may be so placed as to be only visible from here."

 "Very likely. How far do you think it is?"

 "Out by the Cleft Tor, I think."

 "Not more than a mile or two off."

 "Hardly that."

 "Well, it cannot be far if Barrymore had to carry out the food to it.
 And he is waiting, this villain, beside that candle. By thunder,
 Watson, I am going out to take that man!"

 The same thought had crossed my own mind. It was not as if the
 Barrymores had taken us into their confidence. Their secret had been
 forced from them. The man was a danger to the community, an
 unmitigated scoundrel for whom there was neither pity nor excuse. We
 were only doing our duty in taking this chance of putting him back
 where he could do no harm. With his brutal and violent nature, others
 would have to pay the price if we held our hands. Any night, for
 example, our neighbours the Stapletons might be attacked by him, and
 it may have been the thought of this which made Sir Henry so keen
 upon the adventure.

 "I will come," said I.

 "Then get your revolver and put on your boots. The sooner we start
 the better, as the fellow may put out his light and be off."

 In five minutes we were outside the door, starting upon our
 expedition. We hurried through the dark shrubbery, amid the dull
 moaning of the autumn wind and the rustle of the falling leaves. The
 night air was heavy with the smell of damp and decay. Now and again
 the moon peeped out for an instant, but clouds were driving over the
 face of the sky, and just as we came out on the moor a thin rain
 began to fall. The light still burned steadily in front.

 "Are you armed?" I asked.

 "I have a hunting-crop."

 "We must close in on him rapidly, for he is said to be a desperate
 fellow. We shall take him by surprise and have him at our mercy
 before he can resist."

 "I say, Watson," said the baronet, "what would Holmes say to this?
 How about that hour of darkness in which the power of evil is
 exalted?"

 As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast
 gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the
 borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the
 silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and
 then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded,
 the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. The
 baronet caught my sleeve and his face glimmered white through the
 darkness.

 "My God, what's that, Watson?"

 "I don't know. It's a sound they have on the moor. I heard it once
 before."

 It died away, and an absolute silence closed in upon us. We stood
 straining our ears, but nothing came.

 "Watson," said the baronet, "it was the cry of a hound."

 My blood ran cold in my veins, for there was a break in his voice
 which told of the sudden horror which had seized him.

 "What do they call this sound?" he asked.

 "Who?"

 "The folk on the country-side."

 "Oh, they are ignorant people. Why should you mind what they call
 it?"

 "Tell me, Watson. What do they say of it?"

 I hesitated but could not escape the question.

 "They say it is the cry of the Hound of the Baskervilles."

 He groaned and was silent for a few moments.

 "A hound it was," he said, at last, "but it seemed to come from miles
 away, over yonder, I think."

 "It was hard to say whence it came."

 "It rose and fell with the wind. Isn't that the direction of the
 great Grimpen Mire?"

 "Yes, it is."

 "Well, it was up there. Come now, Watson, didn't you think yourself
 that it was the cry of a hound? I am not a child. You need not fear
 to speak the truth."

 "Stapleton was with me when I heard it last. He said that it might be
 the calling of a strange bird."

 "No, no, it was a hound. My God, can there be some truth in all these
 stories? Is it possible that I am really in danger from so dark a
 cause? You don't believe it, do you, Watson?"

 "No, no."

 "And yet it was one thing to laugh about it in London, and it is
 another to stand out here in the darkness of the moor and to hear
 such a cry as that. And my uncle! There was the footprint of the
 hound beside him as he lay. It all fits together. I don't think that
 I am a coward, Watson, but that sound seemed to freeze my very blood.
 Feel my hand!"

 It was as cold as a block of marble.

 "You'll be all right to-morrow."

 "I don't think I'll get that cry out of my head. What do you advise
 that we do now?"

 "Shall we turn back?"

 "No, by thunder; we have come out to get our man, and we will do it.
 We after the convict, and a hell-hound, as likely as not, after us.
 Come on! We'll see it through if all the fiends of the pit were loose
 upon the moor."

 We stumbled slowly along in the darkness, with the black loom of the
 craggy hills around us, and the yellow speck of light burning
 steadily in front. There is nothing so deceptive as the distance of a
 light upon a pitch-dark night, and sometimes the glimmer seemed to be
 far away upon the horizon and sometimes it might have been within a
 few yards of us. But at last we could see whence it came, and then we
 knew that we were indeed very close. A guttering candle was stuck in
 a crevice of the rocks which flanked it on each side so as to keep
 the wind from it and also to prevent it from being visible, save in
 the direction of Baskerville Hall. A boulder of granite concealed our
 approach, and crouching behind it we gazed over it at the signal
 light. It was strange to see this single candle burning there in the
 middle of the moor, with no sign of life near it--just the one
 straight yellow flame and the gleam of the rock on each side of it.

 "What shall we do now?" whispered Sir Henry.

 "Wait here. He must be near his light. Let us see if we can get a
 glimpse of him."

 The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over the
 rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was thrust
 out an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed and
 scored with vile passions. Foul with mire, with a bristling beard,
 and hung with matted hair, it might well have belonged to one of
 those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on the hillsides. The
 light beneath him was reflected in his small, cunning eyes which
 peered fiercely to right and left through the darkness, like a crafty
 and savage animal who has heard the steps of the hunters.

 Something had evidently aroused his suspicions. It may have been that
 Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to give, or
 the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking that all was
 not well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked face. Any
 instant he might dash out the light and vanish in the darkness. I
 sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the same. At the same
 moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and hurled a rock which
 splintered up against the boulder which had sheltered us. I caught
 one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly-built figure as he sprang
 to his feet and turned to run. At the same moment by a lucky chance
 the moon broke through the clouds. We rushed over the brow of the
 hill, and there was our man running with great speed down the other
 side, springing over the stones in his way with the activity of a
 mountain goat. A lucky long shot of my revolver might have crippled
 him, but I had brought it only to defend myself if attacked, and not
 to shoot an unarmed man who was running away.

 We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we soon
 found that we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him for a long
 time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck moving swiftly
 among the boulders upon the side of a distant hill. We ran and ran
 until we were completely blown, but the space between us grew ever
 wider. Finally we stopped and sat panting on two rocks, while we
 watched him disappearing in the distance.

 And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and
 unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to go
 home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low upon the
 right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the
 lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony
 statue on that shining back-ground, I saw the figure of a man upon
 the tor. Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes. I assure you
 that I have never in my life seen anything more clearly. As far as I
 could judge, the figure was that of a tall, thin man. He stood with
 his legs a little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if
 he were brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite
 which lay before him. He might have been the very spirit of that
 terrible place. It was not the convict. This man was far from the
 place where the latter had disappeared. Besides, he was a much taller
 man. With a cry of surprise I pointed him out to the baronet, but in
 the instant during which I had turned to grasp his arm the man was
 gone. There was the sharp pinnacle of granite still cutting the lower
 edge of the moon, but its peak bore no trace of that silent and
 motionless figure.

 I wished to go in that direction and to search the tor, but it was
 some distance away. The baronet's nerves were still quivering from
 that cry, which recalled the dark story of his family, and he was not
 in the mood for fresh adventures. He had not seen this lonely man
 upon the tor and could not feel the thrill which his strange presence
 and his commanding attitude had given to me. "A warder, no doubt,"
 said he. "The moor has been thick with them since this fellow
 escaped." Well, perhaps his explanation may be the right one, but I
 should like to have some further proof of it. To-day we mean to
 communicate to the Princetown people where they should look for their
 missing man, but it is hard lines that we have not actually had the
 triumph of bringing him back as our own prisoner. Such are the
 adventures of last night, and you must acknowledge, my dear Holmes,
 that I have done you very well in the matter of a report. Much of
 what I tell you is no doubt quite irrelevant, but still I feel that
 it is best that I should let you have all the facts and leave you to
 select for yourself those which will be of most service to you in
 helping you to your conclusions. We are certainly making some
 progress. So far as the Barrymores go we have found the motive of
 their actions, and that has cleared up the situation very much. But
 the moor with its mysteries and its strange inhabitants remains as
 inscrutable as ever. Perhaps in my next I may be able to throw some
 light upon this also. Best of all would it be if you could come down
 to us. In any case you will hear from me again in the course of the
 next few days.





      CHAPTER X
      Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson


 So far I have been able to quote from the reports which I have
 forwarded during these early days to Sherlock Holmes. Now, however, I
 have arrived at a point in my narrative where I am compelled to
 abandon this method and to trust once more to my recollections, aided
 by the diary which I kept at the time. A few extracts from the latter
 will carry me on to those scenes which are indelibly fixed in every
 detail upon my memory. I proceed, then, from the morning which
 followed our abortive chase of the convict and our other strange
 experiences upon the moor.

 October 16th.--A dull and foggy day with a drizzle of rain. The house
 is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and then to show the
 dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver veins upon the sides of
 the hills, and the distant boulders gleaming where the light strikes
 upon their wet faces. It is melancholy outside and in. The baronet is
 in a black reaction after the excitements of the night. I am
 conscious myself of a weight at my heart and a feeling of impending
 danger--ever present danger, which is the more terrible because I am
 unable to define it.

 And have I not cause for such a feeling? Consider the long sequence
 of incidents which have all pointed to some sinister influence which
 is at work around us. There is the death of the last occupant of the
 Hall, fulfilling so exactly the conditions of the family legend, and
 there are the repeated reports from peasants of the appearance of a
 strange creature upon the moor. Twice I have with my own ears heard
 the sound which resembled the distant baying of a hound. It is
 incredible, impossible, that it should really be outside the ordinary
 laws of nature. A spectral hound which leaves material footmarks and
 fills the air with its howling is surely not to be thought of.
 Stapleton may fall in with such a superstition, and Mortimer also;
 but if I have one quality upon earth it is common-sense, and nothing
 will persuade me to believe in such a thing. To do so would be to
 descend to the level of these poor peasants, who are not content with
 a mere fiend dog but must needs describe him with hell-fire shooting
 from his mouth and eyes. Holmes would not listen to such fancies, and
 I am his agent. But facts are facts, and I have twice heard this
 crying upon the moor. Suppose that there were really some huge hound
 loose upon it; that would go far to explain everything. But where
 could such a hound lie concealed, where did it get its food, where
 did it come from, how was it that no one saw it by day? It must be
 confessed that the natural explanation offers almost as many
 difficulties as the other. And always, apart from the hound, there is
 the fact of the human agency in London, the man in the cab, and the
 letter which warned Sir Henry against the moor. This at least was
 real, but it might have been the work of a protecting friend as
 easily as of an enemy. Where is that friend or enemy now? Has he
 remained in London, or has he followed us down here? Could he--could
 he be the stranger whom I saw upon the tor?

 It is true that I have had only the one glance at him, and yet there
 are some things to which I am ready to swear. He is no one whom I
 have seen down here, and I have now met all the neighbours. The
 figure was far taller than that of Stapleton, far thinner than that
 of Frankland. Barrymore it might possibly have been, but we had left
 him behind us, and I am certain that he could not have followed us. A
 stranger then is still dogging us, just as a stranger dogged us in
 London. We have never shaken him off. If I could lay my hands upon
 that man, then at last we might find ourselves at the end of all our
 difficulties. To this one purpose I must now devote all my energies.

 My first impulse was to tell Sir Henry all my plans. My second and
 wisest one is to play my own game and speak as little as possible to
 anyone. He is silent and distrait. His nerves have been strangely
 shaken by that sound upon the moor. I will say nothing to add to his
 anxieties, but I will take my own steps to attain my own end.

 We had a small scene this morning after breakfast. Barrymore asked
 leave to speak with Sir Henry, and they were closeted in his study
 some little time. Sitting in the billiard-room I more than once heard
 the sound of voices raised, and I had a pretty good idea what the
 point was which was under discussion. After a time the baronet opened
 his door and called for me.

 "Barrymore considers that he has a grievance," he said. "He thinks
 that it was unfair on our part to hunt his brother-in-law down when
 he, of his own free will, had told us the secret."

 The butler was standing very pale but very collected before us.

 "I may have spoken too warmly, sir," said he, "and if I have, I am
 sure that I beg your pardon. At the same time, I was very much
 surprised when I heard you two gentlemen come back this morning and
 learned that you had been chasing Selden. The poor fellow has enough
 to fight against without my putting more upon his track."

 "If you had told us of your own free will it would have been a
 different thing," said the baronet, "you only told us, or rather your
 wife only told us, when it was forced from you and you could not help
 yourself."

 "I didn't think you would have taken advantage of it, Sir
 Henry--indeed I didn't."

 "The man is a public danger. There are lonely houses scattered over
 the moor, and he is a fellow who would stick at nothing. You only
 want to get a glimpse of his face to see that. Look at Mr.
 Stapleton's house, for example, with no one but himself to defend it.
 There's no safety for anyone until he is under lock and key."

 "He'll break into no house, sir. I give you my solemn word upon that.
 But he will never trouble anyone in this country again. I assure you,
 Sir Henry, that in a very few days the necessary arrangements will
 have been made and he will be on his way to South America. For God's
 sake, sir, I beg of you not to let the police know that he is still
 on the moor. They have given up the chase there, and he can lie quiet
 until the ship is ready for him. You can't tell on him without
 getting my wife and me into trouble. I beg you, sir, to say nothing
 to the police."

 "What do you say, Watson?"

 I shrugged my shoulders. "If he were safely out of the country it
 would relieve the tax-payer of a burden."

 "But how about the chance of his holding someone up before he goes?"

 "He would not do anything so mad, sir. We have provided him with all
 that he can want. To commit a crime would be to show where he was
 hiding."

 "That is true," said Sir Henry. "Well, Barrymore--"

 "God bless you, sir, and thank you from my heart! It would have
 killed my poor wife had he been taken again."

 "I guess we are aiding and abetting a felony, Watson? But, after what
 we have heard I don't feel as if I could give the man up, so there is
 an end of it. All right, Barrymore, you can go."

 With a few broken words of gratitude the man turned, but he hesitated
 and then came back.

 "You've been so kind to us, sir, that I should like to do the best I
 can for you in return. I know something, Sir Henry, and perhaps I
 should have said it before, but it was long after the inquest that I
 found it out. I've never breathed a word about it yet to mortal man.
 It's about poor Sir Charles's death."

 The baronet and I were both upon our feet. "Do you know how he died?"

 "No, sir, I don't know that."

 "What then?"

 "I know why he was at the gate at that hour. It was to meet a woman."

 "To meet a woman! He?"

 "Yes, sir."

 "And the woman's name?"

 "I can't give you the name, sir, but I can give you the initials. Her
 initials were L. L."

 "How do you know this, Barrymore?"

 "Well, Sir Henry, your uncle had a letter that morning. He had
 usually a great many letters, for he was a public man and well known
 for his kind heart, so that everyone who was in trouble was glad to
 turn to him. But that morning, as it chanced, there was only this one
 letter, so I took the more notice of it. It was from Coombe Tracey,
 and it was addressed in a woman's hand."

 "Well?"

 "Well, sir, I thought no more of the matter, and never would have
 done had it not been for my wife. Only a few weeks ago she was
 cleaning out Sir Charles's study--it had never been touched since his
 death--and she found the ashes of a burned letter in the back of the
 grate. The greater part of it was charred to pieces, but one little
 slip, the end of a page, hung together, and the writing could still
 be read, though it was gray on a black ground. It seemed to us to be
 a postscript at the end of the letter, and it said: 'Please, please,
 as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten
 o'clock'. Beneath it were signed the initials L. L."

 "Have you got that slip?"

 "No, sir, it crumbled all to bits after we moved it."

 "Had Sir Charles received any other letters in the same writing?"

 "Well, sir, I took no particular notice of his letters. I should not
 have noticed this one, only it happened to come alone."

 "And you have no idea who L. L. is?"

 "No, sir. No more than you have. But I expect if we could lay our
 hands upon that lady we should know more about Sir Charles's death."

 "I cannot understand, Barrymore, how you came to conceal this
 important information."

 "Well, sir, it was immediately after that our own trouble came to us.
 And then again, sir, we were both of us very fond of Sir Charles, as
 we well might be considering all that he has done for us. To rake
 this up couldn't help our poor master, and it's well to go carefully
 when there's a lady in the case. Even the best of us--"

 "You thought it might injure his reputation?"

 "Well, sir, I thought no good could come of it. But now you have been
 kind to us, and I feel as if it would be treating you unfairly not to
 tell you all that I know about the matter."

 "Very good, Barrymore; you can go." When the butler had left us Sir
 Henry turned to me. "Well, Watson, what do you think of this new
 light?"

 "It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker than before."

 "So I think. But if we can only trace L. L. it should clear up the
 whole business. We have gained that much. We know that there is
 someone who has the facts if we can only find her. What do you think
 we should do?"

 "Let Holmes know all about it at once. It will give him the clue for
 which he has been seeking. I am much mistaken if it does not bring
 him down."

 I went at once to my room and drew up my report of the morning's
 conversation for Holmes. It was evident to me that he had been very
 busy of late, for the notes which I had from Baker Street were few
 and short, with no comments upon the information which I had supplied
 and hardly any reference to my mission. No doubt his blackmailing
 case is absorbing all his faculties. And yet this new factor must
 surely arrest his attention and renew his interest. I wish that he
 were here.

 October 17th.--All day to-day the rain poured down, rustling on the
 ivy and dripping from the eaves. I thought of the convict out upon
 the bleak, cold, shelterless moor. Poor devil! Whatever his crimes,
 he has suffered something to atone for them. And then I thought of
 that other one--the face in the cab, the figure against the moon. Was
 he also out in that deluged--the unseen watcher, the man of darkness?
 In the evening I put on my waterproof and I walked far upon the
 sodden moor, full of dark imaginings, the rain beating upon my face
 and the wind whistling about my ears. God help those who wander into
 the great mire now, for even the firm uplands are becoming a morass.
 I found the black tor upon which I had seen the solitary watcher, and
 from its craggy summit I looked out myself across the melancholy
 downs. Rain squalls drifted across their russet face, and the heavy,
 slate-coloured clouds hung low over the landscape, trailing in gray
 wreaths down the sides of the fantastic hills. In the distant hollow
 on the left, half hidden by the mist, the two thin towers of
 Baskerville Hall rose above the trees. They were the only signs of
 human life which I could see, save only those prehistoric huts which
 lay thickly upon the slopes of the hills. Nowhere was there any trace
 of that lonely man whom I had seen on the same spot two nights
 before.

 As I walked back I was overtaken by Dr. Mortimer driving in his
 dog-cart over a rough moorland track which led from the outlying
 farmhouse of Foulmire. He has been very attentive to us, and hardly a
 day has passed that he has not called at the Hall to see how we were
 getting on. He insisted upon my climbing into his dog-cart, and he
 gave me a lift homeward. I found him much troubled over the
 disappearance of his little spaniel. It had wandered on to the moor
 and had never come back. I gave him such consolation as I might, but
 I thought of the pony on the Grimpen Mire, and I do not fancy that he
 will see his little dog again.

 "By the way, Mortimer," said I as we jolted along the rough road, "I
 suppose there are few people living within driving distance of this
 whom you do not know?"

 "Hardly any, I think."

 "Can you, then, tell me the name of any woman whose initials are L.
 L.?"

 He thought for a few minutes.

 "No," said he. "There are a few gipsies and labouring folk for whom I
 can't answer, but among the farmers or gentry there is no one whose
 initials are those. Wait a bit though," he added after a pause.
 "There is Laura Lyons--her initials are L. L.--but she lives in
 Coombe Tracey."

 "Who is she?" I asked.

 "She is Frankland's daughter."

 "What! Old Frankland the crank?"

 "Exactly. She married an artist named Lyons, who came sketching on
 the moor. He proved to be a blackguard and deserted her. The fault
 from what I hear may not have been entirely on one side. Her father
 refused to have anything to do with her because she had married
 without his consent, and perhaps for one or two other reasons as
 well. So, between the old sinner and the young one the girl has had a
 pretty bad time."

 "How does she live?"

 "I fancy old Frankland allows her a pittance, but it cannot be more,
 for his own affairs are considerably involved. Whatever she may have
 deserved one could not allow her to go hopelessly to the bad. Her
 story got about, and several of the people here did something to
 enable her to earn an honest living. Stapleton did for one, and Sir
 Charles for another. I gave a trifle myself. It was to set her up in
 a typewriting business."

 He wanted to know the object of my inquiries, but I managed to
 satisfy his curiosity without telling him too much, for there is no
 reason why we should take anyone into our confidence. To-morrow
 morning I shall find my way to Coombe Tracey, and if I can see this
 Mrs. Laura Lyons, of equivocal reputation, a long step will have been
 made towards clearing one incident in this chain of mysteries. I am
 certainly developing the wisdom of the serpent, for when Mortimer
 pressed his questions to an inconvenient extent I asked him casually
 to what type Frankland's skull belonged, and so heard nothing but
 craniology for the rest of our drive. I have not lived for years with
 Sherlock Holmes for nothing.

 I have only one other incident to record upon this tempestuous and
 melancholy day. This was my conversation with Barrymore just now,
 which gives me one more strong card which I can play in due time.

 Mortimer had stayed to dinner, and he and the baronet played Ã©cartÃ©
 afterwards. The butler brought me my coffee into the library, and I
 took the chance to ask him a few questions.

 "Well," said I, "has this precious relation of yours departed, or is
 he still lurking out yonder?"

 "I don't know, sir. I hope to heaven that he has gone, for he has
 brought nothing but trouble here! I've not heard of him since I left
 out food for him last, and that was three days ago."

 "Did you see him then?"

 "No, sir, but the food was gone when next I went that way."

 "Then he was certainly there?"

 "So you would think, sir, unless it was the other man who took it."

 I sat with my coffee-cup halfway to my lips and stared at Barrymore.

 "You know that there is another man then?"

 "Yes, sir; there is another man upon the moor."

 "Have you seen him?"

 "No, sir."

 "How do you know of him then?"

 "Selden told me of him, sir, a week ago or more. He's in hiding, too,
 but he's not a convict as far as I can make out. I don't like it, Dr.
 Watson--I tell you straight, sir, that I don't like it." He spoke
 with a sudden passion of earnestness.

 "Now, listen to me, Barrymore! I have no interest in this matter but
 that of your master. I have come here with no object except to help
 him. Tell me, frankly, what it is that you don't like."

 Barrymore hesitated for a moment, as if he regretted his outburst, or
 found it difficult to express his own feelings in words.

 "It's all these goings-on, sir," he cried at last, waving his hand
 towards the rain-lashed window which faced the moor. "There's foul
 play somewhere, and there's black villainy brewing, to that I'll
 swear! Very glad I should be, sir, to see Sir Henry on his way back
 to London again!"

 "But what is it that alarms you?"

 "Look at Sir Charles's death! That was bad enough, for all that the
 coroner said. Look at the noises on the moor at night. There's not a
 man would cross it after sundown if he was paid for it. Look at this
 stranger hiding out yonder, and watching and waiting! What's he
 waiting for? What does it mean? It means no good to anyone of the
 name of Baskerville, and very glad I shall be to be quit of it all on
 the day that Sir Henry's new servants are ready to take over the
 Hall."

 "But about this stranger," said I. "Can you tell me anything about
 him? What did Selden say? Did he find out where he hid, or what he
 was doing?"

 "He saw him once or twice, but he is a deep one, and gives nothing
 away. At first he thought that he was the police, but soon he found
 that he had some lay of his own. A kind of gentleman he was, as far
 as he could see, but what he was doing he could not make out."

 "And where did he say that he lived?"

 "Among the old houses on the hillside--the stone huts where the old
 folk used to live."

 "But how about his food?"

 "Selden found out that he has got a lad who works for him and brings
 him all he needs. I dare say he goes to Coombe Tracey for what he
 wants."

 "Very good, Barrymore. We may talk further of this some other time."
 When the butler had gone I walked over to the black window, and I
 looked through a blurred pane at the driving clouds and at the
 tossing outline of the wind-swept trees. It is a wild night indoors,
 and what must it be in a stone hut upon the moor. What passion of
 hatred can it be which leads a man to lurk in such a place at such a
 time! And what deep and earnest purpose can he have which calls for
 such a trial! There, in that hut upon the moor, seems to lie the very
 centre of that problem which has vexed me so sorely. I swear that
 another day shall not have passed before I have done all that man can
 do to reach the heart of the mystery.





      CHAPTER XI
      The Man on the Tor


 The extract from my private diary which forms the last chapter has
 brought my narrative up to the 18th of October, a time when these
 strange events began to move swiftly towards their terrible
 conclusion. The incidents of the next few days are indelibly graven
 upon my recollection, and I can tell them without reference to the
 notes made at the time. I start then from the day which succeeded
 that upon which I had established two facts of great importance, the
 one that Mrs. Laura Lyons of Coombe Tracey had written to Sir Charles
 Baskerville and made an appointment with him at the very place and
 hour that he met his death, the other that the lurking man upon the
 moor was to be found among the stone huts upon the hill-side. With
 these two facts in my possession I felt that either my intelligence
 or my courage must be deficient if I could not throw some further
 light upon these dark places.

 I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about
 Mrs. Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remained with
 him at cards until it was very late. At breakfast, however, I
 informed him about my discovery, and asked him whether he would care
 to accompany me to Coombe Tracey. At first he was very eager to come,
 but on second thoughts it seemed to both of us that if I went alone
 the results might be better. The more formal we made the visit the
 less information we might obtain. I left Sir Henry behind, therefore,
 not without some prickings of conscience, and drove off upon my new
 quest.

 When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the horses, and
 I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to interrogate. I had
 no difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central and well
 appointed. A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as I entered the
 sitting-room a lady, who was sitting before a Remington typewriter,
 sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome. Her face fell, however,
 when she saw that I was a stranger, and she sat down again and asked
 me the object of my visit.

 The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme beauty.
 Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and her cheeks,
 though considerably freckled, were flushed with the exquisite bloom
 of the brunette, the dainty pink which lurks at the heart of the
 sulphur rose. Admiration was, I repeat, the first impression. But the
 second was criticism. There was something subtly wrong with the face,
 some coarseness of expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some
 looseness of lip which marred its perfect beauty. But these, of
 course, are after-thoughts. At the moment I was simply conscious that
 I was in the presence of a very handsome woman, and that she was
 asking me the reasons for my visit. I had not quite understood until
 that instant how delicate my mission was.

 "I have the pleasure," said I, "of knowing your father." It was a
 clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it.

 "There is nothing in common between my father and me," she said. "I
 owe him nothing, and his friends are not mine. If it were not for the
 late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts I might have
 starved for all that my father cared."

 "It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have come here
 to see you."

 The freckles started out on the lady's face.

 "What can I tell you about him?" she asked, and her fingers played
 nervously over the stops of her typewriter.

 "You knew him, did you not?"

 "I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If I am
 able to support myself it is largely due to the interest which he
 took in my unhappy situation."

 "Did you correspond with him?"

 The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazel eyes.

 "What is the object of these questions?" she asked sharply.

 "The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that I should
 ask them here than that the matter should pass outside our control."

 She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last she looked
 up with something reckless and defiant in her manner.

 "Well, I'll answer," she said. "What are your questions?"

 "Did you correspond with Sir Charles?"

 "I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his delicacy
 and his generosity."

 "Have you the dates of those letters?"

 "No."

 "Have you ever met him?"

 "Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He was a very
 retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth."

 "But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did he know
 enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you say that he
 has done?"

 She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.

 "There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and united to
 help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate friend of
 Sir Charles's. He was exceedingly kind, and it was through him that
 Sir Charles learned about my affairs."

 I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapleton his
 almoner upon several occasions, so the lady's statement bore the
 impress of truth upon it.

 "Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?" I
 continued.

 Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again.

 "Really, sir, this is a very extraordinary question."

 "I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it."

 "Then I answer, certainly not."

 "Not on the very day of Sir Charles's death?"

 The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was before me.
 Her dry lips could not speak the "No" which I saw rather than heard.

 "Surely your memory deceives you," said I. "I could even quote a
 passage of your letter. It ran 'Please, please, as you are a
 gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten o'clock.'"

 I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by a
 supreme effort.

 "Is there no such thing as a gentleman?" she gasped.

 "You do Sir Charles an injustice. He did burn the letter. But
 sometimes a letter may be legible even when burned. You acknowledge
 now that you wrote it?"

 "Yes, I did write it," she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrent
 of words. "I did write it. Why should I deny it? I have no reason to
 be ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. I believed that if I had
 an interview I could gain his help, so I asked him to meet me."

 "But why at such an hour?"

 "Because I had only just learned that he was going to London next day
 and might be away for months. There were reasons why I could not get
 there earlier."

 "But why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to the house?"

 "Do you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelor's
 house?"

 "Well, what happened when you did get there?"

 "I never went."

 "Mrs. Lyons!"

 "No, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I never went. Something
 intervened to prevent my going."

 "What was that?"

 "That is a private matter. I cannot tell it."

 "You acknowledge then that you made an appointment with Sir Charles
 at the very hour and place at which he met his death, but you deny
 that you kept the appointment."

 "That is the truth."

 Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never get past
 that point.

 "Mrs. Lyons," said I, as I rose from this long and inconclusive
 interview, "you are taking a very great responsibility and putting
 yourself in a very false position by not making an absolutely clean
 breast of all that you know. If I have to call in the aid of the
 police you will find how seriously you are compromised. If your
 position is innocent, why did you in the first instance deny having
 written to Sir Charles upon that date?"

 "Because I feared that some false conclusion might be drawn from it
 and that I might find myself involved in a scandal."

 "And why were you so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy your
 letter?"

 "If you have read the letter you will know."

 "I did not say that I had read all the letter."

 "You quoted some of it."

 "I quoted the postscript. The letter had, as I said, been burned and
 it was not all legible. I ask you once again why it was that you were
 so pressing that Sir Charles should destroy this letter which he
 received on the day of his death."

 "The matter is a very private one."

 "The more reason why you should avoid a public investigation."

 "I will tell you, then. If you have heard anything of my unhappy
 history you will know that I made a rash marriage and had reason to
 regret it."

 "I have heard so much."

 "My life has been one incessant persecution from a husband whom I
 abhor. The law is upon his side, and every day I am faced by the
 possibility that he may force me to live with him. At the time that I
 wrote this letter to Sir Charles I had learned that there was a
 prospect of my regaining my freedom if certain expenses could be met.
 It meant everything to me--peace of mind, happiness,
 self-respect--everything. I knew Sir Charles's generosity, and I
 thought that if he heard the story from my own lips he would help
 me."

 "Then how is it that you did not go?"

 "Because I received help in the interval from another source."

 "Why then, did you not write to Sir Charles and explain this?"

 "So I should have done had I not seen his death in the paper next
 morning."

 The woman's story hung coherently together, and all my questions were
 unable to shake it. I could only check it by finding if she had,
 indeed, instituted divorce proceedings against her husband at or
 about the time of the tragedy.

 It was unlikely that she would dare to say that she had not been to
 Baskerville Hall if she really had been, for a trap would be
 necessary to take her there, and could not have returned to Coombe
 Tracey until the early hours of the morning. Such an excursion could
 not be kept secret. The probability was, therefore, that she was
 telling the truth, or, at least, a part of the truth. I came away
 baffled and disheartened. Once again I had reached that dead wall
 which seemed to be built across every path by which I tried to get at
 the object of my mission. And yet the more I thought of the lady's
 face and of her manner the more I felt that something was being held
 back from me. Why should she turn so pale? Why should she fight
 against every admission until it was forced from her? Why should she
 have been so reticent at the time of the tragedy? Surely the
 explanation of all this could not be as innocent as she would have me
 believe. For the moment I could proceed no farther in that direction,
 but must turn back to that other clue which was to be sought for
 among the stone huts upon the moor.

 And that was a most vague direction. I realized it as I drove back
 and noted how hill after hill showed traces of the ancient people.
 Barrymore's only indication had been that the stranger lived in one
 of these abandoned huts, and many hundreds of them are scattered
 throughout the length and breadth of the moor. But I had my own
 experience for a guide since it had shown me the man himself standing
 upon the summit of the Black Tor. That then should be the centre of
 my search. From there I should explore every hut upon the moor until
 I lighted upon the right one. If this man were inside it I should
 find out from his own lips, at the point of my revolver if necessary,
 who he was and why he had dogged us so long. He might slip away from
 us in the crowd of Regent Street, but it would puzzle him to do so
 upon the lonely moor. On the other hand, if I should find the hut and
 its tenant should not be within it I must remain there, however long
 the vigil, until he returned. Holmes had missed him in London. It
 would indeed be a triumph for me if I could run him to earth, where
 my master had failed.

 Luck had been against us again and again in this inquiry, but now at
 last it came to my aid. And the messenger of good fortune was none
 other than Mr. Frankland, who was standing, gray-whiskered and
 red-faced, outside the gate of his garden, which opened on to the
 high road along which I travelled.

 "Good-day, Dr. Watson," cried he with unwonted good humour, "you must
 really give your horses a rest, and come in to have a glass of wine
 and to congratulate me."

 My feelings towards him were very far from being friendly after what
 I had heard of his treatment of his daughter, but I was anxious to
 send Perkins and the wagonette home, and the opportunity was a good
 one. I alighted and sent a message to Sir Henry that I should walk
 over in time for dinner. Then I followed Frankland into his
 dining-room.

 "It is a great day for me, sir--one of the red-letter days of my
 life," he cried with many chuckles. "I have brought off a double
 event. I mean to teach them in these parts that law is law, and that
 there is a man here who does not fear to invoke it. I have
 established a right of way through the centre of old Middleton's
 park, slap across it, sir, within a hundred yards of his own front
 door. What do you think of that? We'll teach these magnates that they
 cannot ride roughshod over the rights of the commoners, confound
 them! And I've closed the wood where the Fernworthy folk used to
 picnic. These infernal people seem to think that there are no rights
 of property, and that they can swarm where they like with their
 papers and their bottles. Both cases decided, Dr. Watson, and both in
 my favour. I haven't had such a day since I had Sir John Morland for
 trespass, because he shot in his own warren."

 "How on earth did you do that?"

 "Look it up in the books, sir. It will repay reading--Frankland v.
 Morland, Court of Queen's Bench. It cost me 200 pounds, but I got my
 verdict."

 "Did it do you any good?"

 "None, sir, none. I am proud to say that I had no interest in the
 matter. I act entirely from a sense of public duty. I have no doubt,
 for example, that the Fernworthy people will burn me in effigy
 to-night. I told the police last time they did it that they should
 stop these disgraceful exhibitions. The County Constabulary is in a
 scandalous state, sir, and it has not afforded me the protection to
 which I am entitled. The case of Frankland v. Regina will bring the
 matter before the attention of the public. I told them that they
 would have occasion to regret their treatment of me, and already my
 words have come true."

 "How so?" I asked.

 The old man put on a very knowing expression.

 "Because I could tell them what they are dying to know; but nothing
 would induce me to help the rascals in any way."

 I had been casting round for some excuse by which I could get away
 from his gossip, but now I began to wish to hear more of it. I had
 seen enough of the contrary nature of the old sinner to understand
 that any strong sign of interest would be the surest way to stop his
 confidences.

 "Some poaching case, no doubt?" said I, with an indifferent manner.

 "Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important matter than that! What
 about the convict on the moor?"

 I started. "You don't mean that you know where he is?" said I.

 "I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure that I could
 help the police to lay their hands on him. Has it never struck you
 that the way to catch that man was to find out where he got his food,
 and so trace it to him?"

 He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfortably near the truth. "No
 doubt," said I; "but how do you know that he is anywhere upon the
 moor?"

 "I know it because I have seen with my own eyes the messenger who
 takes him his food."

 My heart sank for Barrymore. It was a serious thing to be in the
 power of this spiteful old busybody. But his next remark took a
 weight from my mind.

 "You'll be surprised to hear that his food is taken to him by a
 child. I see him every day through my telescope upon the roof. He
 passes along the same path at the same hour, and to whom should he be
 going except to the convict?"

 Here was luck indeed! And yet I suppressed all appearance of
 interest. A child! Barrymore had said that our unknown was supplied
 by a boy. It was on his track, and not upon the convict's, that
 Frankland had stumbled. If I could get his knowledge it might save me
 a long and weary hunt. But incredulity and indifference were
 evidently my strongest cards.

 "I should say that it was much more likely that it was the son of one
 of the moorland shepherds taking out his father's dinner."

 The least appearance of opposition struck fire out of the old
 autocrat. His eyes looked malignantly at me, and his gray whiskers
 bristled like those of an angry cat.

 "Indeed, sir!" said he, pointing out over the wide-stretching moor.
 "Do you see that Black Tor over yonder? Well, do you see the low hill
 beyond with the thornbush upon it? It is the stoniest part of the
 whole moor. Is that a place where a shepherd would be likely to take
 his station? Your suggestion, sir, is a most absurd one."

 I meekly answered that I had spoken without knowing all the facts. My
 submission pleased him and led him to further confidences.

 "You may be sure, sir, that I have very good grounds before I come to
 an opinion. I have seen the boy again and again with his bundle.
 Every day, and sometimes twice a day, I have been able--but wait a
 moment, Dr. Watson. Do my eyes deceive me, or is there at the present
 moment something moving upon that hill-side?"

 It was several miles off, but I could distinctly see a small dark dot
 against the dull green and gray.

 "Come, sir, come!" cried Frankland, rushing upstairs. "You will see
 with your own eyes and judge for yourself."

 The telescope, a formidable instrument mounted upon a tripod, stood
 upon the flat leads of the house. Frankland clapped his eye to it and
 gave a cry of satisfaction.

 "Quick, Dr. Watson, quick, before he passes over the hill!"

 There he was, sure enough, a small urchin with a little bundle upon
 his shoulder, toiling slowly up the hill. When he reached the crest I
 saw the ragged uncouth figure outlined for an instant against the
 cold blue sky. He looked round him with a furtive and stealthy air,
 as one who dreads pursuit. Then he vanished over the hill.

 "Well! Am I right?"

 "Certainly, there is a boy who seems to have some secret errand."

 "And what the errand is even a county constable could guess. But not
 one word shall they have from me, and I bind you to secrecy also, Dr.
 Watson. Not a word! You understand!"

 "Just as you wish."

 "They have treated me shamefully--shamefully. When the facts come out
 in Frankland v. Regina I venture to think that a thrill of
 indignation will run through the country. Nothing would induce me to
 help the police in any way. For all they cared it might have been me,
 instead of my effigy, which these rascals burned at the stake. Surely
 you are not going! You will help me to empty the decanter in honour
 of this great occasion!"

 But I resisted all his solicitations and succeeded in dissuading him
 from his announced intention of walking home with me. I kept the road
 as long as his eye was on me, and then I struck off across the moor
 and made for the stony hill over which the boy had disappeared.
 Everything was working in my favour, and I swore that it should not
 be through lack of energy or perseverance that I should miss the
 chance which fortune had thrown in my way.

 The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the hill,
 and the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on one side and
 gray shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon the farthest sky-line,
 out of which jutted the fantastic shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor.
 Over the wide expanse there was no sound and no movement. One great
 gray bird, a gull or curlew, soared aloft in the blue heaven. He and
 I seemed to be the only living things between the huge arch of the
 sky and the desert beneath it. The barren scene, the sense of
 loneliness, and the mystery and urgency of my task all struck a chill
 into my heart. The boy was nowhere to be seen. But down beneath me in
 a cleft of the hills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in
 the middle of them there was one which retained sufficient roof to
 act as a screen against the weather. My heart leaped within me as I
 saw it. This must be the burrow where the stranger lurked. At last my
 foot was on the threshold of his hiding place--his secret was within
 my grasp.

 As I approached the hut, walking as warily as Stapleton would do when
 with poised net he drew near the settled butterfly, I satisfied
 myself that the place had indeed been used as a habitation. A vague
 pathway among the boulders led to the dilapidated opening which
 served as a door. All was silent within. The unknown might be lurking
 there, or he might be prowling on the moor. My nerves tingled with
 the sense of adventure. Throwing aside my cigarette, I closed my hand
 upon the butt of my revolver and, walking swiftly up to the door, I
 looked in. The place was empty.

 But there were ample signs that I had not come upon a false scent.
 This was certainly where the man lived. Some blankets rolled in a
 waterproof lay upon that very stone slab upon which Neolithic man had
 once slumbered. The ashes of a fire were heaped in a rude grate.
 Beside it lay some cooking utensils and a bucket half-full of water.
 A litter of empty tins showed that the place had been occupied for
 some time, and I saw, as my eyes became accustomed to the checkered
 light, a pannikin and a half-full bottle of spirits standing in the
 corner. In the middle of the hut a flat stone served the purpose of a
 table, and upon this stood a small cloth bundle--the same, no doubt,
 which I had seen through the telescope upon the shoulder of the boy.
 It contained a loaf of bread, a tinned tongue, and two tins of
 preserved peaches. As I set it down again, after having examined it,
 my heart leaped to see that beneath it there lay a sheet of paper
 with writing upon it. I raised it, and this was what I read, roughly
 scrawled in pencil:--

 Dr. Watson has gone to Coombe Tracey.

 For a minute I stood there with the paper in my hands thinking out
 the meaning of this curt message. It was I, then, and not Sir Henry,
 who was being dogged by this secret man. He had not followed me
 himself, but he had set an agent--the boy, perhaps--upon my track,
 and this was his report. Possibly I had taken no step since I had
 been upon the moor which had not been observed and reported. Always
 there was this feeling of an unseen force, a fine net drawn round us
 with infinite skill and delicacy, holding us so lightly that it was
 only at some supreme moment that one realized that one was indeed
 entangled in its meshes.

 If there was one report there might be others, so I looked round the
 hut in search of them. There was no trace, however, of anything of
 the kind, nor could I discover any sign which might indicate the
 character or intentions of the man who lived in this singular place,
 save that he must be of Spartan habits and cared little for the
 comforts of life. When I thought of the heavy rains and looked at the
 gaping roof I understood how strong and immutable must be the purpose
 which had kept him in that inhospitable abode. Was he our malignant
 enemy, or was he by chance our guardian angel? I swore that I would
 not leave the hut until I knew.

 Outside the sun was sinking low and the west was blazing with scarlet
 and gold. Its reflection was shot back in ruddy patches by the
 distant pools which lay amid the great Grimpen Mire. There were the
 two towers of Baskerville Hall, and there a distant blur of smoke
 which marked the village of Grimpen. Between the two, behind the
 hill, was the house of the Stapletons. All was sweet and mellow and
 peaceful in the golden evening light, and yet as I looked at them my
 soul shared none of the peace of nature but quivered at the vagueness
 and the terror of that interview which every instant was bringing
 nearer. With tingling nerves, but a fixed purpose, I sat in the dark
 recess of the hut and waited with sombre patience for the coming of
 its tenant.

 And then at last I heard him. Far away came the sharp clink of a boot
 striking upon a stone. Then another and yet another, coming nearer
 and nearer. I shrank back into the darkest corner, and cocked the
 pistol in my pocket, determined not to discover myself until I had an
 opportunity of seeing something of the stranger. There was a long
 pause which showed that he had stopped. Then once more the footsteps
 approached and a shadow fell across the opening of the hut.

 "It is a lovely evening, my dear Watson," said a well-known voice. "I
 really think that you will be more comfortable outside than in."





      CHAPTER XII
      Death on the Moor


 For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears.
 Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight
 of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted from my soul.
 That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in
 all the world.

 "Holmes!" I cried--"Holmes!"

 "Come out," said he, "and please be careful with the revolver."

 I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat upon a stone
 outside, his gray eyes dancing with amusement as they fell upon my
 astonished features. He was thin and worn, but clear and alert, his
 keen face bronzed by the sun and roughened by the wind. In his tweed
 suit and cloth cap he looked like any other tourist upon the moor,
 and he had contrived, with that cat-like love of personal cleanliness
 which was one of his characteristics, that his chin should be as
 smooth and his linen as perfect as if he were in Baker Street.

 "I never was more glad to see anyone in my life," said I, as I wrung
 him by the hand.

 "Or more astonished, eh?"

 "Well, I must confess to it."

 "The surprise was not all on one side, I assure you. I had no idea
 that you had found my occasional retreat, still less that you were
 inside it, until I was within twenty paces of the door."

 "My footprint, I presume?"

 "No, Watson; I fear that I could not undertake to recognize your
 footprint amid all the footprints of the world. If you seriously
 desire to deceive me you must change your tobacconist; for when I see
 the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know that my
 friend Watson is in the neighbourhood. You will see it there beside
 the path. You threw it down, no doubt, at that supreme moment when
 you charged into the empty hut."

 "Exactly."

 "I thought as much--and knowing your admirable tenacity I was
 convinced that you were sitting in ambush, a weapon within reach,
 waiting for the tenant to return. So you actually thought that I was
 the criminal?"

 "I did not know who you were, but I was determined to find out."

 "Excellent, Watson! And how did you localize me? You saw me, perhaps,
 on the night of the convict hunt, when I was so imprudent as to allow
 the moon to rise behind me?"

 "Yes, I saw you then."

 "And have no doubt searched all the huts until you came to this one?"

 "No, your boy had been observed, and that gave me a guide where to
 look."

 "The old gentleman with the telescope, no doubt. I could not make it
 out when first I saw the light flashing upon the lens." He rose and
 peeped into the hut. "Ha, I see that Cartwright has brought up some
 supplies. What's this paper? So you have been to Coombe Tracey, have
 you?"

 "Yes."

 "To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?"

 "Exactly."

 "Well done! Our researches have evidently been running on parallel
 lines, and when we unite our results I expect we shall have a fairly
 full knowledge of the case."

 "Well, I am glad from my heart that you are here, for indeed the
 responsibility and the mystery were both becoming too much for my
 nerves. But how in the name of wonder did you come here, and what
 have you been doing? I thought that you were in Baker Street working
 out that case of blackmailing."

 "That was what I wished you to think."

 "Then you use me, and yet do not trust me!" I cried with some
 bitterness. "I think that I have deserved better at your hands,
 Holmes."

 "My dear fellow, you have been invaluable to me in this as in many
 other cases, and I beg that you will forgive me if I have seemed to
 play a trick upon you. In truth, it was partly for your own sake that
 I did it, and it was my appreciation of the danger which you ran
 which led me to come down and examine the matter for myself. Had I
 been with Sir Henry and you it is confident that my point of view
 would have been the same as yours, and my presence would have warned
 our very formidable opponents to be on their guard. As it is, I have
 been able to get about as I could not possibly have done had I been
 living in the Hall, and I remain an unknown factor in the business,
 ready to throw in all my weight at a critical moment."

 "But why keep me in the dark?"

 "For you to know could not have helped us, and might possibly have
 led to my discovery. You would have wished to tell me something, or
 in your kindness you would have brought me out some comfort or other,
 and so an unnecessary risk would be run. I brought Cartwright down
 with me--you remember the little chap at the express office--and he
 has seen after my simple wants: a loaf of bread and a clean collar.
 What does man want more? He has given me an extra pair of eyes upon a
 very active pair of feet, and both have been invaluable."

 "Then my reports have all been wasted!"--My voice trembled as I
 recalled the pains and the pride with which I had composed them.

 Holmes took a bundle of papers from his pocket.

 "Here are your reports, my dear fellow, and very well thumbed, I
 assure you. I made excellent arrangements, and they are only delayed
 one day upon their way. I must compliment you exceedingly upon the
 zeal and the intelligence which you have shown over an
 extraordinarily difficult case."

 I was still rather raw over the deception which had been practised
 upon me, but the warmth of Holmes's praise drove my anger from my
 mind. I felt also in my heart that he was right in what he said and
 that it was really best for our purpose that I should not have known
 that he was upon the moor.

 "That's better," said he, seeing the shadow rise from my face. "And
 now tell me the result of your visit to Mrs. Laura Lyons--it was not
 difficult for me to guess that it was to see her that you had gone,
 for I am already aware that she is the one person in Coombe Tracey
 who might be of service to us in the matter. In fact, if you had not
 gone to-day it is exceedingly probable that I should have gone
 to-morrow."

 The sun had set and dusk was settling over the moor. The air had
 turned chill and we withdrew into the hut for warmth. There, sitting
 together in the twilight, I told Holmes of my conversation with the
 lady. So interested was he that I had to repeat some of it twice
 before he was satisfied.

 "This is most important," said he when I had concluded. "It fills up
 a gap which I had been unable to bridge, in this most complex affair.
 You are aware, perhaps, that a close intimacy exists between this
 lady and the man Stapleton?"

 "I did not know of a close intimacy."

 "There can be no doubt about the matter. They meet, they write, there
 is a complete understanding between them. Now, this puts a very
 powerful weapon into our hands. If I could only use it to detach his
 wife--"

 "His wife?"

 "I am giving you some information now, in return for all that you
 have given me. The lady who has passed here as Miss Stapleton is in
 reality his wife."

 "Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of what you say? How could he
 have permitted Sir Henry to fall in love with her?"

 "Sir Henry's falling in love could do no harm to anyone except Sir
 Henry. He took particular care that Sir Henry did not make love to
 her, as you have yourself observed. I repeat that the lady is his
 wife and not his sister."

 "But why this elaborate deception?"

 "Because he foresaw that she would be very much more useful to him in
 the character of a free woman."

 All my unspoken instincts, my vague suspicions, suddenly took shape
 and centred upon the naturalist. In that impassive, colourless man,
 with his straw hat and his butterfly-net, I seemed to see something
 terrible--a creature of infinite patience and craft, with a smiling
 face and a murderous heart.

 "It is he, then, who is our enemy--it is he who dogged us in London?"

 "So I read the riddle."

 "And the warning--it must have come from her!"

 "Exactly."

 The shape of some monstrous villainy, half seen, half guessed, loomed
 through the darkness which had girt me so long.

 "But are you sure of this, Holmes? How do you know that the woman is
 his wife?"

 "Because he so far forgot himself as to tell you a true piece of
 autobiography upon the occasion when he first met you, and I dare say
 he has many a time regretted it since. He was once a schoolmaster in
 the north of England. Now, there is no one more easy to trace than a
 schoolmaster. There are scholastic agencies by which one may identify
 any man who has been in the profession. A little investigation showed
 me that a school had come to grief under atrocious circumstances, and
 that the man who had owned it--the name was different--had
 disappeared with his wife. The descriptions agreed. When I learned
 that the missing man was devoted to entomology the identification was
 complete."

 The darkness was rising, but much was still hidden by the shadows.

 "If this woman is in truth his wife, where does Mrs. Laura Lyons come
 in?" I asked.

 "That is one of the points upon which your own researches have shed a
 light. Your interview with the lady has cleared the situation very
 much. I did not know about a projected divorce between herself and
 her husband. In that case, regarding Stapleton as an unmarried man,
 she counted no doubt upon becoming his wife."

 "And when she is undeceived?"

 "Why, then we may find the lady of service. It must be our first duty
 to see her--both of us--to-morrow. Don't you think, Watson, that you
 are away from your charge rather long? Your place should be at
 Baskerville Hall."

 The last red streaks had faded away in the west and night had settled
 upon the moor. A few faint stars were gleaming in a violet sky.

 "One last question, Holmes," I said, as I rose. "Surely there is no
 need of secrecy between you and me. What is the meaning of it all?
 What is he after?"

 Holmes's voice sank as he answered:--

 "It is murder, Watson--refined, cold-blooded, deliberate murder. Do
 not ask me for particulars. My nets are closing upon him, even as his
 are upon Sir Henry, and with your help he is already almost at my
 mercy. There is but one danger which can threaten us. It is that he
 should strike before we are ready to do so. Another day--two at the
 most--and I have my case complete, but until then guard your charge
 as closely as ever a fond mother watched her ailing child. Your
 mission to-day has justified itself, and yet I could almost wish that
 you had not left his side. Hark!"

 A terrible scream--a prolonged yell of horror and anguish--burst out
 of the silence of the moor. That frightful cry turned the blood to
 ice in my veins.

 "Oh, my God!" I gasped. "What is it? What does it mean?"

 Holmes had sprung to his feet, and I saw his dark, athletic outline
 at the door of the hut, his shoulders stooping, his head thrust
 forward, his face peering into the darkness.

 "Hush!" he whispered. "Hush!"

 The cry had been loud on account of its vehemence, but it had pealed
 out from somewhere far off on the shadowy plain. Now it burst upon
 our ears, nearer, louder, more urgent than before.

 "Where is it?" Holmes whispered; and I knew from the thrill of his
 voice that he, the man of iron, was shaken to the soul. "Where is it,
 Watson?"

 "There, I think." I pointed into the darkness.

 "No, there!"

 Again the agonized cry swept through the silent night, louder and
 much nearer than ever. And a new sound mingled with it, a deep,
 muttered rumble, musical and yet menacing, rising and falling like
 the low, constant murmur of the sea.

 "The hound!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson, come! Great heavens, if we
 are too late!"

 He had started running swiftly over the moor, and I had followed at
 his heels. But now from somewhere among the broken ground immediately
 in front of us there came one last despairing yell, and then a dull,
 heavy thud. We halted and listened. Not another sound broke the heavy
 silence of the windless night.

 I saw Holmes put his hand to his forehead like a man distracted. He
 stamped his feet upon the ground.

 "He has beaten us, Watson. We are too late."

 "No, no, surely not!"

 "Fool that I was to hold my hand. And you, Watson, see what comes of
 abandoning your charge! But, by Heaven, if the worst has happened,
 we'll avenge him!"

 Blindly we ran through the gloom, blundering against boulders,
 forcing our way through gorse bushes, panting up hills and rushing
 down slopes, heading always in the direction whence those dreadful
 sounds had come. At every rise Holmes looked eagerly round him, but
 the shadows were thick upon the moor, and nothing moved upon its
 dreary face.

 "Can you see anything?"

 "Nothing."

 "But, hark, what is that?"

 A low moan had fallen upon our ears. There it was again upon our
 left! On that side a ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff which
 overlooked a stone-strewn slope. On its jagged face was spread-eagled
 some dark, irregular object. As we ran towards it the vague outline
 hardened into a definite shape. It was a prostrate man face downward
 upon the ground, the head doubled under him at a horrible angle, the
 shoulders rounded and the body hunched together as if in the act of
 throwing a somersault. So grotesque was the attitude that I could not
 for the instant realize that that moan had been the passing of his
 soul. Not a whisper, not a rustle, rose now from the dark figure over
 which we stooped. Holmes laid his hand upon him, and held it up
 again, with an exclamation of horror. The gleam of the match which he
 struck shone upon his clotted fingers and upon the ghastly pool which
 widened slowly from the crushed skull of the victim. And it shone
 upon something else which turned our hearts sick and faint within
 us--the body of Sir Henry Baskerville!

 There was no chance of either of us forgetting that peculiar ruddy
 tweed suit--the very one which he had worn on the first morning that
 we had seen him in Baker Street. We caught the one clear glimpse of
 it, and then the match flickered and went out, even as the hope had
 gone out of our souls. Holmes groaned, and his face glimmered white
 through the darkness.

 "The brute! the brute!" I cried with clenched hands. "Oh Holmes, I
 shall never forgive myself for having left him to his fate."

 "I am more to blame than you, Watson. In order to have my case well
 rounded and complete, I have thrown away the life of my client. It is
 the greatest blow which has befallen me in my career. But how could I
 know--how could l know--that he would risk his life alone upon the
 moor in the face of all my warnings?"

 "That we should have heard his screams--my God, those screams!--and
 yet have been unable to save him! Where is this brute of a hound
 which drove him to his death? It may be lurking among these rocks at
 this instant. And Stapleton, where is he? He shall answer for this
 deed."

 "He shall. I will see to that. Uncle and nephew have been
 murdered--the one frightened to death by the very sight of a beast
 which he thought to be supernatural, the other driven to his end in
 his wild flight to escape from it. But now we have to prove the
 connection between the man and the beast. Save from what we heard, we
 cannot even swear to the existence of the latter, since Sir Henry has
 evidently died from the fall. But, by heavens, cunning as he is, the
 fellow shall be in my power before another day is past!"

 We stood with bitter hearts on either side of the mangled body,
 overwhelmed by this sudden and irrevocable disaster which had brought
 all our long and weary labours to so piteous an end. Then, as the
 moon rose we climbed to the top of the rocks over which our poor
 friend had fallen, and from the summit we gazed out over the shadowy
 moor, half silver and half gloom. Far away, miles off, in the
 direction of Grimpen, a single steady yellow light was shining. It
 could only come from the lonely abode of the Stapletons. With a
 bitter curse I shook my fist at it as I gazed.

 "Why should we not seize him at once?"

 "Our case is not complete. The fellow is wary and cunning to the last
 degree. It is not what we know, but what we can prove. If we make one
 false move the villain may escape us yet."

 "What can we do?"

 "There will be plenty for us to do to-morrow. To-night we can only
 perform the last offices to our poor friend."

 Together we made our way down the precipitous slope and approached
 the body, black and clear against the silvered stones. The agony of
 those contorted limbs struck me with a spasm of pain and blurred my
 eyes with tears.

 "We must send for help, Holmes! We cannot carry him all the way to
 the Hall. Good heavens, are you mad?"

 He had uttered a cry and bent over the body. Now he was dancing and
 laughing and wringing my hand. Could this be my stern, self-contained
 friend? These were hidden fires, indeed!

 "A beard! A beard! The man has a beard!"

 "A beard?"

 "It is not the baronet--it is--why, it is my neighbour, the convict!"

 With feverish haste we had turned the body over, and that dripping
 beard was pointing up to the cold, clear moon. There could be no
 doubt about the beetling forehead, the sunken animal eyes. It was
 indeed the same face which had glared upon me in the light of the
 candle from over the rock--the face of Selden, the criminal.

 Then in an instant it was all clear to me. I remembered how the
 baronet had told me that he had handed his old wardrobe to Barrymore.
 Barrymore had passed it on in order to help Selden in his escape.
 Boots, shirt, cap--it was all Sir Henry's. The tragedy was still
 black enough, but this man had at least deserved death by the laws of
 his country. I told Holmes how the matter stood, my heart bubbling
 over with thankfulness and joy.

 "Then the clothes have been the poor devil's death," said he. "It is
 clear enough that the hound has been laid on from some article of Sir
 Henry's--the boot which was abstracted in the hotel, in all
 probability--and so ran this man down. There is one very singular
 thing, however: How came Selden, in the darkness, to know that the
 hound was on his trail?"

 "He heard him."

 "To hear a hound upon the moor would not work a hard man like this
 convict into such a paroxysm of terror that he would risk recapture
 by screaming wildly for help. By his cries he must have run a long
 way after he knew the animal was on his track. How did he know?"

 "A greater mystery to me is why this hound, presuming that all our
 conjectures are correct--"

 "I presume nothing."

 "Well, then, why this hound should be loose to-night. I suppose that
 it does not always run loose upon the moor. Stapleton would not let
 it go unless he had reason to think that Sir Henry would be there."

 "My difficulty is the more formidable of the two, for I think that we
 shall very shortly get an explanation of yours, while mine may remain
 forever a mystery. The question now is, what shall we do with this
 poor wretch's body? We cannot leave it here to the foxes and the
 ravens."

 "I suggest that we put it in one of the huts until we can communicate
 with the police."

 "Exactly. I have no doubt that you and I could carry it so far.
 Halloa, Watson, what's this? It's the man himself, by all that's
 wonderful and audacious! Not a word to show your suspicions--not a
 word, or my plans crumble to the ground."

 A figure was approaching us over the moor, and I saw the dull red
 glow of a cigar. The moon shone upon him, and I could distinguish the
 dapper shape and jaunty walk of the naturalist. He stopped when he
 saw us, and then came on again.

 "Why, Dr. Watson, that's not you, is it? You are the last man that I
 should have expected to see out on the moor at this time of night.
 But, dear me, what's this? Somebody hurt? Not--don't tell me that it
 is our friend Sir Henry!" He hurried past me and stooped over the
 dead man. I heard a sharp intake of his breath and the cigar fell
 from his fingers.

 "Who--who's this?" he stammered.

 "It is Selden, the man who escaped from Princetown."

 Stapleton turned a ghastly face upon us, but by a supreme effort he
 had overcome his amazement and his disappointment. He looked sharply
 from Holmes to me.

 "Dear me! What a very shocking affair! How did he die?"

 "He appears to have broken his neck by falling over these rocks. My
 friend and I were strolling on the moor when we heard a cry."

 "I heard a cry also. That was what brought me out. I was uneasy about
 Sir Henry."

 "Why about Sir Henry in particular?" I could not help asking.

 "Because I had suggested that he should come over. When he did not
 come I was surprised, and I naturally became alarmed for his safety
 when I heard cries upon the moor. By the way"--his eyes darted again
 from my face to Holmes's--"did you hear anything else besides a cry?"

 "No," said Holmes; "did you?"

 "No."

 "What do you mean, then?"

 "Oh, you know the stories that the peasants tell about a phantom
 hound, and so on. It is said to be heard at night upon the moor. I
 was wondering if there were any evidence of such a sound to-night."

 "We heard nothing of the kind," said I.

 "And what is your theory of this poor fellow's death?"

 "I have no doubt that anxiety and exposure have driven him off his
 head. He has rushed about the moor in a crazy state and eventually
 fallen over here and broken his neck."

 "That seems the most reasonable theory," said Stapleton, and he gave
 a sigh which I took to indicate his relief. "What do you think about
 it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

 My friend bowed his compliments.

 "You are quick at identification," said he.

 "We have been expecting you in these parts since Dr. Watson came
 down. You are in time to see a tragedy."

 "Yes, indeed. I have no doubt that my friend's explanation will cover
 the facts. I will take an unpleasant remembrance back to London with
 me to-morrow."

 "Oh, you return to-morrow?"

 "That is my intention."

 "I hope your visit has cast some light upon those occurrences which
 have puzzled us?"

 Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

 "One cannot always have the success for which one hopes. An
 investigator needs facts, and not legends or rumours. It has not been
 a satisfactory case."

 My friend spoke in his frankest and most unconcerned manner.
 Stapleton still looked hard at him. Then he turned to me.

 "I would suggest carrying this poor fellow to my house, but it would
 give my sister such a fright that I do not feel justified in doing
 it. I think that if we put something over his face he will be safe
 until morning."

 And so it was arranged. Resisting Stapleton's offer of hospitality,
 Holmes and I set off to Baskerville Hall, leaving the naturalist to
 return alone. Looking back we saw the figure moving slowly away over
 the broad moor, and behind him that one black smudge on the silvered
 slope which showed where the man was lying who had come so horribly
 to his end.





      CHAPTER XIII
      Fixing the Nets


 "We're at close grips at last," said Holmes as we walked together
 across the moor. "What a nerve the fellow has! How he pulled himself
 together in the face of what must have been a paralyzing shock when
 he found that the wrong man had fallen a victim to his plot. I told
 you in London, Watson, and I tell you now again, that we have never
 had a foeman more worthy of our steel."

 "I am sorry that he has seen you."

 "And so was I at first. But there was no getting out of it."

 "What effect do you think it will have upon his plans now that he
 knows you are here?"

 "It may cause him to be more cautious, or it may drive him to
 desperate measures at once. Like most clever criminals, he may be too
 confident in his own cleverness and imagine that he has completely
 deceived us."

 "Why should we not arrest him at once?"

 "My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action. Your instinct
 is always to do something energetic. But supposing, for argument's
 sake, that we had him arrested to-night, what on earth the better off
 should we be for that? We could prove nothing against him. There's
 the devilish cunning of it! If he were acting through a human agent
 we could get some evidence, but if we were to drag this great dog to
 the light of day it would not help us in putting a rope round the
 neck of its master."

 "Surely we have a case."

 "Not a shadow of one--only surmise and conjecture. We should be
 laughed out of court if we came with such a story and such evidence."

 "There is Sir Charles's death."

 "Found dead without a mark upon him. You and I know that he died of
 sheer fright, and we know also what frightened him; but how are we to
 get twelve stolid jurymen to know it? What signs are there of a
 hound? Where are the marks of its fangs? Of course we know that a
 hound does not bite a dead body and that Sir Charles was dead before
 ever the brute overtook him. But we have to prove all this, and we
 are not in a position to do it."

 "Well, then, to-night?"

 "We are not much better off to-night. Again, there was no direct
 connection between the hound and the man's death. We never saw the
 hound. We heard it; but we could not prove that it was running upon
 this man's trail. There is a complete absence of motive. No, my dear
 fellow; we must reconcile ourselves to the fact that we have no case
 at present, and that it is worth our while to run any risk in order
 to establish one."

 "And how do you propose to do so?"

 "I have great hopes of what Mrs. Laura Lyons may do for us when the
 position of affairs is made clear to her. And I have my own plan as
 well. Sufficient for to-morrow is the evil thereof; but I hope before
 the day is past to have the upper hand at last."

 I could draw nothing further from him, and he walked, lost in
 thought, as far as the Baskerville gates.

 "Are you coming up?"

 "Yes; I see no reason for further concealment. But one last word,
 Watson. Say nothing of the hound to Sir Henry. Let him think that
 Selden's death was as Stapleton would have us believe. He will have a
 better nerve for the ordeal which he will have to undergo to-morrow,
 when he is engaged, if I remember your report aright, to dine with
 these people."

 "And so am I."

 "Then you must excuse yourself and he must go alone. That will be
 easily arranged. And now, if we are too late for dinner, I think that
 we are both ready for our suppers."

 Sir Henry was more pleased than surprised to see Sherlock Holmes, for
 he had for some days been expecting that recent events would bring
 him down from London. He did raise his eyebrows, however, when he
 found that my friend had neither any luggage nor any explanations for
 its absence. Between us we soon supplied his wants, and then over a
 belated supper we explained to the baronet as much of our experience
 as it seemed desirable that he should know. But first I had the
 unpleasant duty of breaking the news to Barrymore and his wife. To
 him it may have been an unmitigated relief, but she wept bitterly in
 her apron. To all the world he was the man of violence, half animal
 and half demon; but to her he always remained the little wilful boy
 of her own girlhood, the child who had clung to her hand. Evil indeed
 is the man who has not one woman to mourn him.

 "I've been moping in the house all day since Watson went off in the
 morning," said the baronet. "I guess I should have some credit, for I
 have kept my promise. If I hadn't sworn not to go about alone I might
 have had a more lively evening, for I had a message from Stapleton
 asking me over there."

 "I have no doubt that you would have had a more lively evening," said
 Holmes drily. "By the way, I don't suppose you appreciate that we
 have been mourning over you as having broken your neck?"

 Sir Henry opened his eyes. "How was that?"

 "This poor wretch was dressed in your clothes. I fear your servant
 who gave them to him may get into trouble with the police."

 "That is unlikely. There was no mark on any of them, as far as I
 know."

 "That's lucky for him--in fact, it's lucky for all of you, since you
 are all on the wrong side of the law in this matter. I am not sure
 that as a conscientious detective my first duty is not to arrest the
 whole household. Watson's reports are most incriminating documents."

 "But how about the case?" asked the baronet. "Have you made anything
 out of the tangle? I don't know that Watson and I are much the wiser
 since we came down."

 "I think that I shall be in a position to make the situation rather
 more clear to you before long. It has been an exceedingly difficult
 and most complicated business. There are several points upon which we
 still want light--but it is coming all the same."

 "We've had one experience, as Watson has no doubt told you. We heard
 the hound on the moor, so I can swear that it is not all empty
 superstition. I had something to do with dogs when I was out West,
 and I know one when I hear one. If you can muzzle that one and put
 him on a chain I'll be ready to swear you are the greatest detective
 of all time."

 "I think I will muzzle him and chain him all right if you will give
 me your help."

 "Whatever you tell me to do I will do."

 "Very good; and I will ask you also to do it blindly, without always
 asking the reason."

 "Just as you like."

 "If you will do this I think the chances are that our little problem
 will soon be solved. I have no doubt--"

 He stopped suddenly and stared fixedly up over my head into the air.
 The lamp beat upon his face, and so intent was it and so still that
 it might have been that of a clear-cut classical statue, a
 personification of alertness and expectation.

 "What is it?" we both cried.

 I could see as he looked down that he was repressing some internal
 emotion. His features were still composed, but his eyes shone with
 amused exultation.

 "Excuse the admiration of a connoisseur," said he as he waved his
 hand towards the line of portraits which covered the opposite wall.
 "Watson won't allow that I know anything of art, but that is mere
 jealousy, because our views upon the subject differ. Now, these are a
 really very fine series of portraits."

 "Well, I'm glad to hear you say so," said Sir Henry, glancing with
 some surprise at my friend. "I don't pretend to know much about these
 things, and I'd be a better judge of a horse or a steer than of a
 picture. I didn't know that you found time for such things."

 "I know what is good when I see it, and I see it now. That's a
 Kneller, I'll swear, that lady in the blue silk over yonder, and the
 stout gentleman with the wig ought to be a Reynolds. They are all
 family portraits, I presume?"

 "Every one."

 "Do you know the names?"

 "Barrymore has been coaching me in them, and I think I can say my
 lessons fairly well."

 "Who is the gentleman with the telescope?"

 "That is Rear-Admiral Baskerville, who served under Rodney in the
 West Indies. The man with the blue coat and the roll of paper is Sir
 William Baskerville, who was Chairman of Committees of the House of
 Commons under Pitt."

 "And this Cavalier opposite to me--the one with the black velvet and
 the lace?"

 "Ah, you have a right to know about him. That is the cause of all the
 mischief, the wicked Hugo, who started the Hound of the Baskervilles.
 We're not likely to forget him."

 I gazed with interest and some surprise upon the portrait.

 "Dear me!" said Holmes, "he seems a quiet, meek-mannered man enough,
 but I dare say that there was a lurking devil in his eyes. I had
 pictured him as a more robust and ruffianly person."

 "There's no doubt about the authenticity, for the name and the date,
 1647, are on the back of the canvas."

 Holmes said little more, but the picture of the old roysterer seemed
 to have a fascination for him, and his eyes were continually fixed
 upon it during supper. It was not until later, when Sir Henry had
 gone to his room, that I was able to follow the trend of his
 thoughts. He led me back into the banqueting-hall, his bedroom candle
 in his hand, and he held it up against the time-stained portrait on
 the wall.

 "Do you see anything there?"

 I looked at the broad plumed hat, the curling love-locks, the white
 lace collar, and the straight, severe face which was framed between
 them. It was not a brutal countenance, but it was prim, hard, and
 stern, with a firm-set, thin-lipped mouth, and a coldly intolerant
 eye.

 "Is it like anyone you know?"

 "There is something of Sir Henry about the jaw."

 "Just a suggestion, perhaps. But wait an instant!" He stood upon a
 chair, and, holding up the light in his left hand, he curved his
 right arm over the broad hat and round the long ringlets.

 "Good heavens!" I cried, in amazement.

 The face of Stapleton had sprung out of the canvas.

 "Ha, you see it now. My eyes have been trained to examine faces and
 not their trimmings. It is the first quality of a criminal
 investigator that he should see through a disguise."

 "But this is marvellous. It might be his portrait."

 "Yes, it is an interesting instance of a throwback, which appears to
 be both physical and spiritual. A study of family portraits is enough
 to convert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation. The fellow is a
 Baskerville--that is evident."

 "With designs upon the succession."

 "Exactly. This chance of the picture has supplied us with one of our
 most obvious missing links. We have him, Watson, we have him, and I
 dare swear that before to-morrow night he will be fluttering in our
 net as helpless as one of his own butterflies. A pin, a cork, and a
 card, and we add him to the Baker Street collection!" He burst into
 one of his rare fits of laughter as he turned away from the picture.
 I have not heard him laugh often, and it has always boded ill to
 somebody.

 I was up betimes in the morning, but Holmes was afoot earlier still,
 for I saw him as I dressed, coming up the drive.

 "Yes, we should have a full day to-day," he remarked, and he rubbed
 his hands with the joy of action. "The nets are all in place, and the
 drag is about to begin. We'll know before the day is out whether we
 have caught our big, lean-jawed pike, or whether he has got through
 the meshes."

 "Have you been on the moor already?"

 "I have sent a report from Grimpen to Princetown as to the death of
 Selden. I think I can promise that none of you will be troubled in
 the matter. And I have also communicated with my faithful Cartwright,
 who would certainly have pined away at the door of my hut, as a dog
 does at his master's grave, if I had not set his mind at rest about
 my safety."

 "What is the next move?"

 "To see Sir Henry. Ah, here he is!"

 "Good morning, Holmes," said the baronet. "You look like a general
 who is planning a battle with his chief of the staff."

 "That is the exact situation. Watson was asking for orders."

 "And so do I."

 "Very good. You are engaged, as I understand, to dine with our
 friends the Stapletons to-night."

 "I hope that you will come also. They are very hospitable people, and
 I am sure that they would be very glad to see you."

 "I fear that Watson and I must go to London."

 "To London?"

 "Yes, I think that we should be more useful there at the present
 juncture."

 The baronet's face perceptibly lengthened.

 "I hoped that you were going to see me through this business. The
 Hall and the moor are not very pleasant places when one is alone."

 "My dear fellow, you must trust me implicitly and do exactly what I
 tell you. You can tell your friends that we should have been happy to
 have come with you, but that urgent business required us to be in
 town. We hope very soon to return to Devonshire. Will you remember to
 give them that message?"

 "If you insist upon it."

 "There is no alternative, I assure you."

 I saw by the baronet's clouded brow that he was deeply hurt by what
 he regarded as our desertion.

 "When do you desire to go?" he asked coldly.

 "Immediately after breakfast. We will drive in to Coombe Tracey, but
 Watson will leave his things as a pledge that he will come back to
 you. Watson, you will send a note to Stapleton to tell him that you
 regret that you cannot come."

 "I have a good mind to go to London with you," said the baronet. "Why
 should I stay here alone?"

 "Because it is your post of duty. Because you gave me your word that
 you would do as you were told, and I tell you to stay."

 "All right, then, I'll stay."

 "One more direction! I wish you to drive to Merripit House. Send back
 your trap, however, and let them know that you intend to walk home."

 "To walk across the moor?"

 "Yes."

 "But that is the very thing which you have so often cautioned me not
 to do."

 "This time you may do it with safety. If I had not every confidence
 in your nerve and courage I would not suggest it, but it is essential
 that you should do it."

 "Then I will do it."

 "And as you value your life do not go across the moor in any
 direction save along the straight path which leads from Merripit
 House to the Grimpen Road, and is your natural way home."

 "I will do just what you say."

 "Very good. I should be glad to get away as soon after breakfast as
 possible, so as to reach London in the afternoon."

 I was much astounded by this programme, though I remembered that
 Holmes had said to Stapleton on the night before that his visit would
 terminate next day. It had not crossed my mind, however, that he
 would wish me to go with him, nor could I understand how we could
 both be absent at a moment which he himself declared to be critical.
 There was nothing for it, however, but implicit obedience; so we bade
 good-bye to our rueful friend, and a couple of hours afterwards we
 were at the station of Coombe Tracey and had dispatched the trap upon
 its return journey. A small boy was waiting upon the platform.

 "Any orders, sir?"

 "You will take this train to town, Cartwright. The moment you arrive
 you will send a wire to Sir Henry Baskerville, in my name, to say
 that if he finds the pocket-book which I have dropped he is to send
 it by registered post to Baker Street."

 "Yes, sir."

 "And ask at the station office if there is a message for me."

 The boy returned with a telegram, which Holmes handed to me. It ran:

 Wire received. Coming down with unsigned warrant. Arrive five-forty.
 Lestrade.

 "That is in answer to mine of this morning. He is the best of the
 professionals, I think, and we may need his assistance. Now, Watson,
 I think that we cannot employ our time better than by calling upon
 your acquaintance, Mrs. Laura Lyons."

 His plan of campaign was beginning to be evident. He would use the
 baronet in order to convince the Stapletons that we were really gone,
 while we should actually return at the instant when we were likely to
 be needed. That telegram from London, if mentioned by Sir Henry to
 the Stapletons, must remove the last suspicions from their minds.
 Already I seemed to see our nets drawing closer around that
 lean-jawed pike.

 Mrs. Laura Lyons was in her office, and Sherlock Holmes opened his
 interview with a frankness and directness which considerably amazed
 her.

 "I am investigating the circumstances which attended the death of the
 late Sir Charles Baskerville," said he. "My friend here, Dr. Watson,
 has informed me of what you have communicated, and also of what you
 have withheld in connection with that matter."

 "What have I withheld?" she asked defiantly.

 "You have confessed that you asked Sir Charles to be at the gate at
 ten o'clock. We know that that was the place and hour of his death.
 You have withheld what the connection is between these events."

 "There is no connection."

 "In that case the coincidence must indeed be an extraordinary one.
 But I think that we shall succeed in establishing a connection after
 all. I wish to be perfectly frank with you, Mrs. Lyons. We regard
 this case as one of murder, and the evidence may implicate not only
 your friend Mr. Stapleton, but his wife as well."

 The lady sprang from her chair.

 "His wife!" she cried.

 "The fact is no longer a secret. The person who has passed for his
 sister is really his wife."

 Mrs. Lyons had resumed her seat. Her hands were grasping the arms of
 her chair, and I saw that the pink nails had turned white with the
 pressure of her grip.

 "His wife!" she said again. "His wife! He is not a married man."

 Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

 "Prove it to me! Prove it to me! And if you can do so--!" The fierce
 flash of her eyes said more than any words.

 "I have come prepared to do so," said Holmes, drawing several papers
 from his pocket. "Here is a photograph of the couple taken in York
 four years ago. It is indorsed 'Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur,' but you will
 have no difficulty in recognizing him, and her also, if you know her
 by sight. Here are three written descriptions by trustworthy
 witnesses of Mr. and Mrs. Vandeleur, who at that time kept St.
 Oliver's private school. Read them and see if you can doubt the
 identity of these people."

 She glanced at them, and then looked up at us with the set, rigid
 face of a desperate woman.

 "Mr. Holmes," she said, "this man had offered me marriage on
 condition that I could get a divorce from my husband. He has lied to
 me, the villain, in every conceivable way. Not one word of truth has
 he ever told me. And why--why? I imagined that all was for my own
 sake. But now I see that I was never anything but a tool in his
 hands. Why should I preserve faith with him who never kept any with
 me? Why should I try to shield him from the consequences of his own
 wicked acts? Ask me what you like, and there is nothing which I shall
 hold back. One thing I swear to you, and that is that when I wrote
 the letter I never dreamed of any harm to the old gentleman, who had
 been my kindest friend."

 "I entirely believe you, madam," said Sherlock Holmes. "The recital
 of these events must be very painful to you, and perhaps it will make
 it easier if I tell you what occurred, and you can check me if I make
 any material mistake. The sending of this letter was suggested to you
 by Stapleton?"

 "He dictated it."

 "I presume that the reason he gave was that you would receive help
 from Sir Charles for the legal expenses connected with your divorce?"

 "Exactly."

 "And then after you had sent the letter he dissuaded you from keeping
 the appointment?"

 "He told me that it would hurt his self-respect that any other man
 should find the money for such an object, and that though he was a
 poor man himself he would devote his last penny to removing the
 obstacles which divided us."

 "He appears to be a very consistent character. And then you heard
 nothing until you read the reports of the death in the paper?"

 "No."

 "And he made you swear to say nothing about your appointment with Sir
 Charles?"

 "He did. He said that the death was a very mysterious one, and that I
 should certainly be suspected if the facts came out. He frightened me
 into remaining silent."

 "Quite so. But you had your suspicions?"

 She hesitated and looked down.

 "I knew him," she said. "But if he had kept faith with me I should
 always have done so with him."

 "I think that on the whole you have had a fortunate escape," said
 Sherlock Holmes. "You have had him in your power and he knew it, and
 yet you are alive. You have been walking for some months very near to
 the edge of a precipice. We must wish you good-morning now, Mrs.
 Lyons, and it is probable that you will very shortly hear from us
 again."

 "Our case becomes rounded off, and difficulty after difficulty thins
 away in front of us," said Holmes as we stood waiting for the arrival
 of the express from town. "I shall soon be in the position of being
 able to put into a single connected narrative one of the most
 singular and sensational crimes of modern times. Students of
 criminology will remember the analogous incidents in Godno, in Little
 Russia, in the year '66, and of course there are the Anderson murders
 in North Carolina, but this case possesses some features which are
 entirely its own. Even now we have no clear case against this very
 wily man. But I shall be very much surprised if it is not clear
 enough before we go to bed this night."

 The London express came roaring into the station, and a small, wiry
 bulldog of a man had sprung from a first-class carriage. We all three
 shook hands, and I saw at once from the reverential way in which
 Lestrade gazed at my companion that he had learned a good deal since
 the days when they had first worked together. I could well remember
 the scorn which the theories of the reasoner used then to excite in
 the practical man.

 "Anything good?" he asked.

 "The biggest thing for years," said Holmes. "We have two hours before
 we need think of starting. I think we might employ it in getting some
 dinner and then, Lestrade, we will take the London fog out of your
 throat by giving you a breath of the pure night air of Dartmoor.
 Never been there? Ah, well, I don't suppose you will forget your
 first visit."





      CHAPTER XIV
      The Hound of the Baskervilles


 One of Sherlock Holmes's defects--if, indeed, one may call it a
 defect--was that he was exceedingly loath to communicate his full
 plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment.
 Partly it came no doubt from his own masterful nature, which loved to
 dominate and surprise those who were around him. Partly also from his
 professional caution, which urged him never to take any chances. The
 result, however, was very trying for those who were acting as his
 agents and assistants. I had often suffered under it, but never more
 so than during that long drive in the darkness. The great ordeal was
 in front of us; at last we were about to make our final effort, and
 yet Holmes had said nothing, and I could only surmise what his course
 of action would be. My nerves thrilled with anticipation when at last
 the cold wind upon our faces and the dark, void spaces on either side
 of the narrow road told me that we were back upon the moor once
 again. Every stride of the horses and every turn of the wheels was
 taking us nearer to our supreme adventure.

 Our conversation was hampered by the presence of the driver of the
 hired wagonette, so that we were forced to talk of trivial matters
 when our nerves were tense with emotion and anticipation. It was a
 relief to me, after that unnatural restraint, when we at last passed
 Frankland's house and knew that we were drawing near to the Hall and
 to the scene of action. We did not drive up to the door but got down
 near the gate of the avenue. The wagonette was paid off and ordered
 to return to Coombe Tracey forthwith, while we started to walk to
 Merripit House.

 "Are you armed, Lestrade?"

 The little detective smiled.

 "As long as I have my trousers I have a hip-pocket, and as long as I
 have my hip-pocket I have something in it."

 "Good! My friend and I are also ready for emergencies."

 "You're mighty close about this affair, Mr. Holmes. What's the game
 now?"

 "A waiting game."

 "My word, it does not seem a very cheerful place," said the detective
 with a shiver, glancing round him at the gloomy slopes of the hill
 and at the huge lake of fog which lay over the Grimpen Mire. "I see
 the lights of a house ahead of us."

 "That is Merripit House and the end of our journey. I must request
 you to walk on tiptoe and not to talk above a whisper."

 We moved cautiously along the track as if we were bound for the
 house, but Holmes halted us when we were about two hundred yards from
 it.

 "This will do," said he. "These rocks upon the right make an
 admirable screen."

 "We are to wait here?"

 "Yes, we shall make our little ambush here. Get into this hollow,
 Lestrade. You have been inside the house, have you not, Watson? Can
 you tell the position of the rooms? What are those latticed windows
 at this end?"

 "I think they are the kitchen windows."

 "And the one beyond, which shines so brightly?"

 "That is certainly the dining-room."

 "The blinds are up. You know the lie of the land best. Creep forward
 quietly and see what they are doing--but for heaven's sake don't let
 them know that they are watched!"

 I tiptoed down the path and stooped behind the low wall which
 surrounded the stunted orchard. Creeping in its shadow I reached a
 point whence I could look straight through the uncurtained window.

 There were only two men in the room, Sir Henry and Stapleton. They
 sat with their profiles towards me on either side of the round table.
 Both of them were smoking cigars, and coffee and wine were in front
 of them. Stapleton was talking with animation, but the baronet looked
 pale and distrait. Perhaps the thought of that lonely walk across the
 ill-omened moor was weighing heavily upon his mind.

 As I watched them Stapleton rose and left the room, while Sir Henry
 filled his glass again and leaned back in his chair, puffing at his
 cigar. I heard the creak of a door and the crisp sound of boots upon
 gravel. The steps passed along the path on the other side of the wall
 under which I crouched. Looking over, I saw the naturalist pause at
 the door of an out-house in the corner of the orchard. A key turned
 in a lock, and as he passed in there was a curious scuffling noise
 from within. He was only a minute or so inside, and then I heard the
 key turn once more and he passed me and re-entered the house. I saw
 him rejoin his guest, and I crept quietly back to where my companions
 were waiting to tell them what I had seen.

 "You say, Watson, that the lady is not there?" Holmes asked, when I
 had finished my report.

 "No."

 "Where can she be, then, since there is no light in any other room
 except the kitchen?"

 "I cannot think where she is."

 I have said that over the great Grimpen Mire there hung a dense,
 white fog. It was drifting slowly in our direction, and banked itself
 up like a wall on that side of us, low, but thick and well defined.
 The moon shone on it, and it looked like a great shimmering
 ice-field, with the heads of the distant tors as rocks borne upon its
 surface. Holmes's face was turned towards it, and he muttered
 impatiently as he watched its sluggish drift.

 "It's moving towards us, Watson."

 "Is that serious?"

 "Very serious, indeed--the one thing upon earth which could have
 disarranged my plans. He can't be very long, now. It is already ten
 o'clock. Our success and even his life may depend upon his coming out
 before the fog is over the path."

 The night was clear and fine above us. The stars shone cold and
 bright, while a half-moon bathed the whole scene in a soft, uncertain
 light. Before us lay the dark bulk of the house, its serrated roof
 and bristling chimneys hard outlined against the silver-spangled sky.
 Broad bars of golden light from the lower windows stretched across
 the orchard and the moor. One of them was suddenly shut off. The
 servants had left the kitchen. There only remained the lamp in the
 dining-room where the two men, the murderous host and the unconscious
 guest, still chatted over their cigars.

 Every minute that white woolly plain which covered one half of the
 moor was drifting closer and closer to the house. Already the first
 thin wisps of it were curling across the golden square of the lighted
 window. The farther wall of the orchard was already invisible, and
 the trees were standing out of a swirl of white vapour. As we watched
 it the fog-wreaths came crawling round both corners of the house and
 rolled slowly into one dense bank, on which the upper floor and the
 roof floated like a strange ship upon a shadowy sea. Holmes struck
 his hand passionately upon the rock in front of us and stamped his
 feet in his impatience.

 "If he isn't out in a quarter of an hour the path will be covered. In
 half an hour we won't be able to see our hands in front of us."

 "Shall we move farther back upon higher ground?"

 "Yes, I think it would be as well."

 So as the fog-bank flowed onward we fell back before it until we were
 half a mile from the house, and still that dense white sea, with the
 moon silvering its upper edge, swept slowly and inexorably on.

 "We are going too far," said Holmes. "We dare not take the chance of
 his being overtaken before he can reach us. At all costs we must hold
 our ground where we are." He dropped on his knees and clapped his ear
 to the ground. "Thank God, I think that I hear him coming."

 A sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. Crouching among
 the stones we stared intently at the silver-tipped bank in front of
 us. The steps grew louder, and through the fog, as through a curtain,
 there stepped the man whom we were awaiting. He looked round him in
 surprise as he emerged into the clear, starlit night. Then he came
 swiftly along the path, passed close to where we lay, and went on up
 the long slope behind us. As he walked he glanced continually over
 either shoulder, like a man who is ill at ease.

 "Hist!" cried Holmes, and I heard the sharp click of a cocking
 pistol. "Look out! It's coming!"

 There was a thin, crisp, continuous patter from somewhere in the
 heart of that crawling bank. The cloud was within fifty yards of
 where we lay, and we glared at it, all three, uncertain what horror
 was about to break from the heart of it. I was at Holmes's elbow, and
 I glanced for an instant at his face. It was pale and exultant, his
 eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. But suddenly they started
 forward in a rigid, fixed stare, and his lips parted in amazement. At
 the same instant Lestrade gave a yell of terror and threw himself
 face downward upon the ground. I sprang to my feet, my inert hand
 grasping my pistol, my mind paralyzed by the dreadful shape which had
 sprung out upon us from the shadows of the fog. A hound it was, an
 enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have
 ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a
 smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in
 flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disordered brain
 could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish be conceived
 than that dark form and savage face which broke upon us out of the
 wall of fog.

 With long bounds the huge black creature was leaping down the track,
 following hard upon the footsteps of our friend. So paralyzed were we
 by the apparition that we allowed him to pass before we had recovered
 our nerve. Then Holmes and I both fired together, and the creature
 gave a hideous howl, which showed that one at least had hit him. He
 did not pause, however, but bounded onward. Far away on the path we
 saw Sir Henry looking back, his face white in the moonlight, his
 hands raised in horror, glaring helplessly at the frightful thing
 which was hunting him down.

 But that cry of pain from the hound had blown all our fears to the
 winds. If he was vulnerable he was mortal, and if we could wound him
 we could kill him. Never have I seen a man run as Holmes ran that
 night. I am reckoned fleet of foot, but he outpaced me as much as I
 outpaced the little professional. In front of us as we flew up the
 track we heard scream after scream from Sir Henry and the deep roar
 of the hound. I was in time to see the beast spring upon its victim,
 hurl him to the ground, and worry at his throat. But the next instant
 Holmes had emptied five barrels of his revolver into the creature's
 flank. With a last howl of agony and a vicious snap in the air, it
 rolled upon its back, four feet pawing furiously, and then fell limp
 upon its side. I stooped, panting, and pressed my pistol to the
 dreadful, shimmering head, but it was useless to press the trigger.
 The giant hound was dead.

 Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen. We tore away his
 collar, and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when we saw that
 there was no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been in time.
 Already our friend's eyelids shivered and he made a feeble effort to
 move. Lestrade thrust his brandy-flask between the baronet's teeth,
 and two frightened eyes were looking up at us.

 "My God!" he whispered. "What was it? What, in heaven's name, was
 it?"

 "It's dead, whatever it is," said Holmes. "We've laid the family
 ghost once and forever."

 In mere size and strength it was a terrible creature which was lying
 stretched before us. It was not a pure bloodhound and it was not a
 pure mastiff; but it appeared to be a combination of the two--gaunt,
 savage, and as large as a small lioness. Even now, in the stillness
 of death, the huge jaws seemed to be dripping with a bluish flame and
 the small, deep-set, cruel eyes were ringed with fire. I placed my
 hand upon the glowing muzzle, and as I held them up my own fingers
 smouldered and gleamed in the darkness.

 "Phosphorus," I said.

 "A cunning preparation of it," said Holmes, sniffing at the dead
 animal. "There is no smell which might have interfered with his power
 of scent. We owe you a deep apology, Sir Henry, for having exposed
 you to this fright. I was prepared for a hound, but not for such a
 creature as this. And the fog gave us little time to receive him."

 "You have saved my life."

 "Having first endangered it. Are you strong enough to stand?"

 "Give me another mouthful of that brandy and I shall be ready for
 anything. So! Now, if you will help me up. What do you propose to
 do?"

 "To leave you here. You are not fit for further adventures to-night.
 If you will wait, one or other of us will go back with you to the
 Hall."

 He tried to stagger to his feet; but he was still ghastly pale and
 trembling in every limb. We helped him to a rock, where he sat
 shivering with his face buried in his hands.

 "We must leave you now," said Holmes. "The rest of our work must be
 done, and every moment is of importance. We have our case, and now we
 only want our man.

 "It's a thousand to one against our finding him at the house," he
 continued as we retraced our steps swiftly down the path. "Those
 shots must have told him that the game was up."

 "We were some distance off, and this fog may have deadened them."

 "He followed the hound to call him off--of that you may be certain.
 No, no, he's gone by this time! But we'll search the house and make
 sure."

 The front door was open, so we rushed in and hurried from room to
 room to the amazement of a doddering old manservant, who met us in
 the passage. There was no light save in the dining-room, but Holmes
 caught up the lamp and left no corner of the house unexplored. No
 sign could we see of the man whom we were chasing. On the upper
 floor, however, one of the bedroom doors was locked.

 "There's someone in here," cried Lestrade. "I can hear a movement.
 Open this door!"

 A faint moaning and rustling came from within. Holmes struck the door
 just over the lock with the flat of his foot and it flew open. Pistol
 in hand, we all three rushed into the room.

 But there was no sign within it of that desperate and defiant villain
 whom we expected to see. Instead we were faced by an object so
 strange and so unexpected that we stood for a moment staring at it in
 amazement.

 The room had been fashioned into a small museum, and the walls were
 lined by a number of glass-topped cases full of that collection of
 butterflies and moths the formation of which had been the relaxation
 of this complex and dangerous man. In the centre of this room there
 was an upright beam, which had been placed at some period as a
 support for the old worm-eaten baulk of timber which spanned the
 roof. To this post a figure was tied, so swathed and muffled in the
 sheets which had been used to secure it that one could not for the
 moment tell whether it was that of a man or a woman. One towel passed
 round the throat and was secured at the back of the pillar. Another
 covered the lower part of the face, and over it two dark eyes--eyes
 full of grief and shame and a dreadful questioning--stared back at
 us. In a minute we had torn off the gag, unswathed the bonds, and
 Mrs. Stapleton sank upon the floor in front of us. As her beautiful
 head fell upon her chest I saw the clear red weal of a whiplash
 across her neck.

 "The brute!" cried Holmes. "Here, Lestrade, your brandy-bottle! Put
 her in the chair! She has fainted from ill-usage and exhaustion."

 She opened her eyes again.

 "Is he safe?" she asked. "Has he escaped?"

 "He cannot escape us, madam."

 "No, no, I did not mean my husband. Sir Henry? Is he safe?"

 "Yes."

 "And the hound?"

 "It is dead."

 She gave a long sigh of satisfaction.

 "Thank God! Thank God! Oh, this villain! See how he has treated me!"
 She shot her arms out from her sleeves, and we saw with horror that
 they were all mottled with bruises. "But this is nothing--nothing! It
 is my mind and soul that he has tortured and defiled. I could endure
 it all, ill-usage, solitude, a life of deception, everything, as long
 as I could still cling to the hope that I had his love, but now I
 know that in this also I have been his dupe and his tool." She broke
 into passionate sobbing as she spoke.

 "You bear him no good will, madam," said Holmes. "Tell us then where
 we shall find him. If you have ever aided him in evil, help us now
 and so atone."

 "There is but one place where he can have fled," she answered. "There
 is an old tin mine on an island in the heart of the mire. It was
 there that he kept his hound and there also he had made preparations
 so that he might have a refuge. That is where he would fly."

 The fog-bank lay like white wool against the window. Holmes held the
 lamp towards it.

 "See," said he. "No one could find his way into the Grimpen Mire
 to-night."

 She laughed and clapped her hands. Her eyes and teeth gleamed with
 fierce merriment.

 "He may find his way in, but never out," she cried. "How can he see
 the guiding wands to-night? We planted them together, he and I, to
 mark the pathway through the mire. Oh, if I could only have plucked
 them out to-day. Then indeed you would have had him at your mercy!"

 It was evident to us that all pursuit was in vain until the fog had
 lifted. Meanwhile we left Lestrade in possession of the house while
 Holmes and I went back with the baronet to Baskerville Hall. The
 story of the Stapletons could no longer be withheld from him, but he
 took the blow bravely when he learned the truth about the woman whom
 he had loved. But the shock of the night's adventures had shattered
 his nerves, and before morning he lay delirious in a high fever,
 under the care of Dr. Mortimer. The two of them were destined to
 travel together round the world before Sir Henry had become once more
 the hale, hearty man that he had been before he became master of that
 ill-omened estate.

 And now I come rapidly to the conclusion of this singular narrative,
 in which I have tried to make the reader share those dark fears and
 vague surmises which clouded our lives so long and ended in so tragic
 a manner. On the morning after the death of the hound the fog had
 lifted and we were guided by Mrs. Stapleton to the point where they
 had found a pathway through the bog. It helped us to realize the
 horror of this woman's life when we saw the eagerness and joy with
 which she laid us on her husband's track. We left her standing upon
 the thin peninsula of firm, peaty soil which tapered out into the
 widespread bog. From the end of it a small wand planted here and
 there showed where the path zigzagged from tuft to tuft of rushes
 among those green-scummed pits and foul quagmires which barred the
 way to the stranger. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sent an
 odour of decay and a heavy miasmatic vapour onto our faces, while a
 false step plunged us more than once thigh-deep into the dark,
 quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft undulations around our
 feet. Its tenacious grip plucked at our heels as we walked, and when
 we sank into it it was as if some malignant hand was tugging us down
 into those obscene depths, so grim and purposeful was the clutch in
 which it held us. Once only we saw a trace that someone had passed
 that perilous way before us. From amid a tuft of cotton grass which
 bore it up out of the slime some dark thing was projecting. Holmes
 sank to his waist as he stepped from the path to seize it, and had we
 not been there to drag him out he could never have set his foot upon
 firm land again. He held an old black boot in the air. "Meyers,
 Toronto," was printed on the leather inside.

 "It is worth a mud bath," said he. "It is our friend Sir Henry's
 missing boot."

 "Thrown there by Stapleton in his flight."

 "Exactly. He retained it in his hand after using it to set the hound
 upon the track. He fled when he knew the game was up, still clutching
 it. And he hurled it away at this point of his flight. We know at
 least that he came so far in safety."

 But more than that we were never destined to know, though there was
 much which we might surmise. There was no chance of finding footsteps
 in the mire, for the rising mud oozed swiftly in upon them, but as we
 at last reached firmer ground beyond the morass we all looked eagerly
 for them. But no slightest sign of them ever met our eyes. If the
 earth told a true story, then Stapleton never reached that island of
 refuge towards which he struggled through the fog upon that last
 night. Somewhere in the heart of the great Grimpen Mire, down in the
 foul slime of the huge morass which had sucked him in, this cold and
 cruel-hearted man is forever buried.

 Many traces we found of him in the bog-girt island where he had hid
 his savage ally. A huge driving-wheel and a shaft half-filled with
 rubbish showed the position of an abandoned mine. Beside it were the
 crumbling remains of the cottages of the miners, driven away no doubt
 by the foul reek of the surrounding swamp. In one of these a staple
 and chain with a quantity of gnawed bones showed where the animal had
 been confined. A skeleton with a tangle of brown hair adhering to it
 lay among the debris.

 "A dog!" said Holmes. "By Jove, a curly-haired spaniel. Poor Mortimer
 will never see his pet again. Well, I do not know that this place
 contains any secret which we have not already fathomed. He could hide
 his hound, but he could not hush its voice, and hence came those
 cries which even in daylight were not pleasant to hear. On an
 emergency he could keep the hound in the out-house at Merripit, but
 it was always a risk, and it was only on the supreme day, which he
 regarded as the end of all his efforts, that he dared do it. This
 paste in the tin is no doubt the luminous mixture with which the
 creature was daubed. It was suggested, of course, by the story of the
 family hell-hound, and by the desire to frighten old Sir Charles to
 death. No wonder the poor devil of a convict ran and screamed, even
 as our friend did, and as we ourselves might have done, when he saw
 such a creature bounding through the darkness of the moor upon his
 track. It was a cunning device, for, apart from the chance of driving
 your victim to his death, what peasant would venture to inquire too
 closely into such a creature should he get sight of it, as many have
 done, upon the moor? I said it in London, Watson, and I say it again
 now, that never yet have we helped to hunt down a more dangerous man
 than he who is lying yonder"--he swept his long arm towards the huge
 mottled expanse of green-splotched bog which stretched away until it
 merged into the russet slopes of the moor.





      CHAPTER XV
      A Retrospection


 It was the end of November and Holmes and I sat, upon a raw and foggy
 night, on either side of a blazing fire in our sitting-room in Baker
 Street. Since the tragic upshot of our visit to Devonshire he had
 been engaged in two affairs of the utmost importance, in the first of
 which he had exposed the atrocious conduct of Colonel Upwood in
 connection with the famous card scandal of the Nonpareil Club, while
 in the second he had defended the unfortunate Mme. Montpensier from
 the charge of murder which hung over her in connection with the death
 of her step-daughter, Mlle. Carere, the young lady who, as it will be
 remembered, was found six months later alive and married in New York.
 My friend was in excellent spirits over the success which had
 attended a succession of difficult and important cases, so that I was
 able to induce him to discuss the details of the Baskerville mystery.
 I had waited patiently for the opportunity, for I was aware that he
 would never permit cases to overlap, and that his clear and logical
 mind would not be drawn from its present work to dwell upon memories
 of the past. Sir Henry and Dr. Mortimer were, however, in London, on
 their way to that long voyage which had been recommended for the
 restoration of his shattered nerves. They had called upon us that
 very afternoon, so that it was natural that the subject should come
 up for discussion.

 "The whole course of events," said Holmes, "from the point of view of
 the man who called himself Stapleton was simple and direct, although
 to us, who had no means in the beginning of knowing the motives of
 his actions and could only learn part of the facts, it all appeared
 exceedingly complex. I have had the advantage of two conversations
 with Mrs. Stapleton, and the case has now been so entirely cleared up
 that I am not aware that there is anything which has remained a
 secret to us. You will find a few notes upon the matter under the
 heading B in my indexed list of cases."

 "Perhaps you would kindly give me a sketch of the course of events
 from memory."

 "Certainly, though I cannot guarantee that I carry all the facts in
 my mind. Intense mental concentration has a curious way of blotting
 out what has passed. The barrister who has his case at his fingers'
 ends, and is able to argue with an expert upon his own subject finds
 that a week or two of the courts will drive it all out of his head
 once more. So each of my cases displaces the last, and Mlle. Carere
 has blurred my recollection of Baskerville Hall. To-morrow some other
 little problem may be submitted to my notice which will in turn
 dispossess the fair French lady and the infamous Upwood. So far as
 the case of the Hound goes, however, I will give you the course of
 events as nearly as I can, and you will suggest anything which I may
 have forgotten.

 "My inquiries show beyond all question that the family portrait did
 not lie, and that this fellow was indeed a Baskerville. He was a son
 of that Rodger Baskerville, the younger brother of Sir Charles, who
 fled with a sinister reputation to South America, where he was said
 to have died unmarried. He did, as a matter of fact, marry, and had
 one child, this fellow, whose real name is the same as his father's.
 He married Beryl Garcia, one of the beauties of Costa Rica, and,
 having purloined a considerable sum of public money, he changed his
 name to Vandeleur and fled to England, where he established a school
 in the east of Yorkshire. His reason for attempting this special line
 of business was that he had struck up an acquaintance with a
 consumptive tutor upon the voyage home, and that he had used this
 man's ability to make the undertaking a success. Fraser, the tutor,
 died however, and the school which had begun well sank from disrepute
 into infamy. The Vandeleurs found it convenient to change their name
 to Stapleton, and he brought the remains of his fortune, his schemes
 for the future, and his taste for entomology to the south of England.
 I learned at the British Museum that he was a recognized authority
 upon the subject, and that the name of Vandeleur has been permanently
 attached to a certain moth which he had, in his Yorkshire days, been
 the first to describe.

 "We now come to that portion of his life which has proved to be of
 such intense interest to us. The fellow had evidently made inquiry
 and found that only two lives intervened between him and a valuable
 estate. When he went to Devonshire his plans were, I believe,
 exceedingly hazy, but that he meant mischief from the first is
 evident from the way in which he took his wife with him in the
 character of his sister. The idea of using her as a decoy was clearly
 already in his mind, though he may not have been certain how the
 details of his plot were to be arranged. He meant in the end to have
 the estate, and he was ready to use any tool or run any risk for that
 end. His first act was to establish himself as near to his ancestral
 home as he could, and his second was to cultivate a friendship with
 Sir Charles Baskerville and with the neighbours.

 "The baronet himself told him about the family hound, and so prepared
 the way for his own death. Stapleton, as I will continue to call him,
 knew that the old man's heart was weak and that a shock would kill
 him. So much he had learned from Dr. Mortimer. He had heard also that
 Sir Charles was superstitious and had taken this grim legend very
 seriously. His ingenious mind instantly suggested a way by which the
 baronet could be done to death, and yet it would be hardly possible
 to bring home the guilt to the real murderer.

 "Having conceived the idea he proceeded to carry it out with
 considerable finesse. An ordinary schemer would have been content to
 work with a savage hound. The use of artificial means to make the
 creature diabolical was a flash of genius upon his part. The dog he
 bought in London from Ross and Mangles, the dealers in Fulham Road.
 It was the strongest and most savage in their possession. He brought
 it down by the North Devon line and walked a great distance over the
 moor so as to get it home without exciting any remarks. He had
 already on his insect hunts learned to penetrate the Grimpen Mire,
 and so had found a safe hiding-place for the creature. Here he
 kennelled it and waited his chance.

 "But it was some time coming. The old gentleman could not be decoyed
 outside of his grounds at night. Several times Stapleton lurked about
 with his hound, but without avail. It was during these fruitless
 quests that he, or rather his ally, was seen by peasants, and that
 the legend of the demon dog received a new confirmation. He had hoped
 that his wife might lure Sir Charles to his ruin, but here she proved
 unexpectedly independent. She would not endeavour to entangle the old
 gentleman in a sentimental attachment which might deliver him over to
 his enemy. Threats and even, I am sorry to say, blows refused to move
 her. She would have nothing to do with it, and for a time Stapleton
 was at a deadlock.

 "He found a way out of his difficulties through the chance that Sir
 Charles, who had conceived a friendship for him, made him the
 minister of his charity in the case of this unfortunate woman, Mrs.
 Laura Lyons. By representing himself as a single man he acquired
 complete influence over her, and he gave her to understand that in
 the event of her obtaining a divorce from her husband he would marry
 her. His plans were suddenly brought to a head by his knowledge that
 Sir Charles was about to leave the Hall on the advice of Dr.
 Mortimer, with whose opinion he himself pretended to coincide. He
 must act at once, or his victim might get beyond his power. He
 therefore put pressure upon Mrs. Lyons to write this letter,
 imploring the old man to give her an interview on the evening before
 his departure for London. He then, by a specious argument, prevented
 her from going, and so had the chance for which he had waited.

 "Driving back in the evening from Coombe Tracey he was in time to get
 his hound, to treat it with his infernal paint, and to bring the
 beast round to the gate at which he had reason to expect that he
 would find the old gentleman waiting. The dog, incited by its master,
 sprang over the wicket-gate and pursued the unfortunate baronet, who
 fled screaming down the Yew Alley. In that gloomy tunnel it must
 indeed have been a dreadful sight to see that huge black creature,
 with its flaming jaws and blazing eyes, bounding after its victim. He
 fell dead at the end of the alley from heart disease and terror. The
 hound had kept upon the grassy border while the baronet had run down
 the path, so that no track but the man's was visible. On seeing him
 lying still the creature had probably approached to sniff at him, but
 finding him dead had turned away again. It was then that it left the
 print which was actually observed by Dr. Mortimer. The hound was
 called off and hurried away to its lair in the Grimpen Mire, and a
 mystery was left which puzzled the authorities, alarmed the
 country-side, and finally brought the case within the scope of our
 observation.

 "So much for the death of Sir Charles Baskerville. You perceive the
 devilish cunning of it, for really it would be almost impossible to
 make a case against the real murderer. His only accomplice was one
 who could never give him away, and the grotesque, inconceivable
 nature of the device only served to make it more effective. Both of
 the women concerned in the case, Mrs. Stapleton and Mrs. Laura Lyons,
 were left with a strong suspicion against Stapleton. Mrs. Stapleton
 knew that he had designs upon the old man, and also of the existence
 of the hound. Mrs. Lyons knew neither of these things, but had been
 impressed by the death occurring at the time of an uncancelled
 appointment which was only known to him. However, both of them were
 under his influence, and he had nothing to fear from them. The first
 half of his task was successfully accomplished but the more difficult
 still remained.

 "It is possible that Stapleton did not know of the existence of an
 heir in Canada. In any case he would very soon learn it from his
 friend Dr. Mortimer, and he was told by the latter all details about
 the arrival of Henry Baskerville. Stapleton's first idea was that
 this young stranger from Canada might possibly be done to death in
 London without coming down to Devonshire at all. He distrusted his
 wife ever since she had refused to help him in laying a trap for the
 old man, and he dared not leave her long out of his sight for fear he
 should lose his influence over her. It was for this reason that he
 took her to London with him. They lodged, I find, at the Mexborough
 Private Hotel, in Craven Street, which was actually one of those
 called upon by my agent in search of evidence. Here he kept his wife
 imprisoned in her room while he, disguised in a beard, followed Dr.
 Mortimer to Baker Street and afterwards to the station and to the
 Northumberland Hotel. His wife had some inkling of his plans; but she
 had such a fear of her husband--a fear founded upon brutal
 ill-treatment--that she dare not write to warn the man whom she knew
 to be in danger. If the letter should fall into Stapleton's hands her
 own life would not be safe. Eventually, as we know, she adopted the
 expedient of cutting out the words which would form the message, and
 addressing the letter in a disguised hand. It reached the baronet,
 and gave him the first warning of his danger.

 "It was very essential for Stapleton to get some article of Sir
 Henry's attire so that, in case he was driven to use the dog, he
 might always have the means of setting him upon his track. With
 characteristic promptness and audacity he set about this at once, and
 we cannot doubt that the boots or chamber-maid of the hotel was well
 bribed to help him in his design. By chance, however, the first boot
 which was procured for him was a new one and, therefore, useless for
 his purpose. He then had it returned and obtained another--a most
 instructive incident, since it proved conclusively to my mind that we
 were dealing with a real hound, as no other supposition could explain
 this anxiety to obtain an old boot and this indifference to a new
 one. The more outrÃ© and grotesque an incident is the more carefully
 it deserves to be examined, and the very point which appears to
 complicate a case is, when duly considered and scientifically
 handled, the one which is most likely to elucidate it.

 "Then we had the visit from our friends next morning, shadowed always
 by Stapleton in the cab. From his knowledge of our rooms and of my
 appearance, as well as from his general conduct, I am inclined to
 think that Stapleton's career of crime has been by no means limited
 to this single Baskerville affair. It is suggestive that during the
 last three years there have been four considerable burglaries in the
 West Country, for none of which was any criminal ever arrested. The
 last of these, at Folkestone Court, in May, was remarkable for the
 cold-blooded pistoling of the page, who surprised the masked and
 solitary burglar. I cannot doubt that Stapleton recruited his waning
 resources in this fashion, and that for years he has been a desperate
 and dangerous man.

 "We had an example of his readiness of resource that morning when he
 got away from us so successfully, and also of his audacity in sending
 back my own name to me through the cabman. From that moment he
 understood that I had taken over the case in London, and that
 therefore there was no chance for him there. He returned to Dartmoor
 and awaited the arrival of the baronet."

 "One moment!" said I. "You have, no doubt, described the sequence of
 events correctly, but there is one point which you have left
 unexplained. What became of the hound when its master was in London?"

 "I have given some attention to this matter and it is undoubtedly of
 importance. There can be no question that Stapleton had a confidant,
 though it is unlikely that he ever placed himself in his power by
 sharing all his plans with him. There was an old manservant at
 Merripit House, whose name was Anthony. His connection with the
 Stapletons can be traced for several years, as far back as the
 schoolmastering days, so that he must have been aware that his master
 and mistress were really husband and wife. This man has disappeared
 and has escaped from the country. It is suggestive that Anthony is
 not a common name in England, while Antonio is so in all Spanish or
 Spanish-American countries. The man, like Mrs. Stapleton herself,
 spoke good English, but with a curious lisping accent. I have myself
 seen this old man cross the Grimpen Mire by the path which Stapleton
 had marked out. It is very probable, therefore, that in the absence
 of his master it was he who cared for the hound, though he may never
 have known the purpose for which the beast was used.

 "The Stapletons then went down to Devonshire, whither they were soon
 followed by Sir Henry and you. One word now as to how I stood myself
 at that time. It may possibly recur to your memory that when I
 examined the paper upon which the printed words were fastened I made
 a close inspection for the water-mark. In doing so I held it within a
 few inches of my eyes, and was conscious of a faint smell of the
 scent known as white jessamine. There are seventy-five perfumes,
 which it is very necessary that a criminal expert should be able to
 distinguish from each other, and cases have more than once within my
 own experience depended upon their prompt recognition. The scent
 suggested the presence of a lady, and already my thoughts began to
 turn towards the Stapletons. Thus I had made certain of the hound,
 and had guessed at the criminal before ever we went to the west
 country.

 "It was my game to watch Stapleton. It was evident, however, that I
 could not do this if I were with you, since he would be keenly on his
 guard. I deceived everybody, therefore, yourself included, and I came
 down secretly when I was supposed to be in London. My hardships were
 not so great as you imagined, though such trifling details must never
 interfere with the investigation of a case. I stayed for the most
 part at Coombe Tracey, and only used the hut upon the moor when it
 was necessary to be near the scene of action. Cartwright had come
 down with me, and in his disguise as a country boy he was of great
 assistance to me. I was dependent upon him for food and clean linen.
 When I was watching Stapleton, Cartwright was frequently watching
 you, so that I was able to keep my hand upon all the strings.

 "I have already told you that your reports reached me rapidly, being
 forwarded instantly from Baker Street to Coombe Tracey. They were of
 great service to me, and especially that one incidentally truthful
 piece of biography of Stapleton's. I was able to establish the
 identity of the man and the woman and knew at last exactly how I
 stood. The case had been considerably complicated through the
 incident of the escaped convict and the relations between him and the
 Barrymores. This also you cleared up in a very effective way, though
 I had already come to the same conclusions from my own observations.

 "By the time that you discovered me upon the moor I had a complete
 knowledge of the whole business, but I had not a case which could go
 to a jury. Even Stapleton's attempt upon Sir Henry that night which
 ended in the death of the unfortunate convict did not help us much in
 proving murder against our man. There seemed to be no alternative but
 to catch him red-handed, and to do so we had to use Sir Henry, alone
 and apparently unprotected, as a bait. We did so, and at the cost of
 a severe shock to our client we succeeded in completing our case and
 driving Stapleton to his destruction. That Sir Henry should have been
 exposed to this is, I must confess, a reproach to my management of
 the case, but we had no means of foreseeing the terrible and
 paralyzing spectacle which the beast presented, nor could we predict
 the fog which enabled him to burst upon us at such short notice. We
 succeeded in our object at a cost which both the specialist and Dr.
 Mortimer assure me will be a temporary one. A long journey may enable
 our friend to recover not only from his shattered nerves but also
 from his wounded feelings. His love for the lady was deep and
 sincere, and to him the saddest part of all this black business was
 that he should have been deceived by her.

 "It only remains to indicate the part which she had played
 throughout. There can be no doubt that Stapleton exercised an
 influence over her which may have been love or may have been fear, or
 very possibly both, since they are by no means incompatible emotions.
 It was, at least, absolutely effective. At his command she consented
 to pass as his sister, though he found the limits of his power over
 her when he endeavoured to make her the direct accessory to murder.
 She was ready to warn Sir Henry so far as she could without
 implicating her husband, and again and again she tried to do so.
 Stapleton himself seems to have been capable of jealousy, and when he
 saw the baronet paying court to the lady, even though it was part of
 his own plan, still he could not help interrupting with a passionate
 outburst which revealed the fiery soul which his self-contained
 manner so cleverly concealed. By encouraging the intimacy he made it
 certain that Sir Henry would frequently come to Merripit House and
 that he would sooner or later get the opportunity which he desired.
 On the day of the crisis, however, his wife turned suddenly against
 him. She had learned something of the death of the convict, and she
 knew that the hound was being kept in the out-house on the evening
 that Sir Henry was coming to dinner. She taxed her husband with his
 intended crime, and a furious scene followed, in which he showed her
 for the first time that she had a rival in his love. Her fidelity
 turned in an instant to bitter hatred and he saw that she would
 betray him. He tied her up, therefore, that she might have no chance
 of warning Sir Henry, and he hoped, no doubt, that when the whole
 country-side put down the baronet's death to the curse of his family,
 as they certainly would do, he could win his wife back to accept an
 accomplished fact and to keep silent upon what she knew. In this I
 fancy that in any case he made a miscalculation, and that, if we had
 not been there, his doom would none the less have been sealed. A
 woman of Spanish blood does not condone such an injury so lightly.
 And now, my dear Watson, without referring to my notes, I cannot give
 you a more detailed account of this curious case. I do not know that
 anything essential has been left unexplained."

 "He could not hope to frighten Sir Henry to death as he had done the
 old uncle with his bogie hound."

 "The beast was savage and half-starved. If its appearance did not
 frighten its victim to death, at least it would paralyze the
 resistance which might be offered."

 "No doubt. There only remains one difficulty. If Stapleton came into
 the succession, how could he explain the fact that he, the heir, had
 been living unannounced under another name so close to the property?
 How could he claim it without causing suspicion and inquiry?"

 "It is a formidable difficulty, and I fear that you ask too much when
 you expect me to solve it. The past and the present are within the
 field of my inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard
 question to answer. Mrs. Stapleton has heard her husband discuss the
 problem on several occasions. There were three possible courses. He
 might claim the property from South America, establish his identity
 before the British authorities there and so obtain the fortune
 without ever coming to England at all; or he might adopt an elaborate
 disguise during the short time that he need be in London; or, again,
 he might furnish an accomplice with the proofs and papers, putting
 him in as heir, and retaining a claim upon some proportion of his
 income. We cannot doubt from what we know of him that he would have
 found some way out of the difficulty. And now, my dear Watson, we
 have had some weeks of severe work, and for one evening, I think, we
 may turn our thoughts into more pleasant channels. I have a box for
 'Les Huguenots.' Have you heard the De Reszkes? Might I trouble you
 then to be ready in half an hour, and we can stop at Marcini's for a
 little dinner on the way?"






                           THE VALLEY OF FEAR





                            Table of contents

     Part I
    The Warning
    Sherlock Holmes Discourses
    The Tragedy of Birlstone
    Darkness
    The People Of the Drama
    A Dawning Light
    The Solution

     Part II
    The Man
    The Bodymaster
    Lodge 341, Vermissa
    The Valley of Fear
    The Darkest Hour
    Danger
    The Trapping of Birdy Edwards
    Epilogue



















                                  PART I

                        The Tragedy of Birlstone





      CHAPTER I
      The Warning


 "I am inclined to think--" said I.

 "I should do so," Sherlock Holmes remarked impatiently.

 I believe that I am one of the most long-suffering of mortals; but
 I'll admit that I was annoyed at the sardonic interruption.

 "Really, Holmes," said I severely, "you are a little trying at
 times."

 He was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to give any immediate
 answer to my remonstrance. He leaned upon his hand, with his untasted
 breakfast before him, and he stared at the slip of paper which he had
 just drawn from its envelope. Then he took the envelope itself, held
 it up to the light, and very carefully studied both the exterior and
 the flap.

 "It is Porlock's writing," said he thoughtfully. "I can hardly doubt
 that it is Porlock's writing, though I have seen it only twice
 before. The Greek e with the peculiar top flourish is distinctive.
 But if it is Porlock, then it must be something of the very first
 importance."

 He was speaking to himself rather than to me; but my vexation
 disappeared in the interest which the words awakened.

 "Who then is Porlock?" I asked.

 "Porlock, Watson, is a nom-de-plume, a mere identification mark; but
 behind it lies a shifty and evasive personality. In a former letter
 he frankly informed me that the name was not his own, and defied me
 ever to trace him among the teeming millions of this great city.
 Porlock is important, not for himself, but for the great man with
 whom he is in touch. Picture to yourself the pilot fish with the
 shark, the jackal with the lion--anything that is insignificant in
 companionship with what is formidable: not only formidable, Watson,
 but sinister--in the highest degree sinister. That is where he comes
 within my purview. You have heard me speak of Professor Moriarty?"

 "The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks as--"

 "My blushes, Watson!" Holmes murmured in a deprecating voice.

 "I was about to say, as he is unknown to the public."

 "A touch! A distinct touch!" cried Holmes. "You are developing a
 certain unexpected vein of pawky humour, Watson, against which I must
 learn to guard myself. But in calling Moriarty a criminal you are
 uttering libel in the eyes of the law--and there lie the glory and
 the wonder of it! The greatest schemer of all time, the organizer of
 every deviltry, the controlling brain of the underworld, a brain
 which might have made or marred the destiny of nations--that's the
 man! But so aloof is he from general suspicion, so immune from
 criticism, so admirable in his management and self-effacement, that
 for those very words that you have uttered he could hale you to a
 court and emerge with your year's pension as a solatium for his
 wounded character. Is he not the celebrated author of The Dynamics of
 an Asteroid, a book which ascends to such rarefied heights of pure
 mathematics that it is said that there was no man in the scientific
 press capable of criticizing it? Is this a man to traduce?
 Foul-mouthed doctor and slandered professor--such would be your
 respective roles! That's genius, Watson. But if I am spared by lesser
 men, our day will surely come."

 "May I be there to see!" I exclaimed devoutly. "But you were speaking
 of this man Porlock."

 "Ah, yes--the so-called Porlock is a link in the chain some little
 way from its great attachment. Porlock is not quite a sound
 link--between ourselves. He is the only flaw in that chain so far as
 I have been able to test it."

 "But no chain is stronger than its weakest link."

 "Exactly, my dear Watson! Hence the extreme importance of Porlock.
 Led on by some rudimentary aspirations towards right, and encouraged
 by the judicious stimulation of an occasional ten-pound note sent to
 him by devious methods, he has once or twice given me advance
 information which has been of value--that highest value which
 anticipates and prevents rather than avenges crime. I cannot doubt
 that, if we had the cipher, we should find that this communication is
 of the nature that I indicate."

 Again Holmes flattened out the paper upon his unused plate. I rose
 and, leaning over him, stared down at the curious inscription, which
 ran as follows:

                     534 C2 13 127 36 31 4 17 21 41
                     DOUGLAS 109 293 5 37 BIRLSTONE
                          26 BIRLSTONE 9 47 171

 "What do you make of it, Holmes?"

 "It is obviously an attempt to convey secret information."

 "But what is the use of a cipher message without the cipher?"

 "In this instance, none at all."

 "Why do you say 'in this instance'?"

 "Because there are many ciphers which I would read as easily as I do
 the apocrypha of the agony column: such crude devices amuse the
 intelligence without fatiguing it. But this is different. It is
 clearly a reference to the words in a page of some book. Until I am
 told which page and which book I am powerless."

 "But why 'Douglas' and 'Birlstone'?"

 "Clearly because those are words which were not contained in the page
 in question."

 "Then why has he not indicated the book?"

 "Your native shrewdness, my dear Watson, that innate cunning which is
 the delight of your friends, would surely prevent you from inclosing
 cipher and message in the same envelope. Should it miscarry, you are
 undone. As it is, both have to go wrong before any harm comes from
 it. Our second post is now overdue, and I shall be surprised if it
 does not bring us either a further letter of explanation, or, as is
 more probable, the very volume to which these figures refer."

 Holmes's calculation was fulfilled within a very few minutes by the
 appearance of Billy, the page, with the very letter which we were
 expecting.

 "The same writing," remarked Holmes, as he opened the envelope, "and
 actually signed," he added in an exultant voice as he unfolded the
 epistle. "Come, we are getting on, Watson." His brow clouded,
 however, as he glanced over the contents.

 "Dear me, this is very disappointing! I fear, Watson, that all our
 expectations come to nothing. I trust that the man Porlock will come
 to no harm.

 "Dear Mr. Holmes [he says]:
 "I will go no further in this matter. It is too dangerous--he
 suspects me. I can see that he suspects me. He came to me quite
 unexpectedly after I had actually addressed this envelope with the
 intention of sending you the key to the cipher. I was able to cover
 it up. If he had seen it, it would have gone hard with me. But I read
 suspicion in his eyes. Please burn the cipher message, which can now
 be of no use to you.
 "Fred Porlock."

 Holmes sat for some little time twisting this letter between his
 fingers, and frowning, as he stared into the fire.

 "After all," he said at last, "there may be nothing in it. It may be
 only his guilty conscience. Knowing himself to be a traitor, he may
 have read the accusation in the other's eyes."

 "The other being, I presume, Professor Moriarty."

 "No less! When any of that party talk about 'He' you know whom they
 mean. There is one predominant 'He' for all of them."

 "But what can he do?"

 "Hum! That's a large question. When you have one of the first brains
 of Europe up against you, and all the powers of darkness at his back,
 there are infinite possibilities. Anyhow, Friend Porlock is evidently
 scared out of his senses--kindly compare the writing in the note to
 that upon its envelope; which was done, he tells us, before this
 ill-omened visit. The one is clear and firm. The other hardly
 legible."

 "Why did he write at all? Why did he not simply drop it?"

 "Because he feared I would make some inquiry after him in that case,
 and possibly bring trouble on him."

 "No doubt," said I. "Of course." I had picked up the original cipher
 message and was bending my brows over it. "It's pretty maddening to
 think that an important secret may lie here on this slip of paper,
 and that it is beyond human power to penetrate it."

 Sherlock Holmes had pushed away his untasted breakfast and lit the
 unsavoury pipe which was the companion of his deepest meditations. "I
 wonder!" said he, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. "Perhaps
 there are points which have escaped your Machiavellian intellect. Let
 us consider the problem in the light of pure reason. This man's
 reference is to a book. That is our point of departure."

 "A somewhat vague one."

 "Let us see then if we can narrow it down. As I focus my mind upon
 it, it seems rather less impenetrable. What indications have we as to
 this book?"

 "None."

 "Well, well, it is surely not quite so bad as that. The cipher
 message begins with a large 534, does it not? We may take it as a
 working hypothesis that 534 is the particular page to which the
 cipher refers. So our book has already become a large book which is
 surely something gained. What other indications have we as to the
 nature of this large book? The next sign is C2. What do you make of
 that, Watson?"

 "Chapter the second, no doubt."

 "Hardly that, Watson. You will, I am sure, agree with me that if the
 page be given, the number of the chapter is immaterial. Also that if
 page 534 finds us only in the second chapter, the length of the first
 one must have been really intolerable."

 "Column!" I cried.

 "Brilliant, Watson. You are scintillating this morning. If it is not
 column, then I am very much deceived. So now, you see, we begin to
 visualize a large book printed in double columns which are each of a
 considerable length, since one of the words is numbered in the
 document as the two hundred and ninety-third. Have we reached the
 limits of what reason can supply?"

 "I fear that we have."

 "Surely you do yourself an injustice. One more coruscation, my dear
 Watson--yet another brain-wave! Had the volume been an unusual one,
 he would have sent it to me. Instead of that, he had intended, before
 his plans were nipped, to send me the clue in this envelope. He says
 so in his note. This would seem to indicate that the book is one
 which he thought I would have no difficulty in finding for myself. He
 had it--and he imagined that I would have it, too. In short, Watson,
 it is a very common book."

 "What you say certainly sounds plausible."

 "So we have contracted our field of search to a large book, printed
 in double columns and in common use."

 "The Bible!" I cried triumphantly.

 "Good, Watson, good! But not, if I may say so, quite good enough!
 Even if I accepted the compliment for myself I could hardly name any
 volume which would be less likely to lie at the elbow of one of
 Moriarty's associates. Besides, the editions of Holy Writ are so
 numerous that he could hardly suppose that two copies would have the
 same pagination. This is clearly a book which is standardized. He
 knows for certain that his page 534 will exactly agree with my page
 534."

 "But very few books would correspond with that."

 "Exactly. Therein lies our salvation. Our search is narrowed down to
 standardized books which anyone may be supposed to possess."

 "Bradshaw!"

 "There are difficulties, Watson. The vocabulary of Bradshaw is
 nervous and terse, but limited. The selection of words would hardly
 lend itself to the sending of general messages. We will eliminate
 Bradshaw. The dictionary is, I fear, inadmissible for the same
 reason. What then is left?"

 "An almanac!"

 "Excellent, Watson! I am very much mistaken if you have not touched
 the spot. An almanac! Let us consider the claims of Whitaker's
 Almanac. It is in common use. It has the requisite number of pages.
 It is in double column. Though reserved in its earlier vocabulary, it
 becomes, if I remember right, quite garrulous towards the end." He
 picked the volume from his desk. "Here is page 534, column two, a
 substantial block of print dealing, I perceive, with the trade and
 resources of British India. Jot down the words, Watson! Number
 thirteen is 'Mahratta.' Not, I fear, a very auspicious beginning.
 Number one hundred and twenty-seven is 'Government'; which at least
 makes sense, though somewhat irrelevant to ourselves and Professor
 Moriarty. Now let us try again. What does the Mahratta government do?
 Alas! the next word is 'pig's-bristles.' We are undone, my good
 Watson! It is finished!"

 He had spoken in jesting vein, but the twitching of his bushy
 eyebrows bespoke his disappointment and irritation. I sat helpless
 and unhappy, staring into the fire. A long silence was broken by a
 sudden exclamation from Holmes, who dashed at a cupboard, from which
 he emerged with a second yellow-covered volume in his hand.

 "We pay the price, Watson, for being too up-to-date!" he cried. "We
 are before our time, and suffer the usual penalties. Being the
 seventh of January, we have very properly laid in the new almanac. It
 is more than likely that Porlock took his message from the old one.
 No doubt he would have told us so had his letter of explanation been
 written. Now let us see what page 534 has in store for us. Number
 thirteen is 'There,' which is much more promising. Number one hundred
 and twenty-seven is 'is'--'There is'"--Holmes's eyes were gleaming
 with excitement, and his thin, nervous fingers twitched as he counted
 the words--"'danger.' Ha! Ha! Capital! Put that down, Watson. 'There
 is danger-- may-- come-- very-- soon-- one.' Then we have the name
 'Douglas' --'rich-- country-- now-- at-- Birlstone-- House--
 Birlstone-- confidence-- is-- pressing.' There, Watson! What do you
 think of pure reason and its fruit? If the greengrocer had such a
 thing as a laurel wreath, I should send Billy round for it."

 I was staring at the strange message which I had scrawled, as he
 deciphered it, upon a sheet of foolscap on my knee.

 "What a queer, scrambling way of expressing his meaning!" said I.

 "On the contrary, he has done quite remarkably well," said Holmes.
 "When you search a single column for words with which to express your
 meaning, you can hardly expect to get everything you want. You are
 bound to leave something to the intelligence of your correspondent.
 The purport is perfectly clear. Some deviltry is intended against one
 Douglas, whoever he may be, residing as stated, a rich country
 gentleman. He is sure--'confidence' was as near as he could get to
 'confident'--that it is pressing. There is our result--and a very
 workmanlike little bit of analysis it was!"

 Holmes had the impersonal joy of the true artist in his better work,
 even as he mourned darkly when it fell below the high level to which
 he aspired. He was still chuckling over his success when Billy swung
 open the door and Inspector MacDonald of Scotland Yard was ushered
 into the room.

 Those were the early days at the end of the '80's, when Alec
 MacDonald was far from having attained the national fame which he has
 now achieved. He was a young but trusted member of the detective
 force, who had distinguished himself in several cases which had been
 entrusted to him. His tall, bony figure gave promise of exceptional
 physical strength, while his great cranium and deep-set, lustrous
 eyes spoke no less clearly of the keen intelligence which twinkled
 out from behind his bushy eyebrows. He was a silent, precise man with
 a dour nature and a hard Aberdonian accent.

 Twice already in his career had Holmes helped him to attain success,
 his own sole reward being the intellectual joy of the problem. For
 this reason the affection and respect of the Scotchman for his
 amateur colleague were profound, and he showed them by the frankness
 with which he consulted Holmes in every difficulty. Mediocrity knows
 nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius,
 and MacDonald had talent enough for his profession to enable him to
 perceive that there was no humiliation in seeking the assistance of
 one who already stood alone in Europe, both in his gifts and in his
 experience. Holmes was not prone to friendship, but he was tolerant
 of the big Scotchman, and smiled at the sight of him.

 "You are an early bird, Mr. Mac," said he. "I wish you luck with your
 worm. I fear this means that there is some mischief afoot."

 "If you said 'hope' instead of 'fear,' it would be nearer the truth,
 I'm thinking, Mr. Holmes," the inspector answered, with a knowing
 grin. "Well, maybe a wee nip would keep out the raw morning chill.
 No, I won't smoke, I thank you. I'll have to be pushing on my way;
 for the early hours of a case are the precious ones, as no man knows
 better than your own self. But--but--"

 The inspector had stopped suddenly, and was staring with a look of
 absolute amazement at a paper upon the table. It was the sheet upon
 which I had scrawled the enigmatic message.

 "Douglas!" he stammered. "Birlstone! What's this, Mr. Holmes? Man,
 it's witchcraft! Where in the name of all that is wonderful did you
 get those names?"

 "It is a cipher that Dr. Watson and I have had occasion to solve. But
 why--what's amiss with the names?"

 The inspector looked from one to the other of us in dazed
 astonishment. "Just this," said he, "that Mr. Douglas of Birlstone
 Manor House was horribly murdered last night!"





      CHAPTER II
      Sherlock Holmes Discourses


 It was one of those dramatic moments for which my friend existed. It
 would be an overstatement to say that he was shocked or even excited
 by the amazing announcement. Without having a tinge of cruelty in his
 singular composition, he was undoubtedly callous from long
 over-stimulation. Yet, if his emotions were dulled, his intellectual
 perceptions were exceedingly active. There was no trace then of the
 horror which I had myself felt at this curt declaration; but his face
 showed rather the quiet and interested composure of the chemist who
 sees the crystals falling into position from his oversaturated
 solution.

 "Remarkable!" said he. "Remarkable!"

 "You don't seem surprised."

 "Interested, Mr. Mac, but hardly surprised. Why should I be
 surprised? I receive an anonymous communication from a quarter which
 I know to be important, warning me that danger threatens a certain
 person. Within an hour I learn that this danger has actually
 materialized and that the person is dead. I am interested; but, as
 you observe, I am not surprised."

 In a few short sentences he explained to the inspector the facts
 about the letter and the cipher. MacDonald sat with his chin on his
 hands and his great sandy eyebrows bunched into a yellow tangle.

 "I was going down to Birlstone this morning," said he. "I had come to
 ask you if you cared to come with me--you and your friend here. But
 from what you say we might perhaps be doing better work in London."

 "I rather think not," said Holmes.

 "Hang it all, Mr. Holmes!" cried the inspector. "The papers will be
 full of the Birlstone mystery in a day or two; but where's the
 mystery if there is a man in London who prophesied the crime before
 ever it occurred? We have only to lay our hands on that man, and the
 rest will follow."

 "No doubt, Mr. Mac. But how do you propose to lay your hands on the
 so-called Porlock?"

 MacDonald turned over the letter which Holmes had handed him. "Posted
 in Camberwell--that doesn't help us much. Name, you say, is assumed.
 Not much to go on, certainly. Didn't you say that you have sent him
 money?"

 "Twice."

 "And how?"

 "In notes to Camberwell post-office."

 "Did you ever trouble to see who called for them?"

 "No."

 The inspector looked surprised and a little shocked. "Why not?"

 "Because I always keep faith. I had promised when he first wrote that
 I would not try to trace him."

 "You think there is someone behind him?"

 "I know there is."

 "This professor that I've heard you mention?"

 "Exactly!"

 Inspector MacDonald smiled, and his eyelid quivered as he glanced
 towards me. "I won't conceal from you, Mr. Holmes, that we think in
 the C. I. D. that you have a wee bit of a bee in your bonnet over
 this professor. I made some inquiries myself about the matter. He
 seems to be a very respectable, learned, and talented sort of man."

 "I'm glad you've got so far as to recognize the talent."

 "Man, you can't but recognize it! After I heard your view I made it
 my business to see him. I had a chat with him on eclipses. How the
 talk got that way I canna think; but he had out a reflector lantern
 and a globe, and made it all clear in a minute. He lent me a book;
 but I don't mind saying that it was a bit above my head, though I had
 a good Aberdeen upbringing. He'd have made a grand meenister with his
 thin face and gray hair and solemn-like way of talking. When he put
 his hand on my shoulder as we were parting, it was like a father's
 blessing before you go out into the cold, cruel world."

 Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. "Great!" he said. "Great! Tell
 me, Friend MacDonald, this pleasing and touching interview was, I
 suppose, in the professor's study?"

 "That's so."

 "A fine room, is it not?"

 "Very fine--very handsome indeed, Mr. Holmes."

 "You sat in front of his writing desk?"

 "Just so."

 "Sun in your eyes and his face in the shadow?"

 "Well, it was evening; but I mind that the lamp was turned on my
 face."

 "It would be. Did you happen to observe a picture over the
 professor's head?"

 "I don't miss much, Mr. Holmes. Maybe I learned that from you. Yes, I
 saw the picture--a young woman with her head on her hands, peeping at
 you sideways."

 "That painting was by Jean Baptiste Greuze."

 The inspector endeavoured to look interested.

 "Jean Baptiste Greuze," Holmes continued, joining his finger tips and
 leaning well back in his chair, "was a French artist who flourished
 between the years 1750 and 1800. I allude, of course to his working
 career. Modern criticism has more than indorsed the high opinion
 formed of him by his contemporaries."

 The inspector's eyes grew abstracted. "Hadn't we better--" he said.

 "We are doing so," Holmes interrupted. "All that I am saying has a
 very direct and vital bearing upon what you have called the Birlstone
 Mystery. In fact, it may in a sense be called the very centre of it."

 MacDonald smiled feebly, and looked appealingly to me. "Your thoughts
 move a bit too quick for me, Mr. Holmes. You leave out a link or two,
 and I can't get over the gap. What in the whole wide world can be the
 connection between this dead painting man and the affair at
 Birlstone?"

 "All knowledge comes useful to the detective," remarked Holmes. "Even
 the trivial fact that in the year 1865 a picture by Greuze entitled
 La Jeune Fille a l'Agneau fetched one million two hundred thousand
 francs--more than forty thousand pounds--at the Portalis sale may
 start a train of reflection in your mind."

 It was clear that it did. The inspector looked honestly interested.

 "I may remind you," Holmes continued, "that the professor's salary
 can be ascertained in several trustworthy books of reference. It is
 seven hundred a year."

 "Then how could he buy--"

 "Quite so! How could he?"

 "Ay, that's remarkable," said the inspector thoughtfully. "Talk away,
 Mr. Holmes. I'm just loving it. It's fine!"

 Holmes smiled. He was always warmed by genuine admiration--the
 characteristic of the real artist. "What about Birlstone?" he asked.

 "We've time yet," said the inspector, glancing at his watch. "I've a
 cab at the door, and it won't take us twenty minutes to Victoria. But
 about this picture: I thought you told me once, Mr. Holmes, that you
 had never met Professor Moriarty."

 "No, I never have."

 "Then how do you know about his rooms?"

 "Ah, that's another matter. I have been three times in his rooms,
 twice waiting for him under different pretexts and leaving before he
 came. Once--well, I can hardly tell about the once to an official
 detective. It was on the last occasion that I took the liberty of
 running over his papers--with the most unexpected results."

 "You found something compromising?"

 "Absolutely nothing. That was what amazed me. However, you have now
 seen the point of the picture. It shows him to be a very wealthy man.
 How did he acquire wealth? He is unmarried. His younger brother is a
 station master in the west of England. His chair is worth seven
 hundred a year. And he owns a Greuze."

 "Well?"

 "Surely the inference is plain."

 "You mean that he has a great income and that he must earn it in an
 illegal fashion?"

 "Exactly. Of course I have other reasons for thinking so--dozens of
 exiguous threads which lead vaguely up towards the centre of the web
 where the poisonous, motionless creature is lurking. I only mention
 the Greuze because it brings the matter within the range of your own
 observation."

 "Well, Mr. Holmes, I admit that what you say is interesting: it's
 more than interesting--it's just wonderful. But let us have it a
 little clearer if you can. Is it forgery, coining, burglary--where
 does the money come from?"

 "Have you ever read of Jonathan Wild?"

 "Well, the name has a familiar sound. Someone in a novel, was he not?
 I don't take much stock of detectives in novels--chaps that do things
 and never let you see how they do them. That's just inspiration: not
 business."

 "Jonathan Wild wasn't a detective, and he wasn't in a novel. He was a
 master criminal, and he lived last century--1750 or thereabouts."

 "Then he's no use to me. I'm a practical man."

 "Mr. Mac, the most practical thing that you ever did in your life
 would be to shut yourself up for three months and read twelve hours a
 day at the annals of crime. Everything comes in circles--even
 Professor Moriarty. Jonathan Wild was the hidden force of the London
 criminals, to whom he sold his brains and his organization on a
 fifteen per cent commission. The old wheel turns, and the same spoke
 comes up. It's all been done before, and will be again. I'll tell you
 one or two things about Moriarty which may interest you."

 "You'll interest me, right enough."

 "I happen to know who is the first link in his chain--a chain with
 this Napoleon-gone-wrong at one end, and a hundred broken fighting
 men, pickpockets, blackmailers, and card sharpers at the other, with
 every sort of crime in between. His chief of staff is Colonel
 Sebastian Moran, as aloof and guarded and inaccessible to the law as
 himself. What do you think he pays him?"

 "I'd like to hear."

 "Six thousand a year. That's paying for brains, you see--the American
 business principle. I learned that detail quite by chance. It's more
 than the Prime Minister gets. That gives you an idea of Moriarty's
 gains and of the scale on which he works. Another point: I made it my
 business to hunt down some of Moriarty's checks lately--just common
 innocent checks that he pays his household bills with. They were
 drawn on six different banks. Does that make any impression on your
 mind?"

 "Queer, certainly! But what do you gather from it?"

 "That he wanted no gossip about his wealth. No single man should know
 what he had. I have no doubt that he has twenty banking accounts; the
 bulk of his fortune abroad in the Deutsche Bank or the Credit
 Lyonnais as likely as not. Sometime when you have a year or two to
 spare I commend to you the study of Professor Moriarty."

 Inspector MacDonald had grown steadily more impressed as the
 conversation proceeded. He had lost himself in his interest. Now his
 practical Scotch intelligence brought him back with a snap to the
 matter in hand.

 "He can keep, anyhow," said he. "You've got us side-tracked with your
 interesting anecdotes, Mr. Holmes. What really counts is your remark
 that there is some connection between the professor and the crime.
 That you get from the warning received through the man Porlock. Can
 we for our present practical needs get any further than that?"

 "We may form some conception as to the motives of the crime. It is,
 as I gather from your original remarks, an inexplicable, or at least
 an unexplained, murder. Now, presuming that the source of the crime
 is as we suspect it to be, there might be two different motives. In
 the first place, I may tell you that Moriarty rules with a rod of
 iron over his people. His discipline is tremendous. There is only one
 punishment in his code. It is death. Now we might suppose that this
 murdered man--this Douglas whose approaching fate was known by one of
 the arch-criminal's subordinates--had in some way betrayed the chief.
 His punishment followed, and would be known to all--if only to put
 the fear of death into them."

 "Well, that is one suggestion, Mr. Holmes."

 "The other is that it has been engineered by Moriarty in the ordinary
 course of business. Was there any robbery?"

 "I have not heard."

 "If so, it would, of course, be against the first hypothesis and in
 favour of the second. Moriarty may have been engaged to engineer it
 on a promise of part spoils, or he may have been paid so much down to
 manage it. Either is possible. But whichever it may be, or if it is
 some third combination, it is down at Birlstone that we must seek the
 solution. I know our man too well to suppose that he has left
 anything up here which may lead us to him."

 "Then to Birlstone we must go!" cried MacDonald, jumping from his
 chair. "My word! it's later than I thought. I can give you,
 gentlemen, five minutes for preparation, and that is all."

 "And ample for us both," said Holmes, as he sprang up and hastened to
 change from his dressing gown to his coat. "While we are on our way,
 Mr. Mac, I will ask you to be good enough to tell me all about it."

 "All about it" proved to be disappointingly little, and yet there was
 enough to assure us that the case before us might well be worthy of
 the expert's closest attention. He brightened and rubbed his thin
 hands together as he listened to the meagre but remarkable details. A
 long series of sterile weeks lay behind us, and here at last there
 was a fitting object for those remarkable powers which, like all
 special gifts, become irksome to their owner when they are not in
 use. That razor brain blunted and rusted with inaction.

 Sherlock Holmes's eyes glistened, his pale cheeks took a warmer hue,
 and his whole eager face shone with an inward light when the call for
 work reached him. Leaning forward in the cab, he listened intently to
 MacDonald's short sketch of the problem which awaited us in Sussex.
 The inspector was himself dependent, as he explained to us, upon a
 scribbled account forwarded to him by the milk train in the early
 hours of the morning. White Mason, the local officer, was a personal
 friend, and hence MacDonald had been notified much more promptly than
 is usual at Scotland Yard when provincials need their assistance. It
 is a very cold scent upon which the Metropolitan expert is generally
 asked to run.

 "Dear Inspector MacDonald [said the letter which he read to us]:
 "Official requisition for your services is in separate envelope. This
 is for your private eye. Wire me what train in the morning you can
 get for Birlstone, and I will meet it--or have it met if I am too
 occupied. This case is a snorter. Don't waste a moment in getting
 started. If you can bring Mr. Holmes, please do so; for he will find
 something after his own heart. We would think the whole thing had
 been fixed up for theatrical effect if there wasn't a dead man in the
 middle of it. My word! it is a snorter."

  "Your friend seems to be no fool," remarked Holmes.

 "No, sir, White Mason is a very live man, if I am any judge."

 "Well, have you anything more?"

 "Only that he will give us every detail when we meet."

 "Then how did you get at Mr. Douglas and the fact that he had been
 horribly murdered?"

 "That was in the enclosed official report. It didn't say 'horrible':
 that's not a recognized official term. It gave the name John Douglas.
 It mentioned that his injuries had been in the head, from the
 discharge of a shotgun. It also mentioned the hour of the alarm,
 which was close on to midnight last night. It added that the case was
 undoubtedly one of murder, but that no arrest had been made, and that
 the case was one which presented some very perplexing and
 extraordinary features. That's absolutely all we have at present, Mr.
 Holmes."

 "Then, with your permission, we will leave it at that, Mr. Mac. The
 temptation to form premature theories upon insufficient data is the
 bane of our profession. I can see only two things for certain at
 present--a great brain in London, and a dead man in Sussex. It's the
 chain between that we are going to trace."





      CHAPTER III
      The Tragedy of Birlstone


 Now for a moment I will ask leave to remove my own insignificant
 personality and to describe events which occurred before we arrived
 upon the scene by the light of knowledge which came to us afterwards.
 Only in this way can I make the reader appreciate the people
 concerned and the strange setting in which their fate was cast.

 The village of Birlstone is a small and very ancient cluster of
 half-timbered cottages on the northern border of the county of
 Sussex. For centuries it had remained unchanged; but within the last
 few years its picturesque appearance and situation have attracted a
 number of well-to-do residents, whose villas peep out from the woods
 around. These woods are locally supposed to be the extreme fringe of
 the great Weald forest, which thins away until it reaches the
 northern chalk downs. A number of small shops have come into being to
 meet the wants of the increased population; so there seems some
 prospect that Birlstone may soon grow from an ancient village into a
 modern town. It is the centre for a considerable area of country,
 since Tunbridge Wells, the nearest place of importance, is ten or
 twelve miles to the eastward, over the borders of Kent.

 About half a mile from the town, standing in an old park famous for
 its huge beech trees, is the ancient Manor House of Birlstone. Part
 of this venerable building dates back to the time of the first
 crusade, when Hugo de Capus built a fortalice in the centre of the
 estate, which had been granted to him by the Red King. This was
 destroyed by fire in 1543, and some of its smoke-blackened corner
 stones were used when, in Jacobean times, a brick country house rose
 upon the ruins of the feudal castle.

 The Manor House, with its many gables and its small diamond-paned
 windows, was still much as the builder had left it in the early
 seventeenth century. Of the double moats which had guarded its more
 warlike predecessor, the outer had been allowed to dry up, and served
 the humble function of a kitchen garden. The inner one was still
 there, and lay forty feet in breadth, though now only a few feet in
 depth, round the whole house. A small stream fed it and continued
 beyond it, so that the sheet of water, though turbid, was never
 ditch-like or unhealthy. The ground floor windows were within a foot
 of the surface of the water.

 The only approach to the house was over a drawbridge, the chains and
 windlass of which had long been rusted and broken. The latest tenants
 of the Manor House had, however, with characteristic energy, set this
 right, and the drawbridge was not only capable of being raised, but
 actually was raised every evening and lowered every morning. By thus
 renewing the custom of the old feudal days the Manor House was
 converted into an island during the night--a fact which had a very
 direct bearing upon the mystery which was soon to engage the
 attention of all England.

 The house had been untenanted for some years and was threatening to
 moulder into a picturesque decay when the Douglases took possession
 of it. This family consisted of only two individuals--John Douglas
 and his wife. Douglas was a remarkable man, both in character and in
 person. In age he may have been about fifty, with a strong-jawed,
 rugged face, a grizzling moustache, peculiarly keen gray eyes, and a
 wiry, vigorous figure which had lost nothing of the strength and
 activity of youth. He was cheery and genial to all, but somewhat
 offhand in his manners, giving the impression that he had seen life
 in social strata on some far lower horizon than the county society of
 Sussex.

 Yet, though looked at with some curiosity and reserve by his more
 cultivated neighbours, he soon acquired a great popularity among the
 villagers, subscribing handsomely to all local objects, and attending
 their smoking concerts and other functions, where, having a
 remarkably rich tenor voice, he was always ready to oblige with an
 excellent song. He appeared to have plenty of money, which was said
 to have been gained in the California gold fields, and it was clear
 from his own talk and that of his wife that he had spent a part of
 his life in America.

 The good impression which had been produced by his generosity and by
 his democratic manners was increased by a reputation gained for utter
 indifference to danger. Though a wretched rider, he turned out at
 every meet, and took the most amazing falls in his determination to
 hold his own with the best. When the vicarage caught fire he
 distinguished himself also by the fearlessness with which he
 reentered the building to save property, after the local fire brigade
 had given it up as impossible. Thus it came about that John Douglas
 of the Manor House had within five years won himself quite a
 reputation in Birlstone.

 His wife, too, was popular with those who had made her acquaintance;
 though, after the English fashion, the callers upon a stranger who
 settled in the county without introductions were few and far between.
 This mattered the less to her, as she was retiring by disposition,
 and very much absorbed, to all appearance, in her husband and her
 domestic duties. It was known that she was an English lady who had
 met Mr. Douglas in London, he being at that time a widower. She was a
 beautiful woman, tall, dark, and slender, some twenty years younger
 than her husband, a disparity which seemed in no wise to mar the
 contentment of their family life.

 It was remarked sometimes, however, by those who knew them best, that
 the confidence between the two did not appear to be complete, since
 the wife was either very reticent about her husband's past life, or
 else, as seemed more likely, was imperfectly informed about it. It
 had also been noted and commented upon by a few observant people that
 there were signs sometimes of some nerve-strain upon the part of Mrs.
 Douglas, and that she would display acute uneasiness if her absent
 husband should ever be particularly late in his return. On a quiet
 countryside, where all gossip is welcome, this weakness of the lady
 of the Manor House did not pass without remark, and it bulked larger
 upon people's memory when the events arose which gave it a very
 special significance.

 There was yet another individual whose residence under that roof was,
 it is true, only an intermittent one, but whose presence at the time
 of the strange happenings which will now be narrated brought his name
 prominently before the public. This was Cecil James Barker, of Hales
 Lodge, Hampstead.

 Cecil Barker's tall, loose-jointed figure was a familiar one in the
 main street of Birlstone village; for he was a frequent and welcome
 visitor at the Manor House. He was the more noticed as being the only
 friend of the past unknown life of Mr. Douglas who was ever seen in
 his new English surroundings. Barker was himself an undoubted
 Englishman; but by his remarks it was clear that he had first known
 Douglas in America and had there lived on intimate terms with him. He
 appeared to be a man of considerable wealth, and was reputed to be a
 bachelor.

 In age he was rather younger than Douglas--forty-five at the most--a
 tall, straight, broad-chested fellow with a clean-shaved,
 prize-fighter face, thick, strong, black eyebrows, and a pair of
 masterful black eyes which might, even without the aid of his very
 capable hands, clear a way for him through a hostile crowd. He
 neither rode nor shot, but spent his days in wandering round the old
 village with his pipe in his mouth, or in driving with his host, or
 in his absence with his hostess, over the beautiful countryside. "An
 easy-going, free-handed gentleman," said Ames, the butler. "But, my
 word! I had rather not be the man that crossed him!" He was cordial
 and intimate with Douglas, and he was no less friendly with his
 wife--a friendship which more than once seemed to cause some
 irritation to the husband, so that even the servants were able to
 perceive his annoyance. Such was the third person who was one of the
 family when the catastrophe occurred.

 As to the other denizens of the old building, it will suffice out of
 a large household to mention the prim, respectable, and capable Ames,
 and Mrs. Allen, a buxom and cheerful person, who relieved the lady of
 some of her household cares. The other six servants in the house bear
 no relation to the events of the night of January 6th.

 It was at eleven forty-five that the first alarm reached the small
 local police station, in charge of Sergeant Wilson of the Sussex
 Constabulary. Cecil Barker, much excited, had rushed up to the door
 and pealed furiously upon the bell. A terrible tragedy had occurred
 at the Manor House, and John Douglas had been murdered. That was the
 breathless burden of his message. He had hurried back to the house,
 followed within a few minutes by the police sergeant, who arrived at
 the scene of the crime a little after twelve o'clock, after taking
 prompt steps to warn the county authorities that something serious
 was afoot.

 On reaching the Manor House, the sergeant had found the drawbridge
 down, the windows lighted up, and the whole household in a state of
 wild confusion and alarm. The white-faced servants were huddling
 together in the hall, with the frightened butler wringing his hands
 in the doorway. Only Cecil Barker seemed to be master of himself and
 his emotions; he had opened the door which was nearest to the
 entrance and he had beckoned to the sergeant to follow him. At that
 moment there arrived Dr. Wood, a brisk and capable general
 practitioner from the village. The three men entered the fatal room
 together, while the horror-stricken butler followed at their heels,
 closing the door behind him to shut out the terrible scene from the
 maid servants.

 The dead man lay on his back, sprawling with outstretched limbs in
 the centre of the room. He was clad only in a pink dressing gown,
 which covered his night clothes. There were carpet slippers on his
 bare feet. The doctor knelt beside him and held down the hand lamp
 which had stood on the table. One glance at the victim was enough to
 show the healer that his presence could be dispensed with. The man
 had been horribly injured. Lying across his chest was a curious
 weapon, a shotgun with the barrel sawed off a foot in front of the
 triggers. It was clear that this had been fired at close range and
 that he had received the whole charge in the face, blowing his head
 almost to pieces. The triggers had been wired together, so as to make
 the simultaneous discharge more destructive.

 The country policeman was unnerved and troubled by the tremendous
 responsibility which had come so suddenly upon him. "We will touch
 nothing until my superiors arrive," he said in a hushed voice,
 staring in horror at the dreadful head.

 "Nothing has been touched up to now," said Cecil Barker. "I'll answer
 for that. You see it all exactly as I found it."

 "When was that?" The sergeant had drawn out his notebook.

 "It was just half-past eleven. I had not begun to undress, and I was
 sitting by the fire in my bedroom when I heard the report. It was not
 very loud--it seemed to be muffled. I rushed down--I don't suppose it
 was thirty seconds before I was in the room."

 "Was the door open?"

 "Yes, it was open. Poor Douglas was lying as you see him. His bedroom
 candle was burning on the table. It was I who lit the lamp some
 minutes afterward."

 "Did you see no one?"

 "No. I heard Mrs. Douglas coming down the stair behind me, and I
 rushed out to prevent her from seeing this dreadful sight. Mrs.
 Allen, the housekeeper, came and took her away. Ames had arrived, and
 we ran back into the room once more."

 "But surely I have heard that the drawbridge is kept up all night."

 "Yes, it was up until I lowered it."

 "Then how could any murderer have got away? It is out of the
 question! Mr. Douglas must have shot himself."

 "That was our first idea. But see!" Barker drew aside the curtain,
 and showed that the long, diamond-paned window was open to its full
 extent. "And look at this!" He held the lamp down and illuminated a
 smudge of blood like the mark of a boot-sole upon the wooden sill.
 "Someone has stood there in getting out."

 "You mean that someone waded across the moat?"

 "Exactly!"

 "Then if you were in the room within half a minute of the crime, he
 must have been in the water at that very moment."

 "I have not a doubt of it. I wish to heaven that I had rushed to the
 window! But the curtain screened it, as you can see, and so it never
 occurred to me. Then I heard the step of Mrs. Douglas, and I could
 not let her enter the room. It would have been too horrible."

 "Horrible enough!" said the doctor, looking at the shattered head and
 the terrible marks which surrounded it. "I've never seen such
 injuries since the Birlstone railway smash."

 "But, I say," remarked the police sergeant, whose slow, bucolic
 common sense was still pondering the open window. "It's all very well
 your saying that a man escaped by wading this moat, but what I ask
 you is, how did he ever get into the house at all if the bridge was
 up?"

 "Ah, that's the question," said Barker.

 "At what o'clock was it raised?"

 "It was nearly six o'clock," said Ames, the butler.

 "I've heard," said the sergeant, "that it was usually raised at
 sunset. That would be nearer half-past four than six at this time of
 year."

 "Mrs. Douglas had visitors to tea," said Ames. "I couldn't raise it
 until they went. Then I wound it up myself."

 "Then it comes to this," said the sergeant: "If anyone came from
 outside--if they did--they must have got in across the bridge before
 six and been in hiding ever since, until Mr. Douglas came into the
 room after eleven."

 "That is so! Mr. Douglas went round the house every night the last
 thing before he turned in to see that the lights were right. That
 brought him in here. The man was waiting and shot him. Then he got
 away through the window and left his gun behind him. That's how I
 read it; for nothing else will fit the facts."

 The sergeant picked up a card which lay beside the dead man on the
 floor. The initials V. V. and under them the number 341 were rudely
 scrawled in ink upon it.

 "What's this?" he asked, holding it up.

 Barker looked at it with curiosity. "I never noticed it before," he
 said. "The murderer must have left it behind him."

 "V. V.--341. I can make no sense of that."

 The sergeant kept turning it over in his big fingers. "What's V. V.?
 Somebody's initials, maybe. What have you got there, Dr. Wood?"

 It was a good-sized hammer which had been lying on the rug in front
 of the fireplace--a substantial, workmanlike hammer. Cecil Barker
 pointed to a box of brass-headed nails upon the mantelpiece.

 "Mr. Douglas was altering the pictures yesterday," he said. "I saw
 him myself, standing upon that chair and fixing the big picture above
 it. That accounts for the hammer."

 "We'd best put it back on the rug where we found it," said the
 sergeant, scratching his puzzled head in his perplexity. "It will
 want the best brains in the force to get to the bottom of this thing.
 It will be a London job before it is finished." He raised the hand
 lamp and walked slowly round the room. "Hullo!" he cried, excitedly,
 drawing the window curtain to one side. "What o'clock were those
 curtains drawn?"

 "When the lamps were lit," said the butler. "It would be shortly
 after four."

 "Someone had been hiding here, sure enough." He held down the light,
 and the marks of muddy boots were very visible in the corner. "I'm
 bound to say this bears out your theory, Mr. Barker. It looks as if
 the man got into the house after four when the curtains were drawn
 and before six when the bridge was raised. He slipped into this room,
 because it was the first that he saw. There was no other place where
 he could hide, so he popped in behind this curtain. That all seems
 clear enough. It is likely that his main idea was to burgle the
 house; but Mr. Douglas chanced to come upon him, so he murdered him
 and escaped."

 "That's how I read it," said Barker. "But, I say, aren't we wasting
 precious time? Couldn't we start out and scour the country before the
 fellow gets away?"

 The sergeant considered for a moment.

 "There are no trains before six in the morning; so he can't get away
 by rail. If he goes by road with his legs all dripping, it's odds
 that someone will notice him. Anyhow, I can't leave here myself until
 I am relieved. But I think none of you should go until we see more
 clearly how we all stand."

 The doctor had taken the lamp and was narrowly scrutinizing the body.
 "What's this mark?" he asked. "Could this have any connection with
 the crime?"

 The dead man's right arm was thrust out from his dressing gown, and
 exposed as high as the elbow. About halfway up the forearm was a
 curious brown design, a triangle inside a circle, standing out in
 vivid relief upon the lard-coloured skin.

 "It's not tattooed," said the doctor, peering through his glasses. "I
 never saw anything like it. The man has been branded at some time as
 they brand cattle. What is the meaning of this?"

 "I don't profess to know the meaning of it," said Cecil Barker; "but
 I have seen the mark on Douglas many times this last ten years."

 "And so have I," said the butler. "Many a time when the master has
 rolled up his sleeves I have noticed that very mark. I've often
 wondered what it could be."

 "Then it has nothing to do with the crime, anyhow," said the
 sergeant. "But it's a rum thing all the same. Everything about this
 case is rum. Well, what is it now?"

 The butler had given an exclamation of astonishment and was pointing
 at the dead man's outstretched hand.

 "They've taken his wedding ring!" he gasped.

 "What!"

 "Yes, indeed. Master always wore his plain gold wedding ring on the
 little finger of his left hand. That ring with the rough nugget on it
 was above it, and the twisted snake ring on the third finger. There's
 the nugget and there's the snake, but the wedding ring is gone."

 "He's right," said Barker.

 "Do you tell me," said the sergeant, "that the wedding ring was below
 the other?"

 "Always!"

 "Then the murderer, or whoever it was, first took off this ring you
 call the nugget ring, then the wedding ring, and afterwards put the
 nugget ring back again."

 "That is so!"

 The worthy country policeman shook his head. "Seems to me the sooner
 we get London on to this case the better," said he. "White Mason is a
 smart man. No local job has ever been too much for White Mason. It
 won't be long now before he is here to help us. But I expect we'll
 have to look to London before we are through. Anyhow, I'm not ashamed
 to say that it is a deal too thick for the likes of me."





      CHAPTER IV
      Darkness


 At three in the morning the chief Sussex detective, obeying the
 urgent call from Sergeant Wilson of Birlstone, arrived from
 headquarters in a light dog-cart behind a breathless trotter. By the
 five-forty train in the morning he had sent his message to Scotland
 Yard, and he was at the Birlstone station at twelve o'clock to
 welcome us. White Mason was a quiet, comfortable-looking person in a
 loose tweed suit, with a clean-shaved, ruddy face, a stoutish body,
 and powerful bandy legs adorned with gaiters, looking like a small
 farmer, a retired gamekeeper, or anything upon earth except a very
 favourable specimen of the provincial criminal officer.

 "A real downright snorter, Mr. MacDonald!" he kept repeating. "We'll
 have the pressmen down like flies when they understand it. I'm hoping
 we will get our work done before they get poking their noses into it
 and messing up all the trails. There has been nothing like this that
 I can remember. There are some bits that will come home to you, Mr.
 Holmes, or I am mistaken. And you also, Dr. Watson; for the medicos
 will have a word to say before we finish. Your room is at the
 Westville Arms. There's no other place; but I hear that it is clean
 and good. The man will carry your bags. This way, gentlemen, if you
 please."

 He was a very bustling and genial person, this Sussex detective. In
 ten minutes we had all found our quarters. In ten more we were seated
 in the parlour of the inn and being treated to a rapid sketch of
 those events which have been outlined in the previous chapter.
 MacDonald made an occasional note, while Holmes sat absorbed, with
 the expression of surprised and reverent admiration with which the
 botanist surveys the rare and precious bloom.

 "Remarkable!" he said, when the story was unfolded, "most remarkable!
 I can hardly recall any case where the features have been more
 peculiar."

 "I thought you would say so, Mr. Holmes," said White Mason in great
 delight. "We're well up with the times in Sussex. I've told you now
 how matters were, up to the time when I took over from Sergeant
 Wilson between three and four this morning. My word! I made the old
 mare go! But I need not have been in such a hurry, as it turned out;
 for there was nothing immediate that I could do. Sergeant Wilson had
 all the facts. I checked them and considered them and maybe added a
 few of my own."

 "What were they?" asked Holmes eagerly.

 "Well, I first had the hammer examined. There was Dr. Wood there to
 help me. We found no signs of violence upon it. I was hoping that if
 Mr. Douglas defended himself with the hammer, he might have left his
 mark upon the murderer before he dropped it on the mat. But there was
 no stain."

 "That, of course, proves nothing at all," remarked Inspector
 MacDonald. "There has been many a hammer murder and no trace on the
 hammer."

 "Quite so. It doesn't prove it wasn't used. But there might have been
 stains, and that would have helped us. As a matter of fact there were
 none. Then I examined the gun. They were buckshot cartridges, and, as
 Sergeant Wilson pointed out, the triggers were wired together so
 that, if you pulled on the hinder one, both barrels were discharged.
 Whoever fixed that up had made up his mind that he was going to take
 no chances of missing his man. The sawed gun was not more than two
 foot long--one could carry it easily under one's coat. There was no
 complete maker's name; but the printed letters P-E-N were on the
 fluting between the barrels, and the rest of the name had been cut
 off by the saw."

 "A big P with a flourish above it, E and N smaller?" asked Holmes.

 "Exactly."

 "Pennsylvania Small Arms Company--well-known American firm," said
 Holmes.

 White Mason gazed at my friend as the little village practitioner
 looks at the Harley Street specialist who by a word can solve the
 difficulties that perplex him.

 "That is very helpful, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. Wonderful!
 Wonderful! Do you carry the names of all the gun makers in the world
 in your memory?"

 Holmes dismissed the subject with a wave.

 "No doubt it is an American shotgun," White Mason continued. "I seem
 to have read that a sawed-off shotgun is a weapon used in some parts
 of America. Apart from the name upon the barrel, the idea had
 occurred to me. There is some evidence then, that this man who
 entered the house and killed its master was an American."

 MacDonald shook his head. "Man, you are surely travelling overfast,"
 said he. "I have heard no evidence yet that any stranger was ever in
 the house at all."

 "The open window, the blood on the sill, the queer card, the marks of
 boots in the corner, the gun!"

 "Nothing there that could not have been arranged. Mr. Douglas was an
 American, or had lived long in America. So had Mr. Barker. You don't
 need to import an American from outside in order to account for
 American doings."

 "Ames, the butler--"

 "What about him? Is he reliable?"

 "Ten years with Sir Charles Chandos--as solid as a rock. He has been
 with Douglas ever since he took the Manor House five years ago. He
 has never seen a gun of this sort in the house."

 "The gun was made to conceal. That's why the barrels were sawed. It
 would fit into any box. How could he swear there was no such gun in
 the house?"

 "Well, anyhow, he had never seen one."

 MacDonald shook his obstinate Scotch head. "I'm not convinced yet
 that there was ever anyone in the house," said he. "I'm asking you to
 conseedar" (his accent became more Aberdonian as he lost himself in
 his argument) "I'm asking you to conseedar what it involves if you
 suppose that this gun was ever brought into the house, and that all
 these strange things were done by a person from outside. Oh, man,
 it's just inconceivable! It's clean against common sense! I put it to
 you, Mr. Holmes, judging it by what we have heard."

 "Well, state your case, Mr. Mac," said Holmes in his most judicial
 style.

 "The man is not a burglar, supposing that he ever existed. The ring
 business and the card point to premeditated murder for some private
 reason. Very good. Here is a man who slips into a house with the
 deliberate intention of committing murder. He knows, if he knows
 anything, that he will have a deeficulty in making his escape, as the
 house is surrounded with water. What weapon would he choose? You
 would say the most silent in the world. Then he could hope when the
 deed was done to slip quickly from the window, to wade the moat, and
 to get away at his leisure. That's understandable. But is it
 understandable that he should go out of his way to bring with him the
 most noisy weapon he could select, knowing well that it will fetch
 every human being in the house to the spot as quick as they can run,
 and that it is all odds that he will be seen before he can get across
 the moat? Is that credible, Mr. Holmes?"

 "Well, you put the case strongly," my friend replied thoughtfully.
 "It certainly needs a good deal of justification. May I ask, Mr.
 White Mason, whether you examined the farther side of the moat at
 once to see if there were any signs of the man having climbed out
 from the water?"

 "There were no signs, Mr. Holmes. But it is a stone ledge, and one
 could hardly expect them."

 "No tracks or marks?"

 "None."

 "Ha! Would there be any objection, Mr. White Mason, to our going down
 to the house at once? There may possibly be some small point which
 might be suggestive."

 "I was going to propose it, Mr. Holmes; but I thought it well to put
 you in touch with all the facts before we go. I suppose if anything
 should strike you--" White Mason looked doubtfully at the amateur.

 "I have worked with Mr. Holmes before," said Inspector MacDonald. "He
 plays the game."

 "My own idea of the game, at any rate," said Holmes, with a smile. "I
 go into a case to help the ends of justice and the work of the
 police. If I have ever separated myself from the official force, it
 is because they have first separated themselves from me. I have no
 wish ever to score at their expense. At the same time, Mr. White
 Mason, I claim the right to work in my own way and give my results at
 my own time--complete rather than in stages."

 "I am sure we are honoured by your presence and to show you all we
 know," said White Mason cordially. "Come along, Dr. Watson, and when
 the time comes we'll all hope for a place in your book."

 We walked down the quaint village street with a row of pollarded elms
 on each side of it. Just beyond were two ancient stone pillars,
 weather-stained and lichen-blotched bearing upon their summits a
 shapeless something which had once been the rampant lion of Capus of
 Birlstone. A short walk along the winding drive with such sward and
 oaks around it as one only sees in rural England, then a sudden turn,
 and the long, low Jacobean house of dingy, liver-coloured brick lay
 before us, with an old-fashioned garden of cut yews on each side of
 it. As we approached it, there was the wooden drawbridge and the
 beautiful broad moat as still and luminous as quicksilver in the
 cold, winter sunshine.

 Three centuries had flowed past the old Manor House, centuries of
 births and of homecomings, of country dances and of the meetings of
 fox hunters. Strange that now in its old age this dark business
 should have cast its shadow upon the venerable walls! And yet those
 strange, peaked roofs and quaint, overhung gables were a fitting
 covering to grim and terrible intrigue. As I looked at the deep-set
 windows and the long sweep of the dull-coloured, water-lapped front,
 I felt that no more fitting scene could be set for such a tragedy.

 "That's the window," said White Mason, "that one on the immediate
 right of the drawbridge. It's open just as it was found last night."

 "It looks rather narrow for a man to pass."

 "Well, it wasn't a fat man, anyhow. We don't need your deductions,
 Mr. Holmes, to tell us that. But you or I could squeeze through all
 right."

 Holmes walked to the edge of the moat and looked across. Then he
 examined the stone ledge and the grass border beyond it.

 "I've had a good look, Mr. Holmes," said White Mason. "There is
 nothing there, no sign that anyone has landed--but why should he
 leave any sign?"

 "Exactly. Why should he? Is the water always turbid?"

 "Generally about this colour. The stream brings down the clay."

 "How deep is it?"

 "About two feet at each side and three in the middle."

 "So we can put aside all idea of the man having been drowned in
 crossing."

 "No, a child could not be drowned in it."

 We walked across the drawbridge, and were admitted by a quaint,
 gnarled, dried-up person, who was the butler, Ames. The poor old
 fellow was white and quivering from the shock. The village sergeant,
 a tall, formal, melancholy man, still held his vigil in the room of
 Fate. The doctor had departed.

 "Anything fresh, Sergeant Wilson?" asked White Mason.

 "No, sir."

 "Then you can go home. You've had enough. We can send for you if we
 want you. The butler had better wait outside. Tell him to warn Mr.
 Cecil Barker, Mrs. Douglas, and the housekeeper that we may want a
 word with them presently. Now, gentlemen, perhaps you will allow me
 to give you the views I have formed first, and then you will be able
 to arrive at your own."

 He impressed me, this country specialist. He had a solid grip of fact
 and a cool, clear, common-sense brain, which should take him some way
 in his profession. Holmes listened to him intently, with no sign of
 that impatience which the official exponent too often produced.

 "Is it suicide, or is it murder--that's our first question,
 gentlemen, is it not? If it were suicide, then we have to believe
 that this man began by taking off his wedding ring and concealing it;
 that he then came down here in his dressing gown, trampled mud into a
 corner behind the curtain in order to give the idea someone had
 waited for him, opened the window, put blood on the--"

 "We can surely dismiss that," said MacDonald.

 "So I think. Suicide is out of the question. Then a murder has been
 done. What we have to determine is, whether it was done by someone
 outside or inside the house."

 "Well, let's hear the argument."

 "There are considerable difficulties both ways, and yet one or the
 other it must be. We will suppose first that some person or persons
 inside the house did the crime. They got this man down here at a time
 when everything was still and yet no one was asleep. They then did
 the deed with the queerest and noisiest weapon in the world so as to
 tell everyone what had happened--a weapon that was never seen in the
 house before. That does not seem a very likely start, does it?"

 "No, it does not."

 "Well, then, everyone is agreed that after the alarm was given only a
 minute at the most had passed before the whole household--not Mr.
 Cecil Barker alone, though he claims to have been the first, but Ames
 and all of them were on the spot. Do you tell me that in that time
 the guilty person managed to make footmarks in the corner, open the
 window, mark the sill with blood, take the wedding ring off the dead
 man's finger, and all the rest of it? It's impossible!"

 "You put it very clearly," said Holmes. "I am inclined to agree with
 you."

 "Well, then, we are driven back to the theory that it was done by
 someone from outside. We are still faced with some big difficulties;
 but anyhow they have ceased to be impossibilities. The man got into
 the house between four-thirty and six; that is to say, between dusk
 and the time when the bridge was raised. There had been some
 visitors, and the door was open; so there was nothing to prevent him.
 He may have been a common burglar, or he may have had some private
 grudge against Mr. Douglas. Since Mr. Douglas has spent most of his
 life in America, and this shotgun seems to be an American weapon, it
 would seem that the private grudge is the more likely theory. He
 slipped into this room because it was the first he came to, and he
 hid behind the curtain. There he remained until past eleven at night.
 At that time Mr. Douglas entered the room. It was a short interview,
 if there were any interview at all; for Mrs. Douglas declares that
 her husband had not left her more than a few minutes when she heard
 the shot."

 "The candle shows that," said Holmes.

 "Exactly. The candle, which was a new one, is not burned more than
 half an inch. He must have placed it on the table before he was
 attacked; otherwise, of course, it would have fallen when he fell.
 This shows that he was not attacked the instant that he entered the
 room. When Mr. Barker arrived the candle was lit and the lamp was
 out."

 "That's all clear enough."

 "Well, now, we can reconstruct things on those lines. Mr. Douglas
 enters the room. He puts down the candle. A man appears from behind
 the curtain. He is armed with this gun. He demands the wedding
 ring--Heaven only knows why, but so it must have been. Mr. Douglas
 gave it up. Then either in cold blood or in the course of a
 struggle--Douglas may have gripped the hammer that was found upon the
 mat--he shot Douglas in this horrible way. He dropped his gun and
 also it would seem this queer card--V. V. 341, whatever that may
 mean--and he made his escape through the window and across the moat
 at the very moment when Cecil Barker was discovering the crime. How's
 that, Mr. Holmes?"

 "Very interesting, but just a little unconvincing."

 "Man, it would be absolute nonsense if it wasn't that anything else
 is even worse!" cried MacDonald. "Somebody killed the man, and
 whoever it was I could clearly prove to you that he should have done
 it some other way. What does he mean by allowing his retreat to be
 cut off like that? What does he mean by using a shotgun when silence
 was his one chance of escape? Come, Mr. Holmes, it's up to you to
 give us a lead, since you say Mr. White Mason's theory is
 unconvincing."

 Holmes had sat intently observant during this long discussion,
 missing no word that was said, with his keen eyes darting to right
 and to left, and his forehead wrinkled with speculation.

 "I should like a few more facts before I get so far as a theory, Mr.
 Mac," said he, kneeling down beside the body. "Dear me! these
 injuries are really appalling. Can we have the butler in for a
 moment? ... Ames, I understand that you have often seen this very
 unusual mark--a branded triangle inside a circle--upon Mr. Douglas's
 forearm?"

 "Frequently, sir."

 "You never heard any speculation as to what it meant?"

 "No, sir."

 "It must have caused great pain when it was inflicted. It is
 undoubtedly a burn. Now, I observe, Ames, that there is a small piece
 of plaster at the angle of Mr. Douglas's jaw. Did you observe that in
 life?"

 "Yes, sir, he cut himself in shaving yesterday morning."

 "Did you ever know him to cut himself in shaving before?"

 "Not for a very long time, sir."

 "Suggestive!" said Holmes. "It may, of course, be a mere coincidence,
 or it may point to some nervousness which would indicate that he had
 reason to apprehend danger. Had you noticed anything unusual in his
 conduct, yesterday, Ames?"

 "It struck me that he was a little restless and excited, sir."

 "Ha! The attack may not have been entirely unexpected. We do seem to
 make a little progress, do we not? Perhaps you would rather do the
 questioning, Mr. Mac?"

 "No, Mr. Holmes, it's in better hands than mine."

 "Well, then, we will pass to this card--V. V. 341. It is rough
 cardboard. Have you any of the sort in the house?"

 "I don't think so."

 Holmes walked across to the desk and dabbed a little ink from each
 bottle on to the blotting paper. "It was not printed in this room,"
 he said; "this is black ink and the other purplish. It was done by a
 thick pen, and these are fine. No, it was done elsewhere, I should
 say. Can you make anything of the inscription, Ames?"

 "No, sir, nothing."

 "What do you think, Mr. Mac?"

 "It gives me the impression of a secret society of some sort; the
 same with his badge upon the forearm."

 "That's my idea, too," said White Mason.

 "Well, we can adopt it as a working hypothesis and then see how far
 our difficulties disappear. An agent from such a society makes his
 way into the house, waits for Mr. Douglas, blows his head nearly off
 with this weapon, and escapes by wading the moat, after leaving a
 card beside the dead man, which will when mentioned in the papers,
 tell other members of the society that vengeance has been done. That
 all hangs together. But why this gun, of all weapons?"

 "Exactly."

 "And why the missing ring?"

 "Quite so."

 "And why no arrest? It's past two now. I take it for granted that
 since dawn every constable within forty miles has been looking out
 for a wet stranger?"

 "That is so, Mr. Holmes."

 "Well, unless he has a burrow close by or a change of clothes ready,
 they can hardly miss him. And yet they have missed him up to now!"
 Holmes had gone to the window and was examining with his lens the
 blood mark on the sill. "It is clearly the tread of a shoe. It is
 remarkably broad; a splay-foot, one would say. Curious, because, so
 far as one can trace any footmark in this mud-stained corner, one
 would say it was a more shapely sole. However, they are certainly
 very indistinct. What's this under the side table?"

 "Mr. Douglas's dumb-bells," said Ames.

 "Dumb-bell--there's only one. Where's the other?"

 "I don't know, Mr. Holmes. There may have been only one. I have not
 noticed them for months."

 "One dumb-bell--" Holmes said seriously; but his remarks were
 interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

 A tall, sunburned, capable-looking, clean-shaved man looked in at us.
 I had no difficulty in guessing that it was the Cecil Barker of whom
 I had heard. His masterful eyes travelled quickly with a questioning
 glance from face to face.

 "Sorry to interrupt your consultation," said he, "but you should hear
 the latest news."

 "An arrest?"

 "No such luck. But they've found his bicycle. The fellow left his
 bicycle behind him. Come and have a look. It is within a hundred
 yards of the hall door."

 We found three or four grooms and idlers standing in the drive
 inspecting a bicycle which had been drawn out from a clump of
 evergreens in which it had been concealed. It was a well used
 Rudge-Whitworth, splashed as from a considerable journey. There was a
 saddlebag with spanner and oilcan, but no clue as to the owner.

 "It would be a grand help to the police," said the inspector, "if
 these things were numbered and registered. But we must be thankful
 for what we've got. If we can't find where he went to, at least we
 are likely to get where he came from. But what in the name of all
 that is wonderful made the fellow leave it behind? And how in the
 world has he got away without it? We don't seem to get a gleam of
 light in the case, Mr. Holmes."

 "Don't we?" my friend answered thoughtfully. "I wonder!"





      CHAPTER V
      The People Of the Drama


 "Have you seen all you want of the study?" asked White Mason as we
 reentered the house.

 "For the time," said the inspector, and Holmes nodded.

 "Then perhaps you would now like to hear the evidence of some of the
 people in the house. We could use the dining-room, Ames. Please come
 yourself first and tell us what you know."

 The butler's account was a simple and a clear one, and he gave a
 convincing impression of sincerity. He had been engaged five years
 before, when Douglas first came to Birlstone. He understood that Mr.
 Douglas was a rich gentleman who had made his money in America. He
 had been a kind and considerate employer--not quite what Ames was
 used to, perhaps; but one can't have everything. He never saw any
 signs of apprehension in Mr. Douglas: on the contrary, he was the
 most fearless man he had ever known. He ordered the drawbridge to be
 pulled up every night because it was the ancient custom of the old
 house, and he liked to keep the old ways up.

 Mr. Douglas seldom went to London or left the village; but on the day
 before the crime he had been shopping at Tunbridge Wells. He (Ames)
 had observed some restlessness and excitement on the part of Mr.
 Douglas that day; for he had seemed impatient and irritable, which
 was unusual with him. He had not gone to bed that night; but was in
 the pantry at the back of the house, putting away the silver, when he
 heard the bell ring violently. He heard no shot; but it was hardly
 possible he would, as the pantry and kitchens were at the very back
 of the house and there were several closed doors and a long passage
 between. The housekeeper had come out of her room, attracted by the
 violent ringing of the bell. They had gone to the front of the house
 together.

 As they reached the bottom of the stair he had seen Mrs. Douglas
 coming down it. No, she was not hurrying; it did not seem to him that
 she was particularly agitated. Just as she reached the bottom of the
 stair Mr. Barker had rushed out of the study. He had stopped Mrs.
 Douglas and begged her to go back.

 "For God's sake, go back to your room!" he cried. "Poor Jack is dead!
 You can do nothing. For God's sake, go back!"

 After some persuasion upon the stairs Mrs. Douglas had gone back. She
 did not scream. She made no outcry whatever. Mrs. Allen, the
 housekeeper, had taken her upstairs and stayed with her in the
 bedroom. Ames and Mr. Barker had then returned to the study, where
 they had found everything exactly as the police had seen it. The
 candle was not lit at that time; but the lamp was burning. They had
 looked out of the window; but the night was very dark and nothing
 could be seen or heard. They had then rushed out into the hall, where
 Ames had turned the windlass which lowered the drawbridge. Mr. Barker
 had then hurried off to get the police.

 Such, in its essentials, was the evidence of the butler.

 The account of Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, was, so far as it went, a
 corroboration of that of her fellow servant. The housekeeper's room
 was rather nearer to the front of the house than the pantry in which
 Ames had been working. She was preparing to go to bed when the loud
 ringing of the bell had attracted her attention. She was a little
 hard of hearing. Perhaps that was why she had not heard the shot; but
 in any case the study was a long way off. She remembered hearing some
 sound which she imagined to be the slamming of a door. That was a
 good deal earlier--half an hour at least before the ringing of the
 bell. When Mr. Ames ran to the front she went with him. She saw Mr.
 Barker, very pale and excited, come out of the study. He intercepted
 Mrs. Douglas, who was coming down the stairs. He entreated her to go
 back, and she answered him, but what she said could not be heard.

 "Take her up! Stay with her!" he had said to Mrs. Allen.

 She had therefore taken her to the bedroom, and endeavoured to soothe
 her. She was greatly excited, trembling all over, but made no other
 attempt to go downstairs. She just sat in her dressing gown by her
 bedroom fire, with her head sunk in her hands. Mrs. Allen stayed with
 her most of the night. As to the other servants, they had all gone to
 bed, and the alarm did not reach them until just before the police
 arrived. They slept at the extreme back of the house, and could not
 possibly have heard anything.

 So far the housekeeper could add nothing on cross-examination save
 lamentations and expressions of amazement.

 Cecil Barker succeeded Mrs. Allen as a witness. As to the occurrences
 of the night before, he had very little to add to what he had already
 told the police. Personally, he was convinced that the murderer had
 escaped by the window. The bloodstain was conclusive, in his opinion,
 on that point. Besides, as the bridge was up, there was no other
 possible way of escaping. He could not explain what had become of the
 assassin or why he had not taken his bicycle, if it were indeed his.
 He could not possibly have been drowned in the moat, which was at no
 place more than three feet deep.

 In his own mind he had a very definite theory about the murder.
 Douglas was a reticent man, and there were some chapters in his life
 of which he never spoke. He had emigrated to America when he was a
 very young man. He had prospered well, and Barker had first met him
 in California, where they had become partners in a successful mining
 claim at a place called Benito Canyon. They had done very well; but
 Douglas had suddenly sold out and started for England. He was a
 widower at that time. Barker had afterwards realized his money and
 come to live in London. Thus they had renewed their friendship.

 Douglas had given him the impression that some danger was hanging
 over his head, and he had always looked upon his sudden departure
 from California, and also his renting a house in so quiet a place in
 England, as being connected with this peril. He imagined that some
 secret society, some implacable organization, was on Douglas's track,
 which would never rest until it killed him. Some remarks of his had
 given him this idea; though he had never told him what the society
 was, nor how he had come to offend it. He could only suppose that the
 legend upon the placard had some reference to this secret society.

 "How long were you with Douglas in California?" asked Inspector
 MacDonald.

 "Five years altogether."

 "He was a bachelor, you say?"

 "A widower."

 "Have you ever heard where his first wife came from?"

 "No, I remember his saying that she was of German extraction, and I
 have seen her portrait. She was a very beautiful woman. She died of
 typhoid the year before I met him."

 "You don't associate his past with any particular part of America?"

 "I have heard him talk of Chicago. He knew that city well and had
 worked there. I have heard him talk of the coal and iron districts.
 He had travelled a good deal in his time."

 "Was he a politician? Had this secret society to do with politics?"

 "No, he cared nothing about politics."

 "You have no reason to think it was criminal?"

 "On the contrary, I never met a straighter man in my life."

 "Was there anything curious about his life in California?"

 "He liked best to stay and to work at our claim in the mountains. He
 would never go where other men were if he could help it. That's why I
 first thought that someone was after him. Then when he left so
 suddenly for Europe I made sure that it was so. I believe that he had
 a warning of some sort. Within a week of his leaving half a dozen men
 were inquiring for him."

 "What sort of men?"

 "Well, they were a mighty hard-looking crowd. They came up to the
 claim and wanted to know where he was. I told them that he was gone
 to Europe and that I did not know where to find him. They meant him
 no good--it was easy to see that."

 "Were these men Americans--Californians?"

 "Well, I don't know about Californians. They were Americans, all
 right. But they were not miners. I don't know what they were, and was
 very glad to see their backs."

 "That was six years ago?"

 "Nearer seven."

 "And then you were together five years in California, so that this
 business dates back not less than eleven years at the least?"

 "That is so."

 "It must be a very serious feud that would be kept up with such
 earnestness for as long as that. It would be no light thing that
 would give rise to it."

 "I think it shadowed his whole life. It was never quite out of his
 mind."

 "But if a man had a danger hanging over him, and knew what it was,
 don't you think he would turn to the police for protection?"

 "Maybe it was some danger that he could not be protected against.
 There's one thing you should know. He always went about armed. His
 revolver was never out of his pocket. But, by bad luck, he was in his
 dressing gown and had left it in the bedroom last night. Once the
 bridge was up, I guess he thought he was safe."

 "I should like these dates a little clearer," said MacDonald. "It is
 quite six years since Douglas left California. You followed him next
 year, did you not?"

 "That is so."

 "And he had been married five years. You must have returned about the
 time of his marriage."

 "About a month before. I was his best man."

 "Did you know Mrs. Douglas before her marriage?"

 "No, I did not. I had been away from England for ten years."

 "But you have seen a good deal of her since."

 Barker looked sternly at the detective. "I have seen a good deal of
 him since," he answered. "If I have seen her, it is because you
 cannot visit a man without knowing his wife. If you imagine there is
 any connection--"

 "I imagine nothing, Mr. Barker. I am bound to make every inquiry
 which can bear upon the case. But I mean no offense."

 "Some inquiries are offensive," Barker answered angrily.

 "It's only the facts that we want. It is in your interest and
 everyone's interest that they should be cleared up. Did Mr. Douglas
 entirely approve your friendship with his wife?"

 Barker grew paler, and his great, strong hands were clasped
 convulsively together. "You have no right to ask such questions!" he
 cried. "What has this to do with the matter you are investigating?"

 "I must repeat the question."

 "Well, I refuse to answer."

 "You can refuse to answer; but you must be aware that your refusal is
 in itself an answer, for you would not refuse if you had not
 something to conceal."

 Barker stood for a moment with his face set grimly and his strong
 black eyebrows drawn low in intense thought. Then he looked up with a
 smile. "Well, I guess you gentlemen are only doing your clear duty
 after all, and I have no right to stand in the way of it. I'd only
 ask you not to worry Mrs. Douglas over this matter; for she has
 enough upon her just now. I may tell you that poor Douglas had just
 one fault in the world, and that was his jealousy. He was fond of
 me--no man could be fonder of a friend. And he was devoted to his
 wife. He loved me to come here, and was forever sending for me. And
 yet if his wife and I talked together or there seemed any sympathy
 between us, a kind of wave of jealousy would pass over him, and he
 would be off the handle and saying the wildest things in a moment.
 More than once I've sworn off coming for that reason, and then he
 would write me such penitent, imploring letters that I just had to.
 But you can take it from me, gentlemen, if it was my last word, that
 no man ever had a more loving, faithful wife--and I can say also no
 friend could be more loyal than I!"

 It was spoken with fervour and feeling, and yet Inspector MacDonald
 could not dismiss the subject.

 "You are aware," said he, "that the dead man's wedding ring has been
 taken from his finger?"

 "So it appears," said Barker.

 "What do you mean by 'appears'? You know it as a fact."

 The man seemed confused and undecided. "When I said 'appears' I meant
 that it was conceivable that he had himself taken off the ring."

 "The mere fact that the ring should be absent, whoever may have
 removed it, would suggest to anyone's mind, would it not, that the
 marriage and the tragedy were connected?"

 Barker shrugged his broad shoulders. "I can't profess to say what it
 means." he answered. "But if you mean to hint that it could reflect
 in any way upon this lady's honour"--his eyes blazed for an instant,
 and then with an evident effort he got a grip upon his own
 emotions--"well, you are on the wrong track, that's all."

 "I don't know that I've anything else to ask you at present," said
 MacDonald, coldly.

 "There was one small point," remarked Sherlock Holmes. "When you
 entered the room there was only a candle lighted on the table, was
 there not?"

 "Yes, that was so."

 "By its light you saw that some terrible incident had occurred?"

 "Exactly."

 "You at once rang for help?"

 "Yes."

 "And it arrived very speedily?"

 "Within a minute or so."

 "And yet when they arrived they found that the candle was out and
 that the lamp had been lighted. That seems very remarkable."

 Again Barker showed some signs of indecision. "I don't see that it
 was remarkable, Mr. Holmes," he answered after a pause. "The candle
 threw a very bad light. My first thought was to get a better one. The
 lamp was on the table; so I lit it."

 "And blew out the candle?"

 "Exactly."

 Holmes asked no further question, and Barker, with a deliberate look
 from one to the other of us, which had, as it seemed to me, something
 of defiance in it, turned and left the room.

 Inspector MacDonald had sent up a note to the effect that he would
 wait upon Mrs. Douglas in her room; but she had replied that she
 would meet us in the dining room. She entered now, a tall and
 beautiful woman of thirty, reserved and self-possessed to a
 remarkable degree, very different from the tragic and distracted
 figure I had pictured. It is true that her face was pale and drawn,
 like that of one who has endured a great shock; but her manner was
 composed, and the finely moulded hand which she rested upon the edge
 of the table was as steady as my own. Her sad, appealing eyes
 travelled from one to the other of us with a curiously inquisitive
 expression. That questioning gaze transformed itself suddenly into
 abrupt speech.

 "Have you found anything out yet?" she asked.

 Was it my imagination that there was an undertone of fear rather than
 of hope in the question?

 "We have taken every possible step, Mrs. Douglas," said the
 inspector. "You may rest assured that nothing will be neglected."

 "Spare no money," she said in a dead, even tone. "It is my desire
 that every possible effort should be made."

 "Perhaps you can tell us something which may throw some light upon
 the matter."

 "I fear not; but all I know is at your service."

 "We have heard from Mr. Cecil Barker that you did not actually
 see--that you were never in the room where the tragedy occurred?"

 "No, he turned me back upon the stairs. He begged me to return to my
 room."

 "Quite so. You had heard the shot, and you had at once come down."

 "I put on my dressing gown and then came down."

 "How long was it after hearing the shot that you were stopped on the
 stair by Mr. Barker?"

 "It may have been a couple of minutes. It is so hard to reckon time
 at such a moment. He implored me not to go on. He assured me that I
 could do nothing. Then Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, led me upstairs
 again. It was all like some dreadful dream."

 "Can you give us any idea how long your husband had been downstairs
 before you heard the shot?"

 "No, I cannot say. He went from his dressing room, and I did not hear
 him go. He did the round of the house every night, for he was nervous
 of fire. It is the only thing that I have ever known him nervous of."

 "That is just the point which I want to come to, Mrs. Douglas. You
 have known your husband only in England, have you not?"

 "Yes, we have been married five years."

 "Have you heard him speak of anything which occurred in America and
 might bring some danger upon him?"

 Mrs. Douglas thought earnestly before she answered. "Yes." she said
 at last, "I have always felt that there was a danger hanging over
 him. He refused to discuss it with me. It was not from want of
 confidence in me--there was the most complete love and confidence
 between us--but it was out of his desire to keep all alarm away from
 me. He thought I should brood over it if I knew all, and so he was
 silent."

 "How did you know it, then?"

 Mrs. Douglas's face lit with a quick smile. "Can a husband ever carry
 about a secret all his life and a woman who loves him have no
 suspicion of it? I knew it by his refusal to talk about some episodes
 in his American life. I knew it by certain precautions he took. I
 knew it by certain words he let fall. I knew it by the way he looked
 at unexpected strangers. I was perfectly certain that he had some
 powerful enemies, that he believed they were on his track, and that
 he was always on his guard against them. I was so sure of it that for
 years I have been terrified if ever he came home later than was
 expected."

 "Might I ask," asked Holmes, "what the words were which attracted
 your attention?"

 "The Valley of Fear," the lady answered. "That was an expression he
 has used when I questioned him. 'I have been in the Valley of Fear. I
 am not out of it yet.'--'Are we never to get out of the Valley of
 Fear?' I have asked him when I have seen him more serious than usual.
 'Sometimes I think that we never shall,' he has answered."

 "Surely you asked him what he meant by the Valley of Fear?"

 "I did; but his face would become very grave and he would shake his
 head. 'It is bad enough that one of us should have been in its
 shadow,' he said. 'Please God it shall never fall upon you!' It was
 some real valley in which he had lived and in which something
 terrible had occurred to him, of that I am certain; but I can tell
 you no more."

 "And he never mentioned any names?"

 "Yes, he was delirious with fever once when he had his hunting
 accident three years ago. Then I remember that there was a name that
 came continually to his lips. He spoke it with anger and a sort of
 horror. McGinty was the name--Bodymaster McGinty. I asked him when he
 recovered who Bodymaster McGinty was, and whose body he was master
 of. 'Never of mine, thank God!' he answered with a laugh, and that
 was all I could get from him. But there is a connection between
 Bodymaster McGinty and the Valley of Fear."

 "There is one other point," said Inspector MacDonald. "You met Mr.
 Douglas in a boarding house in London, did you not, and became
 engaged to him there? Was there any romance, anything secret or
 mysterious, about the wedding?"

 "There was romance. There is always romance. There was nothing
 mysterious."

 "He had no rival?"

 "No, I was quite free."

 "You have heard, no doubt, that his wedding ring has been taken. Does
 that suggest anything to you? Suppose that some enemy of his old life
 had tracked him down and committed this crime, what possible reason
 could he have for taking his wedding ring?"

 For an instant I could have sworn that the faintest shadow of a smile
 flickered over the woman's lips.

 "I really cannot tell," she answered. "It is certainly a most
 extraordinary thing."

 "Well, we will not detain you any longer, and we are sorry to have
 put you to this trouble at such a time," said the inspector. "There
 are some other points, no doubt; but we can refer to you as they
 arise."

 She rose, and I was again conscious of that quick, questioning glance
 with which she had just surveyed us. "What impression has my evidence
 made upon you?" The question might as well have been spoken. Then,
 with a bow, she swept from the room.

 "She's a beautiful woman--a very beautiful woman," said MacDonald
 thoughtfully, after the door had closed behind her. "This man Barker
 has certainly been down here a good deal. He is a man who might be
 attractive to a woman. He admits that the dead man was jealous, and
 maybe he knew best himself what cause he had for jealousy. Then
 there's that wedding ring. You can't get past that. The man who tears
 a wedding ring off a dead man's--What do you say to it, Mr. Holmes?"

 My friend had sat with his head upon his hands, sunk in the deepest
 thought. Now he rose and rang the bell. "Ames," he said, when the
 butler entered, "where is Mr. Cecil Barker now?"

 "I'll see, sir."

 He came back in a moment to say that Barker was in the garden.

 "Can you remember, Ames, what Mr. Barker had on his feet last night
 when you joined him in the study?"

 "Yes, Mr. Holmes. He had a pair of bedroom slippers. I brought him
 his boots when he went for the police."

 "Where are the slippers now?"

 "They are still under the chair in the hall."

 "Very good, Ames. It is, of course, important for us to know which
 tracks may be Mr. Barker's and which from outside."

 "Yes, sir. I may say that I noticed that the slippers were stained
 with blood--so indeed were my own."

 "That is natural enough, considering the condition of the room. Very
 good, Ames. We will ring if we want you."

 A few minutes later we were in the study. Holmes had brought with him
 the carpet slippers from the hall. As Ames had observed, the soles of
 both were dark with blood.

 "Strange!" murmured Holmes, as he stood in the light of the window
 and examined them minutely. "Very strange indeed!"

 Stooping with one of his quick feline pounces, he placed the slipper
 upon the blood mark on the sill. It exactly corresponded. He smiled
 in silence at his colleagues.

 The inspector was transfigured with excitement. His native accent
 rattled like a stick upon railings.

 "Man," he cried, "there's not a doubt of it! Barker has just marked
 the window himself. It's a good deal broader than any bootmark. I
 mind that you said it was a splay-foot, and here's the explanation.
 But what's the game, Mr. Holmes--what's the game?"

 "Ay, what's the game?" my friend repeated thoughtfully.

 White Mason chuckled and rubbed his fat hands together in his
 professional satisfaction. "I said it was a snorter!" he cried. "And
 a real snorter it is!"





      CHAPTER VI
      A Dawning Light


 The three detectives had many matters of detail into which to
 inquire; so I returned alone to our modest quarters at the village
 inn. But before doing so I took a stroll in the curious old-world
 garden which flanked the house. Rows of very ancient yew trees cut
 into strange designs girded it round. Inside was a beautiful stretch
 of lawn with an old sundial in the middle, the whole effect so
 soothing and restful that it was welcome to my somewhat jangled
 nerves.

 In that deeply peaceful atmosphere one could forget, or remember only
 as some fantastic nightmare, that darkened study with the sprawling,
 bloodstained figure on the floor. And yet, as I strolled round it and
 tried to steep my soul in its gentle balm, a strange incident
 occurred, which brought me back to the tragedy and left a sinister
 impression in my mind.

 I have said that a decoration of yew trees circled the garden. At the
 end farthest from the house they thickened into a continuous hedge.
 On the other side of this hedge, concealed from the eyes of anyone
 approaching from the direction of the house, there was a stone seat.
 As I approached the spot I was aware of voices, some remark in the
 deep tones of a man, answered by a little ripple of feminine
 laughter.

 An instant later I had come round the end of the hedge and my eyes
 lit upon Mrs. Douglas and the man Barker before they were aware of my
 presence. Her appearance gave me a shock. In the dining-room she had
 been demure and discreet. Now all pretense of grief had passed away
 from her. Her eyes shone with the joy of living, and her face still
 quivered with amusement at some remark of her companion. He sat
 forward, his hands clasped and his forearms on his knees, with an
 answering smile upon his bold, handsome face. In an instant--but it
 was just one instant too late--they resumed their solemn masks as my
 figure came into view. A hurried word or two passed between them, and
 then Barker rose and came towards me.

 "Excuse me, sir," said he, "but am I addressing Dr. Watson?"

 I bowed with a coldness which showed, I dare say, very plainly the
 impression which had been produced upon my mind.

 "We thought that it was probably you, as your friendship with Mr.
 Sherlock Holmes is so well known. Would you mind coming over and
 speaking to Mrs. Douglas for one instant?"

 I followed him with a dour face. Very clearly I could see in my
 mind's eye that shattered figure on the floor. Here within a few
 hours of the tragedy were his wife and his nearest friend laughing
 together behind a bush in the garden which had been his. I greeted
 the lady with reserve. I had grieved with her grief in the
 dining-room. Now I met her appealing gaze with an unresponsive eye.

 "I fear that you think me callous and hard-hearted," said she.

 I shrugged my shoulders. "It is no business of mine," said I.

 "Perhaps some day you will do me justice. If you only realized--"

 "There is no need why Dr. Watson should realize," said Barker
 quickly. "As he has himself said, it is no possible business of his."

 "Exactly," said I, "and so I will beg leave to resume my walk."

 "One moment, Dr. Watson," cried the woman in a pleading voice. "There
 is one question which you can answer with more authority than anyone
 else in the world, and it may make a very great difference to me. You
 know Mr. Holmes and his relations with the police better than anyone
 else can. Supposing that a matter were brought confidentially to his
 knowledge, is it absolutely necessary that he should pass it on to
 the detectives?"

 "Yes, that's it," said Barker eagerly. "Is he on his own or is he
 entirely in with them?"

 "I really don't know that I should be justified in discussing such a
 point."

 "I beg--I implore that you will, Dr. Watson! I assure you that you
 will be helping us--helping me greatly if you will guide us on that
 point."

 There was such a ring of sincerity in the woman's voice that for the
 instant I forgot all about her levity and was moved only to do her
 will.

 "Mr. Holmes is an independent investigator," I said. "He is his own
 master, and would act as his own judgment directed. At the same time,
 he would naturally feel loyalty towards the officials who were
 working on the same case, and he would not conceal from them anything
 which would help them in bringing a criminal to justice. Beyond this
 I can say nothing, and I would refer you to Mr. Holmes himself if you
 wanted fuller information."

 So saying I raised my hat and went upon my way, leaving them still
 seated behind that concealing hedge. I looked back as I rounded the
 far end of it, and saw that they were still talking very earnestly
 together, and, as they were gazing after me, it was clear that it was
 our interview that was the subject of their debate.

 "I wish none of their confidences," said Holmes, when I reported to
 him what had occurred. He had spent the whole afternoon at the Manor
 House in consultation with his two colleagues, and returned about
 five with a ravenous appetite for a high tea which I had ordered for
 him. "No confidences, Watson; for they are mighty awkward if it comes
 to an arrest for conspiracy and murder."

 "You think it will come to that?"

 He was in his most cheerful and debonair humour. "My dear Watson,
 when I have exterminated that fourth egg I shall be ready to put you
 in touch with the whole situation. I don't say that we have fathomed
 it--far from it--but when we have traced the missing dumb-bell--"

 "The dumb-bell!"

 "Dear me, Watson, is it possible that you have not penetrated the
 fact that the case hangs upon the missing dumb-bell? Well, well, you
 need not be downcast; for between ourselves I don't think that either
 Inspector Mac or the excellent local practitioner has grasped the
 overwhelming importance of this incident. One dumb-bell, Watson!
 Consider an athlete with one dumb-bell! Picture to yourself the
 unilateral development, the imminent danger of a spinal curvature.
 Shocking, Watson, shocking!"

 He sat with his mouth full of toast and his eyes sparkling with
 mischief, watching my intellectual entanglement. The mere sight of
 his excellent appetite was an assurance of success, for I had very
 clear recollections of days and nights without a thought of food,
 when his baffled mind had chafed before some problem while his thin,
 eager features became more attenuated with the asceticism of complete
 mental concentration. Finally he lit his pipe, and sitting in the
 inglenook of the old village inn he talked slowly and at random about
 his case, rather as one who thinks aloud than as one who makes a
 considered statement.

 "A lie, Watson--a great, big, thumping, obtrusive, uncompromising
 lie--that's what meets us on the threshold! There is our starting
 point. The whole story told by Barker is a lie. But Barker's story is
 corroborated by Mrs. Douglas. Therefore she is lying also. They are
 both lying, and in a conspiracy. So now we have the clear problem.
 Why are they lying, and what is the truth which they are trying so
 hard to conceal? Let us try, Watson, you and I, if we can get behind
 the lie and reconstruct the truth.

 "How do I know that they are lying? Because it is a clumsy
 fabrication which simply could not be true. Consider! According to
 the story given to us, the assassin had less than a minute after the
 murder had been committed to take that ring, which was under another
 ring, from the dead man's finger, to replace the other ring--a thing
 which he would surely never have done--and to put that singular card
 beside his victim. I say that this was obviously impossible.

 "You may argue--but I have too much respect for your judgment,
 Watson, to think that you will do so--that the ring may have been
 taken before the man was killed. The fact that the candle had been
 lit only a short time shows that there had been no lengthy interview.
 Was Douglas, from what we hear of his fearless character, a man who
 would be likely to give up his wedding ring at such short notice, or
 could we conceive of his giving it up at all? No, no, Watson, the
 assassin was alone with the dead man for some time with the lamp lit.
 Of that I have no doubt at all.

 "But the gunshot was apparently the cause of death. Therefore the
 shot must have been fired some time earlier than we are told. But
 there could be no mistake about such a matter as that. We are in the
 presence, therefore, of a deliberate conspiracy upon the part of the
 two people who heard the gunshot--of the man Barker and of the woman
 Douglas. When on the top of this I am able to show that the blood
 mark on the windowsill was deliberately placed there by Barker, in
 order to give a false clue to the police, you will admit that the
 case grows dark against him.

 "Now we have to ask ourselves at what hour the murder actually did
 occur. Up to half-past ten the servants were moving about the house;
 so it was certainly not before that time. At a quarter to eleven they
 had all gone to their rooms with the exception of Ames, who was in
 the pantry. I have been trying some experiments after you left us
 this afternoon, and I find that no noise which MacDonald can make in
 the study can penetrate to me in the pantry when the doors are all
 shut.

 "It is otherwise, however, from the housekeeper's room. It is not so
 far down the corridor, and from it I could vaguely hear a voice when
 it was very loudly raised. The sound from a shotgun is to some extent
 muffled when the discharge is at very close range, as it undoubtedly
 was in this instance. It would not be very loud, and yet in the
 silence of the night it should have easily penetrated to Mrs. Allen's
 room. She is, as she has told us, somewhat deaf; but none the less
 she mentioned in her evidence that she did hear something like a door
 slamming half an hour before the alarm was given. Half an hour before
 the alarm was given would be a quarter to eleven. I have no doubt
 that what she heard was the report of the gun, and that this was the
 real instant of the murder.

 "If this is so, we have now to determine what Barker and Mrs.
 Douglas, presuming that they are not the actual murderers, could have
 been doing from quarter to eleven, when the sound of the shot brought
 them down, until quarter past eleven, when they rang the bell and
 summoned the servants. What were they doing, and why did they not
 instantly give the alarm? That is the question which faces us, and
 when it has been answered we shall surely have gone some way to solve
 our problem."

 "I am convinced myself," said I, "that there is an understanding
 between those two people. She must be a heartless creature to sit
 laughing at some jest within a few hours of her husband's murder."

 "Exactly. She does not shine as a wife even in her own account of
 what occurred. I am not a whole-souled admirer of womankind, as you
 are aware, Watson, but my experience of life has taught me that there
 are few wives, having any regard for their husbands, who would let
 any man's spoken word stand between them and that husband's dead
 body. Should I ever marry, Watson, I should hope to inspire my wife
 with some feeling which would prevent her from being walked off by a
 housekeeper when my corpse was lying within a few yards of her. It
 was badly stage-managed; for even the rawest investigators must be
 struck by the absence of the usual feminine ululation. If there had
 been nothing else, this incident alone would have suggested a
 prearranged conspiracy to my mind."

 "You think then, definitely, that Barker and Mrs. Douglas are guilty
 of the murder?"

 "There is an appalling directness about your questions, Watson," said
 Holmes, shaking his pipe at me. "They come at me like bullets. If you
 put it that Mrs. Douglas and Barker know the truth about the murder,
 and are conspiring to conceal it, then I can give you a whole-souled
 answer. I am sure they do. But your more deadly proposition is not so
 clear. Let us for a moment consider the difficulties which stand in
 the way.

 "We will suppose that this couple are united by the bonds of a guilty
 love, and that they have determined to get rid of the man who stands
 between them. It is a large supposition; for discreet inquiry among
 servants and others has failed to corroborate it in any way. On the
 contrary, there is a good deal of evidence that the Douglases were
 very attached to each other."

 "That, I am sure, cannot he true." said I, thinking of the beautiful
 smiling face in the garden.

 "Well at least they gave that impression. However, we will suppose
 that they are an extraordinarily astute couple, who deceive everyone
 upon this point, and conspire to murder the husband. He happens to be
 a man over whose head some danger hangs--"

 "We have only their word for that."

 Holmes looked thoughtful. "I see, Watson. You are sketching out a
 theory by which everything they say from the beginning is false.
 According to your idea, there was never any hidden menace, or secret
 society, or Valley of Fear, or Boss MacSomebody, or anything else.
 Well, that is a good sweeping generalization. Let us see what that
 brings us to. They invent this theory to account for the crime. They
 then play up to the idea by leaving this bicycle in the park as proof
 of the existence of some outsider. The stain on the windowsill
 conveys the same idea. So does the card on the body, which might have
 been prepared in the house. That all fits into your hypothesis,
 Watson. But now we come on the nasty, angular, uncompromising bits
 which won't slip into their places. Why a cut-off shotgun of all
 weapons--and an American one at that? How could they be so sure that
 the sound of it would not bring someone on to them? It's a mere
 chance as it is that Mrs. Allen did not start out to inquire for the
 slamming door. Why did your guilty couple do all this, Watson?"

 "I confess that I can't explain it."

 "Then again, if a woman and her lover conspire to murder a husband,
 are they going to advertise their guilt by ostentatiously removing
 his wedding ring after his death? Does that strike you as very
 probable, Watson?"

 "No, it does not."

 "And once again, if the thought of leaving a bicycle concealed
 outside had occurred to you, would it really have seemed worth doing
 when the dullest detective would naturally say this is an obvious
 blind, as the bicycle is the first thing which the fugitive needed in
 order to make his escape."

 "I can conceive of no explanation."

 "And yet there should be no combination of events for which the wit
 of man cannot conceive an explanation. Simply as a mental exercise,
 without any assertion that it is true, let me indicate a possible
 line of thought. It is, I admit, mere imagination; but how often is
 imagination the mother of truth?

 "We will suppose that there was a guilty secret, a really shameful
 secret in the life of this man Douglas. This leads to his murder by
 someone who is, we will suppose, an avenger, someone from outside.
 This avenger, for some reason which I confess I am still at a loss to
 explain, took the dead man's wedding ring. The vendetta might
 conceivably date back to the man's first marriage, and the ring be
 taken for some such reason.

 "Before this avenger got away, Barker and the wife had reached the
 room. The assassin convinced them that any attempt to arrest him
 would lead to the publication of some hideous scandal. They were
 converted to this idea, and preferred to let him go. For this purpose
 they probably lowered the bridge, which can be done quite
 noiselessly, and then raised it again. He made his escape, and for
 some reason thought that he could do so more safely on foot than on
 the bicycle. He therefore left his machine where it would not be
 discovered until he had got safely away. So far we are within the
 bounds of possibility, are we not?"

 "Well, it is possible, no doubt," said I, with some reserve.

 "We have to remember, Watson, that whatever occurred is certainly
 something very extraordinary. Well, now, to continue our
 supposititious case, the couple--not necessarily a guilty
 couple--realize after the murderer is gone that they have placed
 themselves in a position in which it may be difficult for them to
 prove that they did not themselves either do the deed or connive at
 it. They rapidly and rather clumsily met the situation. The mark was
 put by Barker's bloodstained slipper upon the window-sill to suggest
 how the fugitive got away. They obviously were the two who must have
 heard the sound of the gun; so they gave the alarm exactly as they
 would have done, but a good half hour after the event."

 "And how do you propose to prove all this?"

 "Well, if there were an outsider, he may be traced and taken. That
 would be the most effective of all proofs. But if not--well, the
 resources of science are far from being exhausted. I think that an
 evening alone in that study would help me much."

 "An evening alone!"

 "I propose to go up there presently. I have arranged it with the
 estimable Ames, who is by no means whole-hearted about Barker. I
 shall sit in that room and see if its atmosphere brings me
 inspiration. I'm a believer in the genius loci. You smile, Friend
 Watson. Well, we shall see. By the way, you have that big umbrella of
 yours, have you not?"

 "It is here."

 "Well, I'll borrow that if I may."

 "Certainly--but what a wretched weapon! If there is danger--"

 "Nothing serious, my dear Watson, or I should certainly ask for your
 assistance. But I'll take the umbrella. At present I am only awaiting
 the return of our colleagues from Tunbridge Wells, where they are at
 present engaged in trying for a likely owner to the bicycle."

 It was nightfall before Inspector MacDonald and White Mason came back
 from their expedition, and they arrived exultant, reporting a great
 advance in our investigation.

 "Man, I'll admeet that I had my doubts if there was ever an
 outsider," said MacDonald, "but that's all past now. We've had the
 bicycle identified, and we have a description of our man; so that's a
 long step on our journey."

 "It sounds to me like the beginning of the end," said Holmes. "I'm
 sure I congratulate you both with all my heart."

 "Well, I started from the fact that Mr. Douglas had seemed disturbed
 since the day before, when he had been at Tunbridge Wells. It was at
 Tunbridge Wells then that he had become conscious of some danger. It
 was clear, therefore, that if a man had come over with a bicycle it
 was from Tunbridge Wells that he might be expected to have come. We
 took the bicycle over with us and showed it at the hotels. It was
 identified at once by the manager of the Eagle Commercial as
 belonging to a man named Hargrave, who had taken a room there two
 days before. This bicycle and a small valise were his whole
 belongings. He had registered his name as coming from London, but had
 given no address. The valise was London made, and the contents were
 British; but the man himself was undoubtedly an American."

 "Well, well," said Holmes gleefully, "you have indeed done some solid
 work while I have been sitting spinning theories with my friend! It's
 a lesson in being practical, Mr. Mac."

 "Ay, it's just that, Mr. Holmes," said the inspector with
 satisfaction.

 "But this may all fit in with your theories," I remarked.

 "That may or may not be. But let us hear the end, Mr. Mac. Was there
 nothing to identify this man?"

 "So little that it was evident that he had carefully guarded himself
 against identification. There were no papers or letters, and no
 marking upon the clothes. A cycle map of the county lay on his
 bedroom table. He had left the hotel after breakfast yesterday
 morning on his bicycle, and no more was heard of him until our
 inquiries."

 "That's what puzzles me, Mr. Holmes," said White Mason. "If the
 fellow did not want the hue and cry raised over him, one would
 imagine that he would have returned and remained at the hotel as an
 inoffensive tourist. As it is, he must know that he will be reported
 to the police by the hotel manager and that his disappearance will be
 connected with the murder."

 "So one would imagine. Still, he has been justified of his wisdom up
 to date, at any rate, since he has not been taken. But his
 description--what of that?"

 MacDonald referred to his notebook. "Here we have it so far as they
 could give it. They don't seem to have taken any very particular
 stock of him; but still the porter, the clerk, and the chambermaid
 are all agreed that this about covers the points. He was a man about
 five foot nine in height, fifty or so years of age, his hair slightly
 grizzled, a grayish moustache, a curved nose, and a face which all of
 them described as fierce and forbidding."

 "Well, bar the expression, that might almost be a description of
 Douglas himself," said Holmes. "He is just over fifty, with grizzled
 hair and moustache, and about the same height. Did you get anything
 else?"

 "He was dressed in a heavy gray suit with a reefer jacket, and he
 wore a short yellow overcoat and a soft cap."

 "What about the shotgun?"

 "It is less than two feet long. It could very well have fitted into
 his valise. He could have carried it inside his overcoat without
 difficulty."

 "And how do you consider that all this bears upon the general case?"

 "Well, Mr. Holmes," said MacDonald, "when we have got our man--and
 you may be sure that I had his description on the wires within five
 minutes of hearing it--we shall be better able to judge. But, even as
 it stands, we have surely gone a long way. We know that an American
 calling himself Hargrave came to Tunbridge Wells two days ago with
 bicycle and valise. In the latter was a sawed-off shotgun; so he came
 with the deliberate purpose of crime. Yesterday morning he set off
 for this place on his bicycle, with his gun concealed in his
 overcoat. No one saw him arrive, so far as we can learn; but he need
 not pass through the village to reach the park gates, and there are
 many cyclists upon the road. Presumably he at once concealed his
 cycle among the laurels where it was found, and possibly lurked there
 himself, with his eye on the house, waiting for Mr. Douglas to come
 out. The shotgun is a strange weapon to use inside a house; but he
 had intended to use it outside, and there it has very obvious
 advantages, as it would be impossible to miss with it, and the sound
 of shots is so common in an English sporting neighbourhood that no
 particular notice would be taken."

 "That is all very clear," said Holmes.

 "Well, Mr. Douglas did not appear. What was he to do next? He left
 his bicycle and approached the house in the twilight. He found the
 bridge down and no one about. He took his chance, intending, no
 doubt, to make some excuse if he met anyone. He met no one. He
 slipped into the first room that he saw, and concealed himself behind
 the curtain. Thence he could see the drawbridge go up, and he knew
 that his only escape was through the moat. He waited until
 quarter-past eleven, when Mr. Douglas upon his usual nightly round
 came into the room. He shot him and escaped, as arranged. He was
 aware that the bicycle would be described by the hotel people and be
 a clue against him; so he left it there and made his way by some
 other means to London or to some safe hiding place which he had
 already arranged. How is that, Mr. Holmes?"

 "Well, Mr. Mac, it is very good and very clear so far as it goes.
 That is your end of the story. My end is that the crime was committed
 half an hour earlier than reported; that Mrs. Douglas and Barker are
 both in a conspiracy to conceal something; that they aided the
 murderer's escape--or at least that they reached the room before he
 escaped--and that they fabricated evidence of his escape through the
 window, whereas in all probability they had themselves let him go by
 lowering the bridge. That's my reading of the first half."

 The two detectives shook their heads.

 "Well, Mr. Holmes, if this is true, we only tumble out of one mystery
 into another," said the London inspector.

 "And in some ways a worse one," added White Mason. "The lady has
 never been in America in all her life. What possible connection could
 she have with an American assassin which would cause her to shelter
 him?"

 "I freely admit the difficulties," said Holmes. "I propose to make a
 little investigation of my own to-night, and it is just possible that
 it may contribute something to the common cause."

 "Can we help you, Mr. Holmes?"

 "No, no! Darkness and Dr. Watson's umbrella--my wants are simple. And
 Ames, the faithful Ames, no doubt he will stretch a point for me. All
 my lines of thought lead me back invariably to the one basic
 question--why should an athletic man develop his frame upon so
 unnatural an instrument as a single dumb-bell?"

 It was late that night when Holmes returned from his solitary
 excursion. We slept in a double-bedded room, which was the best that
 the little country inn could do for us. I was already asleep when I
 was partly awakened by his entrance.

 "Well, Holmes," I murmured, "have you found anything out?"

 He stood beside me in silence, his candle in his hand. Then the tall,
 lean figure inclined towards me. "I say, Watson," he whispered,
 "would you be afraid to sleep in the same room with a lunatic, a man
 with softening of the brain, an idiot whose mind has lost its grip?"

 "Not in the least," I answered in astonishment.

 "Ah, that's lucky," he said, and not another word would he utter that
 night.





      CHAPTER VII
      The Solution


 Next morning, after breakfast, we found Inspector MacDonald and White
 Mason seated in close consultation in the small parlour of the local
 police sergeant. On the table in front of them were piled a number of
 letters and telegrams, which they were carefully sorting and
 docketing. Three had been placed on one side.

 "Still on the track of the elusive bicyclist?" Holmes asked
 cheerfully. "What is the latest news of the ruffian?"

 MacDonald pointed ruefully to his heap of correspondence.

 "He is at present reported from Leicester, Nottingham, Southampton,
 Derby, East Ham, Richmond, and fourteen other places. In three of
 them--East Ham, Leicester, and Liverpool--there is a clear case
 against him, and he has actually been arrested. The country seems to
 be full of the fugitives with yellow coats."

 "Dear me!" said Holmes sympathetically. "Now, Mr. Mac and you, Mr.
 White Mason, I wish to give you a very earnest piece of advice. When
 I went into this case with you I bargained, as you will no doubt
 remember, that I should not present you with half-proved theories,
 but that I should retain and work out my own ideas until I had
 satisfied myself that they were correct. For this reason I am not at
 the present moment telling you all that is in my mind. On the other
 hand, I said that I would play the game fairly by you, and I do not
 think it is a fair game to allow you for one unnecessary moment to
 waste your energies upon a profitless task. Therefore I am here to
 advise you this morning, and my advice to you is summed up in three
 words--abandon the case."

 MacDonald and White Mason stared in amazement at their celebrated
 colleague.

 "You consider it hopeless!" cried the inspector.

 "I consider your case to be hopeless. I do not consider that it is
 hopeless to arrive at the truth."

 "But this cyclist. He is not an invention. We have his description,
 his valise, his bicycle. The fellow must be somewhere. Why should we
 not get him?"

 "Yes, yes, no doubt he is somewhere, and no doubt we shall get him;
 but I would not have you waste your energies in East Ham or
 Liverpool. I am sure that we can find some shorter cut to a result."

 "You are holding something back. It's hardly fair of you, Mr.
 Holmes." The inspector was annoyed.

 "You know my methods of work, Mr. Mac. But I will hold it back for
 the shortest time possible. I only wish to verify my details in one
 way, which can very readily be done, and then I make my bow and
 return to London, leaving my results entirely at your service. I owe
 you too much to act otherwise; for in all my experience I cannot
 recall any more singular and interesting study."

 "This is clean beyond me, Mr. Holmes. We saw you when we returned
 from Tunbridge Wells last night, and you were in general agreement
 with our results. What has happened since then to give you a
 completely new idea of the case?"

 "Well, since you ask me, I spent, as I told you that I would, some
 hours last night at the Manor House."

 "Well, what happened?"

 "Ah, I can only give you a very general answer to that for the
 moment. By the way, I have been reading a short but clear and
 interesting account of the old building, purchasable at the modest
 sum of one penny from the local tobacconist."

 Here Holmes drew a small tract, embellished with a rude engraving of
 the ancient Manor House, from his waistcoat pocket.

 "It immensely adds to the zest of an investigation, my dear Mr. Mac,
 when one is in conscious sympathy with the historical atmosphere of
 one's surroundings. Don't look so impatient; for I assure you that
 even so bald an account as this raises some sort of picture of the
 past in one's mind. Permit me to give you a sample. 'Erected in the
 fifth year of the reign of James I, and standing upon the site of a
 much older building, the Manor House of Birlstone presents one of the
 finest surviving examples of the moated Jacobean residence--' "

 "You are making fools of us, Mr. Holmes!"

 "Tut, tut, Mr. Mac!--the first sign of temper I have detected in you.
 Well, I won't read it verbatim, since you feel so strongly upon the
 subject. But when I tell you that there is some account of the taking
 of the place by a parliamentary colonel in 1644, of the concealment
 of Charles for several days in the course of the Civil War, and
 finally of a visit there by the second George, you will admit that
 there are various associations of interest connected with this
 ancient house."

 "I don't doubt it, Mr. Holmes; but that is no business of ours."

 "Is it not? Is it not? Breadth of view, my dear Mr. Mac, is one of
 the essentials of our profession. The interplay of ideas and the
 oblique uses of knowledge are often of extraordinary interest. You
 will excuse these remarks from one who, though a mere connoisseur of
 crime, is still rather older and perhaps more experienced than
 yourself."

 "I'm the first to admit that," said the detective heartily. "You get
 to your point, I admit; but you have such a deuced round-the-corner
 way of doing it."

 "Well, well, I'll drop past history and get down to present-day
 facts. I called last night, as I have already said, at the Manor
 House. I did not see either Barker or Mrs. Douglas. I saw no
 necessity to disturb them; but I was pleased to hear that the lady
 was not visibly pining and that she had partaken of an excellent
 dinner. My visit was specially made to the good Mr. Ames, with whom I
 exchanged some amiabilities, which culminated in his allowing me,
 without reference to anyone else, to sit alone for a time in the
 study."

 "What! With that?" I ejaculated.

 "No, no, everything is now in order. You gave permission for that,
 Mr. Mac, as I am informed. The room was in its normal state, and in
 it I passed an instructive quarter of an hour."

 "What were you doing?"

 "Well, not to make a mystery of so simple a matter, I was looking for
 the missing dumb-bell. It has always bulked rather large in my
 estimate of the case. I ended by finding it."

 "Where?"

 "Ah, there we come to the edge of the unexplored. Let me go a little
 further, a very little further, and I will promise that you shall
 share everything that I know."

 "Well, we're bound to take you on your own terms," said the
 inspector; "but when it comes to telling us to abandon the case--why
 in the name of goodness should we abandon the case?"

 "For the simple reason, my dear Mr. Mac, that you have not got the
 first idea what it is that you are investigating."

 "We are investigating the murder of Mr. John Douglas of Birlstone
 Manor."

 "Yes, yes, so you are. But don't trouble to trace the mysterious
 gentleman upon the bicycle. I assure you that it won't help you."

 "Then what do you suggest that we do?"

 "I will tell you exactly what to do, if you will do it."

 "Well, I'm bound to say I've always found you had reason behind all
 your queer ways. I'll do what you advise."

 "And you, Mr. White Mason?"

 The country detective looked helplessly from one to the other. Holmes
 and his methods were new to him. "Well, if it is good enough for the
 inspector, it is good enough for me," he said at last.

 "Capital!" said Holmes. "Well, then, I should recommend a nice,
 cheery country walk for both of you. They tell me that the views from
 Birlstone Ridge over the Weald are very remarkable. No doubt lunch
 could be got at some suitable hostelry; though my ignorance of the
 country prevents me from recommending one. In the evening, tired but
 happy--"

 "Man, this is getting past a joke!" cried MacDonald, rising angrily
 from his chair.

 "Well, well, spend the day as you like," said Holmes, patting him
 cheerfully upon the shoulder. "Do what you like and go where you
 will, but meet me here before dusk without fail--without fail, Mr.
 Mac."

 "That sounds more like sanity."

 "All of it was excellent advice; but I don't insist, so long as you
 are here when I need you. But now, before we part, I want you to
 write a note to Mr. Barker."

 "Well?"

 "I'll dictate it, if you like. Ready?

 "Dear Sir:
 "It has struck me that it is our duty to drain the moat, in the hope
 that we may find some--"

 "It's impossible," said the inspector. "I've made inquiry."

 "Tut, tut! My dear sir, please do what I ask you."

 "Well, go on."

 "--in the hope that we may find something which may bear upon our
 investigation. I have made arrangements, and the workmen will be at
 work early to-morrow morning diverting the stream--"

 "Impossible!"

 "--diverting the stream; so I thought it best to explain matters
 beforehand.

 "Now sign that, and send it by hand about four o'clock. At that hour
 we shall meet again in this room. Until then we may each do what we
 like; for I can assure you that this inquiry has come to a definite
 pause."

 Evening was drawing in when we reassembled. Holmes was very serious
 in his manner, myself curious, and the detectives obviously critical
 and annoyed.

 "Well, gentlemen," said my friend gravely, "I am asking you now to
 put everything to the test with me, and you will judge for yourselves
 whether the observations I have made justify the conclusions to which
 I have come. It is a chill evening, and I do not know how long our
 expedition may last; so I beg that you will wear your warmest coats.
 It is of the first importance that we should be in our places before
 it grows dark; so with your permission we shall get started at once."

 We passed along the outer bounds of the Manor House park until we
 came to a place where there was a gap in the rails which fenced it.
 Through this we slipped, and then in the gathering gloom we followed
 Holmes until we had reached a shrubbery which lies nearly opposite to
 the main door and the drawbridge. The latter had not been raised.
 Holmes crouched down behind the screen of laurels, and we all three
 followed his example.

 "Well, what are we to do now?" asked MacDonald with some gruffness.

 "Possess our souls in patience and make as little noise as possible,"
 Holmes answered.

 "What are we here for at all? I really think that you might treat us
 with more frankness."

 Holmes laughed. "Watson insists that I am the dramatist in real
 life," said he. "Some touch of the artist wells up within me, and
 calls insistently for a well-staged performance. Surely our
 profession, Mr. Mac, would be a drab and sordid one if we did not
 sometimes set the scene so as to glorify our results. The blunt
 accusation, the brutal tap upon the shoulder--what can one make of
 such a dÃ©nouement? But the quick inference, the subtle trap, the
 clever forecast of coming events, the triumphant vindication of bold
 theories--are these not the pride and the justification of our life's
 work? At the present moment you thrill with the glamour of the
 situation and the anticipation of the hunt. Where would be that
 thrill if I had been as definite as a timetable? I only ask a little
 patience, Mr. Mac, and all will be clear to you."

 "Well, I hope the pride and justification and the rest of it will
 come before we all get our death of cold," said the London detective
 with comic resignation.

 We all had good reason to join in the aspiration; for our vigil was a
 long and bitter one. Slowly the shadows darkened over the long,
 sombre face of the old house. A cold, damp reek from the moat chilled
 us to the bones and set our teeth chattering. There was a single lamp
 over the gateway and a steady globe of light in the fatal study.
 Everything else was dark and still.

 "How long is this to last?" asked the inspector finally. "And what is
 it we are watching for?"

 "I have no more notion than you how long it is to last," Holmes
 answered with some asperity. "If criminals would always schedule
 their movements like railway trains, it would certainly be more
 convenient for all of us. As to what it is we--Well, that's what we
 are watching for!"

 As he spoke the bright, yellow light in the study was obscured by
 somebody passing to and fro before it. The laurels among which we lay
 were immediately opposite the window and not more than a hundred feet
 from it. Presently it was thrown open with a whining of hinges, and
 we could dimly see the dark outline of a man's head and shoulders
 looking out into the gloom. For some minutes he peered forth in
 furtive, stealthy fashion, as one who wishes to be assured that he is
 unobserved. Then he leaned forward, and in the intense silence we
 were aware of the soft lapping of agitated water. He seemed to be
 stirring up the moat with something which he held in his hand. Then
 suddenly he hauled something in as a fisherman lands a fish--some
 large, round object which obscured the light as it was dragged
 through the open casement.

 "Now!" cried Holmes. "Now!"

 We were all upon our feet, staggering after him with our stiffened
 limbs, while he ran swiftly across the bridge and rang violently at
 the bell. There was the rasping of bolts from the other side, and the
 amazed Ames stood in the entrance. Holmes brushed him aside without a
 word and, followed by all of us, rushed into the room which had been
 occupied by the man whom we had been watching.

 The oil lamp on the table represented the glow which we had seen from
 outside. It was now in the hand of Cecil Barker, who held it towards
 us as we entered. Its light shone upon his strong, resolute,
 clean-shaved face and his menacing eyes.

 "What the devil is the meaning of all this?" he cried. "What are you
 after, anyhow?"

 Holmes took a swift glance round, and then pounced upon a sodden
 bundle tied together with cord which lay where it had been thrust
 under the writing table.

 "This is what we are after, Mr. Barker--this bundle, weighted with a
 dumb-bell, which you have just raised from the bottom of the moat."

 Barker stared at Holmes with amazement in his face. "How in thunder
 came you to know anything about it?" he asked.

 "Simply that I put it there."

 "You put it there! You!"

 "Perhaps I should have said 'replaced it there,'" said Holmes. "You
 will remember, Inspector MacDonald, that I was somewhat struck by the
 absence of a dumb-bell. I drew your attention to it; but with the
 pressure of other events you had hardly the time to give it the
 consideration which would have enabled you to draw deductions from
 it. When water is near and a weight is missing it is not a very
 far-fetched supposition that something has been sunk in the water.
 The idea was at least worth testing; so with the help of Ames, who
 admitted me to the room, and the crook of Dr. Watson's umbrella, I
 was able last night to fish up and inspect this bundle.

 "It was of the first importance, however, that we should be able to
 prove who placed it there. This we accomplished by the very obvious
 device of announcing that the moat would be dried to-morrow, which
 had, of course, the effect that whoever had hidden the bundle would
 most certainly withdraw it the moment that darkness enabled him to do
 so. We have no less than four witnesses as to who it was who took
 advantage of the opportunity, and so, Mr. Barker, I think the word
 lies now with you."

 Sherlock Holmes put the sopping bundle upon the table beside the lamp
 and undid the cord which bound it. From within he extracted a
 dumb-bell, which he tossed down to its fellow in the corner. Next he
 drew forth a pair of boots. "American, as you perceive," he remarked,
 pointing to the toes. Then he laid upon the table a long, deadly,
 sheathed knife. Finally he unravelled a bundle of clothing,
 comprising a complete set of underclothes, socks, a gray tweed suit,
 and a short yellow overcoat.

 "The clothes are commonplace," remarked Holmes, "save only the
 overcoat, which is full of suggestive touches." He held it tenderly
 towards the light. "Here, as you perceive, is the inner pocket
 prolonged into the lining in such fashion as to give ample space for
 the truncated fowling piece. The tailor's tab is on the neck--'Neal,
 Outfitter, Vermissa, U. S. A.' I have spent an instructive afternoon
 in the rector's library, and have enlarged my knowledge by adding the
 fact that Vermissa is a flourishing little town at the head of one of
 the best known coal and iron valleys in the United States. I have
 some recollection, Mr. Barker, that you associated the coal districts
 with Mr. Douglas's first wife, and it would surely not be too
 far-fetched an inference that the V. V. upon the card by the dead
 body might stand for Vermissa Valley, or that this very valley which
 sends forth emissaries of murder may be that Valley of Fear of which
 we have heard. So much is fairly clear. And now, Mr. Barker, I seem
 to be standing rather in the way of your explanation."

 It was a sight to see Cecil Barker's expressive face during this
 exposition of the great detective. Anger, amazement, consternation,
 and indecision swept over it in turn. Finally he took refuge in a
 somewhat acrid irony.

 "You know such a lot, Mr. Holmes, perhaps you had better tell us some
 more," he sneered.

 "I have no doubt that I could tell you a great deal more, Mr. Barker;
 but it would come with a better grace from you."

 "Oh, you think so, do you? Well, all I can say is that if there's any
 secret here it is not my secret, and I am not the man to give it
 away."

 "Well, if you take that line, Mr. Barker," said the inspector
 quietly, "we must just keep you in sight until we have the warrant
 and can hold you."

 "You can do what you damn please about that," said Barker defiantly.

 The proceedings seemed to have come to a definite end so far as he
 was concerned; for one had only to look at that granite face to
 realize that no peine forte et dure would ever force him to plead
 against his will. The deadlock was broken, however, by a woman's
 voice. Mrs. Douglas had been standing listening at the half opened
 door, and now she entered the room.

 "You have done enough for now, Cecil," said she. "Whatever comes of
 it in the future, you have done enough."

 "Enough and more than enough," remarked Sherlock Holmes gravely. "I
 have every sympathy with you, madam, and should strongly urge you to
 have some confidence in the common sense of our jurisdiction and to
 take the police voluntarily into your complete confidence. It may be
 that I am myself at fault for not following up the hint which you
 conveyed to me through my friend, Dr. Watson; but, at that time I had
 every reason to believe that you were directly concerned in the
 crime. Now I am assured that this is not so. At the same time, there
 is much that is unexplained, and I should strongly recommend that you
 ask Mr. Douglas to tell us his own story."

 Mrs. Douglas gave a cry of astonishment at Holmes's words. The
 detectives and I must have echoed it, when we were aware of a man who
 seemed to have emerged from the wall, who advanced now from the gloom
 of the corner in which he had appeared. Mrs. Douglas turned, and in
 an instant her arms were round him. Barker had seized his
 outstretched hand.

 "It's best this way, Jack," his wife repeated; "I am sure that it is
 best."

 "Indeed, yes, Mr. Douglas," said Sherlock Holmes, "I am sure that you
 will find it best."

 The man stood blinking at us with the dazed look of one who comes
 from the dark into the light. It was a remarkable face, bold gray
 eyes, a strong, short-clipped, grizzled moustache, a square,
 projecting chin, and a humorous mouth. He took a good look at us all,
 and then to my amazement he advanced to me and handed me a bundle of
 paper.

 "I've heard of you," said he in a voice which was not quite English
 and not quite American, but was altogether mellow and pleasing. "You
 are the historian of this bunch. Well, Dr. Watson, you've never had
 such a story as that pass through your hands before, and I'll lay my
 last dollar on that. Tell it your own way; but there are the facts,
 and you can't miss the public so long as you have those. I've been
 cooped up two days, and I've spent the daylight hours--as much
 daylight as I could get in that rat trap--in putting the thing into
 words. You're welcome to them--you and your public. There's the story
 of the Valley of Fear."

 "That's the past, Mr. Douglas," said Sherlock Holmes quietly. "What
 we desire now is to hear your story of the present."

 "You'll have it, sir," said Douglas. "May I smoke as I talk? Well,
 thank you, Mr. Holmes. You're a smoker yourself, if I remember right,
 and you'll guess what it is to be sitting for two days with tobacco
 in your pocket and afraid that the smell will give you away." He
 leaned against the mantelpiece and sucked at the cigar which Holmes
 had handed him. "I've heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I never guessed that
 I should meet you. But before you are through with that," he nodded
 at my papers, "you will say I've brought you something fresh."

 Inspector MacDonald had been staring at the newcomer with the
 greatest amazement. "Well, this fairly beats me!" he cried at last.
 "If you are Mr. John Douglas of Birlstone Manor, then whose death
 have we been investigating for these two days, and where in the world
 have you sprung from now? You seemed to me to come out of the floor
 like a jack-in-a-box."

 "Ah, Mr. Mac," said Holmes, shaking a reproving forefinger, "you
 would not read that excellent local compilation which described the
 concealment of King Charles. People did not hide in those days
 without excellent hiding places, and the hiding place that has once
 been used may be again. I had persuaded myself that we should find
 Mr. Douglas under this roof."

 "And how long have you been playing this trick upon us, Mr. Holmes?"
 said the inspector angrily. "How long have you allowed us to waste
 ourselves upon a search that you knew to be an absurd one?"

 "Not one instant, my dear Mr. Mac. Only last night did I form my
 views of the case. As they could not be put to the proof until this
 evening, I invited you and your colleague to take a holiday for the
 day. Pray what more could I do? When I found the suit of clothes in
 the moat, it at once became apparent to me that the body we had found
 could not have been the body of Mr. John Douglas at all, but must be
 that of the bicyclist from Tunbridge Wells. No other conclusion was
 possible. Therefore I had to determine where Mr. John Douglas himself
 could be, and the balance of probability was that with the connivance
 of his wife and his friend he was concealed in a house which had such
 conveniences for a fugitive, and awaiting quieter times when he could
 make his final escape."

 "Well, you figured it out about right," said Douglas approvingly. "I
 thought I'd dodge your British law; for I was not sure how I stood
 under it, and also I saw my chance to throw these hounds once for all
 off my track. Mind you, from first to last I have done nothing to be
 ashamed of, and nothing that I would not do again; but you'll judge
 that for yourselves when I tell you my story. Never mind warning me,
 Inspector: I'm ready to stand pat upon the truth.

 "I'm not going to begin at the beginning. That's all there," he
 indicated my bundle of papers, "and a mighty queer yarn you'll find
 it. It all comes down to this: That there are some men that have good
 cause to hate me and would give their last dollar to know that they
 had got me. So long as I am alive and they are alive, there is no
 safety in this world for me. They hunted me from Chicago to
 California, then they chased me out of America; but when I married
 and settled down in this quiet spot I thought my last years were
 going to be peaceable.

 "I never explained to my wife how things were. Why should I pull her
 into it? She would never have a quiet moment again; but would always
 be imagining trouble. I fancy she knew something, for I may have
 dropped a word here or a word there; but until yesterday, after you
 gentlemen had seen her, she never knew the rights of the matter. She
 told you all she knew, and so did Barker here; for on the night when
 this thing happened there was mighty little time for explanations.
 She knows everything now, and I would have been a wiser man if I had
 told her sooner. But it was a hard question, dear," he took her hand
 for an instant in his own, "and I acted for the best.

 "Well, gentlemen, the day before these happenings I was over in
 Tunbridge Wells, and I got a glimpse of a man in the street. It was
 only a glimpse; but I have a quick eye for these things, and I never
 doubted who it was. It was the worst enemy I had among them all--one
 who has been after me like a hungry wolf after a caribou all these
 years. I knew there was trouble coming, and I came home and made
 ready for it. I guessed I'd fight through it all right on my own, my
 luck was a proverb in the States about '76. I never doubted that it
 would be with me still.

 "I was on my guard all that next day, and never went out into the
 park. It's as well, or he'd have had the drop on me with that
 buckshot gun of his before ever I could draw on him. After the bridge
 was up--my mind was always more restful when that bridge was up in
 the evenings--I put the thing clear out of my head. I never dreamed
 of his getting into the house and waiting for me. But when I made my
 round in my dressing gown, as was my habit, I had no sooner entered
 the study than I scented danger. I guess when a man has had dangers
 in his life--and I've had more than most in my time--there is a kind
 of sixth sense that waves the red flag. I saw the signal clear
 enough, and yet I couldn't tell you why. Next instant I spotted a
 boot under the window curtain, and then I saw why plain enough.

 "I'd just the one candle that was in my hand; but there was a good
 light from the hall lamp through the open door. I put down the candle
 and jumped for a hammer that I'd left on the mantel. At the same
 moment he sprang at me. I saw the glint of a knife, and I lashed at
 him with the hammer. I got him somewhere; for the knife tinkled down
 on the floor. He dodged round the table as quick as an eel, and a
 moment later he'd got his gun from under his coat. I heard him cock
 it; but I had got hold of it before he could fire. I had it by the
 barrel, and we wrestled for it all ends up for a minute or more. It
 was death to the man that lost his grip.

 "He never lost his grip; but he got it butt downward for a moment too
 long. Maybe it was I that pulled the trigger. Maybe we just jolted it
 off between us. Anyhow, he got both barrels in the face, and there I
 was, staring down at all that was left of Ted Baldwin. I'd recognized
 him in the township, and again when he sprang for me; but his own
 mother wouldn't recognize him as I saw him then. I'm used to rough
 work; but I fairly turned sick at the sight of him.

 "I was hanging on the side of the table when Barker came hurrying
 down. I heard my wife coming, and I ran to the door and stopped her.
 It was no sight for a woman. I promised I'd come to her soon. I said
 a word or two to Barker--he took it all in at a glance--and we waited
 for the rest to come along. But there was no sign of them. Then we
 understood that they could hear nothing, and that all that had
 happened was known only to ourselves.

 "It was at that instant that the idea came to me. I was fairly
 dazzled by the brilliance of it. The man's sleeve had slipped up and
 there was the branded mark of the lodge upon his forearm. See here!"

 The man whom we had known as Douglas turned up his own coat and cuff
 to show a brown triangle within a circle exactly like that which we
 had seen upon the dead man.

 "It was the sight of that which started me on it. I seemed to see it
 all clear at a glance. There were his height and hair and figure,
 about the same as my own. No one could swear to his face, poor devil!
 I brought down this suit of clothes, and in a quarter of an hour
 Barker and I had put my dressing gown on him and he lay as you found
 him. We tied all his things into a bundle, and I weighted them with
 the only weight I could find and put them through the window. The
 card he had meant to lay upon my body was lying beside his own.

 "My rings were put on his finger; but when it came to the wedding
 ring," he held out his muscular hand, "you can see for yourselves
 that I had struck the limit. I have not moved it since the day I was
 married, and it would have taken a file to get it off. I don't know,
 anyhow, that I should have cared to part with it; but if I had wanted
 to I couldn't. So we just had to leave that detail to take care of
 itself. On the other hand, I brought a bit of plaster down and put it
 where I am wearing one myself at this instant. You slipped up there,
 Mr. Holmes, clever as you are; for if you had chanced to take off
 that plaster you would have found no cut underneath it.

 "Well, that was the situation. If I could lie low for a while and
 then get away where I could be joined by my 'widow' we should have a
 chance at last of living in peace for the rest of our lives. These
 devils would give me no rest so long as I was above ground; but if
 they saw in the papers that Baldwin had got his man, there would be
 an end of all my troubles. I hadn't much time to make it all clear to
 Barker and to my wife; but they understood enough to be able to help
 me. I knew all about this hiding place, so did Ames; but it never
 entered his head to connect it with the matter. I retired into it,
 and it was up to Barker to do the rest.

 "I guess you can fill in for yourselves what he did. He opened the
 window and made the mark on the sill to give an idea of how the
 murderer escaped. It was a tall order, that; but as the bridge was up
 there was no other way. Then, when everything was fixed, he rang the
 bell for all he was worth. What happened afterward you know. And so,
 gentlemen, you can do what you please; but I've told you the truth
 and the whole truth, so help me God! What I ask you now is how do I
 stand by the English law?"

 There was a silence which was broken by Sherlock Holmes.

 "The English law is in the main a just law. You will get no worse
 than your deserts from that, Mr. Douglas. But I would ask you how did
 this man know that you lived here, or how to get into your house, or
 where to hide to get you?"

 "I know nothing of this."

 Holmes's face was very white and grave. "The story is not over yet, I
 fear," said he. "You may find worse dangers than the English law, or
 even than your enemies from America. I see trouble before you, Mr.
 Douglas. You'll take my advice and still be on your guard."

 And now, my long-suffering readers, I will ask you to come away with
 me for a time, far from the Sussex Manor House of Birlstone, and far
 also from the year of grace in which we made our eventful journey
 which ended with the strange story of the man who had been known as
 John Douglas. I wish you to journey back some twenty years in time,
 and westward some thousands of miles in space, that I may lay before
 you a singular and terrible narrative--so singular and so terrible
 that you may find it hard to believe that even as I tell it, even so
 did it occur.

 Do not think that I intrude one story before another is finished. As
 you read on you will find that this is not so. And when I have
 detailed those distant events and you have solved this mystery of the
 past, we shall meet once more in those rooms on Baker Street, where
 this, like so many other wonderful happenings, will find its end.









                                  PART II

                              The Scowrers





      CHAPTER I
      The Man


 It was the fourth of February in the year 1875. It had been a severe
 winter, and the snow lay deep in the gorges of the Gilmerton
 Mountains. The steam ploughs had, however, kept the railroad open,
 and the evening train which connects the long line of coal-mining and
 iron-working settlements was slowly groaning its way up the steep
 gradients which lead from Stagville on the plain to Vermissa, the
 central township which lies at the head of Vermissa Valley. From this
 point the track sweeps downward to Bartons Crossing, Helmdale, and
 the purely agricultural county of Merton. It was a single-track
 railroad; but at every siding--and they were numerous--long lines of
 trucks piled with coal and iron ore told of the hidden wealth which
 had brought a rude population and a bustling life to this most
 desolate corner of the United States of America.

 For desolate it was! Little could the first pioneer who had traversed
 it have ever imagined that the fairest prairies and the most lush
 water pastures were valueless compared to this gloomy land of black
 crag and tangled forest. Above the dark and often scarcely penetrable
 woods upon their flanks, the high, bare crowns of the mountains,
 white snow, and jagged rock towered upon each flank, leaving a long,
 winding, tortuous valley in the centre. Up this the little train was
 slowly crawling.

 The oil lamps had just been lit in the leading passenger car, a long,
 bare carriage in which some twenty or thirty people were seated. The
 greater number of these were workmen returning from their day's toil
 in the lower part of the valley. At least a dozen, by their grimed
 faces and the safety lanterns which they carried, proclaimed
 themselves miners. These sat smoking in a group and conversed in low
 voices, glancing occasionally at two men on the opposite side of the
 car, whose uniforms and badges showed them to be policemen.

 Several women of the labouring class and one or two travellers who
 might have been small local storekeepers made up the rest of the
 company, with the exception of one young man in a corner by himself.
 It is with this man that we are concerned. Take a good look at him,
 for he is worth it.

 He is a fresh-complexioned, middle-sized young man, not far, one
 would guess, from his thirtieth year. He has large, shrewd, humorous
 gray eyes which twinkle inquiringly from time to time as he looks
 round through his spectacles at the people about him. It is easy to
 see that he is of a sociable and possibly simple disposition, anxious
 to be friendly to all men. Anyone could pick him at once as
 gregarious in his habits and communicative in his nature, with a
 quick wit and a ready smile. And yet the man who studied him more
 closely might discern a certain firmness of jaw and grim tightness
 about the lips which would warn him that there were depths beyond,
 and that this pleasant, brown-haired young Irishman might conceivably
 leave his mark for good or evil upon any society to which he was
 introduced.

 Having made one or two tentative remarks to the nearest miner, and
 receiving only short, gruff replies, the traveller resigned himself
 to uncongenial silence, staring moodily out of the window at the
 fading landscape.

 It was not a cheering prospect. Through the growing gloom there
 pulsed the red glow of the furnaces on the sides of the hills. Great
 heaps of slag and dumps of cinders loomed up on each side, with the
 high shafts of the collieries towering above them. Huddled groups of
 mean, wooden houses, the windows of which were beginning to outline
 themselves in light, were scattered here and there along the line,
 and the frequent halting places were crowded with their swarthy
 inhabitants.

 The iron and coal valleys of the Vermissa district were no resorts
 for the leisured or the cultured. Everywhere there were stern signs
 of the crudest battle of life, the rude work to be done, and the
 rude, strong workers who did it.

 The young traveller gazed out into this dismal country with a face of
 mingled repulsion and interest, which showed that the scene was new
 to him. At intervals he drew from his pocket a bulky letter to which
 he referred, and on the margins of which he scribbled some notes.
 Once from the back of his waist he produced something which one would
 hardly have expected to find in the possession of so mild-mannered a
 man. It was a navy revolver of the largest size. As he turned it
 slantwise to the light, the glint upon the rims of the copper shells
 within the drum showed that it was fully loaded. He quickly restored
 it to his secret pocket, but not before it had been observed by a
 working man who had seated himself upon the adjoining bench.

 "Hullo, mate!" said he. "You seem heeled and ready."

 The young man smiled with an air of embarrassment.

 "Yes," said he, "we need them sometimes in the place I come from."

 "And where may that be?"

 "I'm last from Chicago."

 "A stranger in these parts?"

 "Yes."

 "You may find you need it here," said the workman.

 "Ah! is that so?" The young man seemed interested.

 "Have you heard nothing of doings hereabouts?"

 "Nothing out of the way."

 "Why, I thought the country was full of it. You'll hear quick enough.
 What made you come here?"

 "I heard there was always work for a willing man."

 "Are you a member of the union?"

 "Sure."

 "Then you'll get your job, I guess. Have you any friends?"

 "Not yet; but I have the means of making them."

 "How's that, then?"

 "I am one of the Eminent Order of Freemen. There's no town without a
 lodge, and where there is a lodge I'll find my friends."

 The remark had a singular effect upon his companion. He glanced round
 suspiciously at the others in the car. The miners were still
 whispering among themselves. The two police officers were dozing. He
 came across, seated himself close to the young traveller, and held
 out his hand.

 "Put it there," he said.

 A hand-grip passed between the two.

 "I see you speak the truth," said the workman. "But it's well to make
 certain." He raised his right hand to his right eyebrow. The
 traveller at once raised his left hand to his left eyebrow.

 "Dark nights are unpleasant," said the workman.

 "Yes, for strangers to travel," the other answered.

 "That's good enough. I'm Brother Scanlan, Lodge 341, Vermissa Valley.
 Glad to see you in these parts."

 "Thank you. I'm Brother John McMurdo, Lodge 29, Chicago. Bodymaster
 J. H. Scott. But I am in luck to meet a brother so early."

 "Well, there are plenty of us about. You won't find the order more
 flourishing anywhere in the States than right here in Vermissa
 Valley. But we could do with some lads like you. I can't understand a
 spry man of the union finding no work to do in Chicago."

 "I found plenty of work to do," said McMurdo.

 "Then why did you leave?"

 McMurdo nodded towards the policemen and smiled. "I guess those chaps
 would be glad to know," he said.

 Scanlan groaned sympathetically. "In trouble?" he asked in a whisper.

 "Deep."

 "A penitentiary job?"

 "And the rest."

 "Not a killing!"

 "It's early days to talk of such things," said McMurdo with the air
 of a man who had been surprised into saying more than he intended.
 "I've my own good reasons for leaving Chicago, and let that be enough
 for you. Who are you that you should take it on yourself to ask such
 things?" His gray eyes gleamed with sudden and dangerous anger from
 behind his glasses.

 "All right, mate, no offense meant. The boys will think none the
 worse of you, whatever you may have done. Where are you bound for
 now?"

 "Vermissa."

 "That's the third halt down the line. Where are you staying?"

 McMurdo took out an envelope and held it close to the murky oil lamp.
 "Here is the address--Jacob Shafter, Sheridan Street. It's a boarding
 house that was recommended by a man I knew in Chicago."

 "Well, I don't know it; but Vermissa is out of my beat. I live at
 Hobson's Patch, and that's here where we are drawing up. But, say,
 there's one bit of advice I'll give you before we part: If you're in
 trouble in Vermissa, go straight to the Union House and see Boss
 McGinty. He is the Bodymaster of Vermissa Lodge, and nothing can
 happen in these parts unless Black Jack McGinty wants it. So long,
 mate! Maybe we'll meet in lodge one of these evenings. But mind my
 words: If you are in trouble, go to Boss McGinty."

 Scanlan descended, and McMurdo was left once again to his thoughts.
 Night had now fallen, and the flames of the frequent furnaces were
 roaring and leaping in the darkness. Against their lurid background
 dark figures were bending and straining, twisting and turning, with
 the motion of winch or of windlass, to the rhythm of an eternal clank
 and roar.

 "I guess hell must look something like that," said a voice.

 McMurdo turned and saw that one of the policemen had shifted in his
 seat and was staring out into the fiery waste.

 "For that matter," said the other policeman, "I allow that hell must
 be something like that. If there are worse devils down yonder than
 some we could name, it's more than I'd expect. I guess you are new to
 this part, young man?"

 "Well, what if I am?" McMurdo answered in a surly voice.

 "Just this, mister, that I should advise you to be careful in
 choosing your friends. I don't think I'd begin with Mike Scanlan or
 his gang if I were you."

 "What the hell is it to you who are my friends?" roared McMurdo in a
 voice which brought every head in the carriage round to witness the
 altercation. "Did I ask you for your advice, or did you think me such
 a sucker that I couldn't move without it? You speak when you are
 spoken to, and by the Lord you'd have to wait a long time if it was
 me!" He thrust out his face and grinned at the patrolmen like a
 snarling dog.

 The two policemen, heavy, good-natured men, were taken aback by the
 extraordinary vehemence with which their friendly advances had been
 rejected.

 "No offense, stranger," said one. "It was a warning for your own
 good, seeing that you are, by your own showing, new to the place."

 "I'm new to the place; but I'm not new to you and your kind!" cried
 McMurdo in cold fury. "I guess you're the same in all places, shoving
 your advice in when nobody asks for it."

 "Maybe we'll see more of you before very long," said one of the
 patrolmen with a grin. "You're a real hand-picked one, if I am a
 judge."

 "I was thinking the same," remarked the other. "I guess we may meet
 again."

 "I'm not afraid of you, and don't you think it!" cried McMurdo. "My
 name's Jack McMurdo--see? If you want me, you'll find me at Jacob
 Shafter's on Sheridan Street, Vermissa; so I'm not hiding from you,
 am I? Day or night I dare to look the like of you in the face--don't
 make any mistake about that!"

 There was a murmur of sympathy and admiration from the miners at the
 dauntless demeanour of the newcomer, while the two policemen shrugged
 their shoulders and renewed a conversation between themselves.

 A few minutes later the train ran into the ill-lit station, and there
 was a general clearing; for Vermissa was by far the largest town on
 the line. McMurdo picked up his leather gripsack and was about to
 start off into the darkness, when one of the miners accosted him.

 "By Gar, mate! you know how to speak to the cops," he said in a voice
 of awe. "It was grand to hear you. Let me carry your grip and show
 you the road. I'm passing Shafter's on the way to my own shack."

 There was a chorus of friendly "Good-nights" from the other miners as
 they passed from the platform. Before ever he had set foot in it,
 McMurdo the turbulent had become a character in Vermissa.

 The country had been a place of terror; but the town was in its way
 even more depressing. Down that long valley there was at least a
 certain gloomy grandeur in the huge fires and the clouds of drifting
 smoke, while the strength and industry of man found fitting monuments
 in the hills which he had spilled by the side of his monstrous
 excavations. But the town showed a dead level of mean ugliness and
 squalor. The broad street was churned up by the traffic into a
 horrible rutted paste of muddy snow. The sidewalks were narrow and
 uneven. The numerous gas-lamps served only to show more clearly a
 long line of wooden houses, each with its veranda facing the street,
 unkempt and dirty.

 As they approached the centre of the town the scene was brightened by
 a row of well-lit stores, and even more by a cluster of saloons and
 gaming houses, in which the miners spent their hard-earned but
 generous wages.

 "That's the Union House," said the guide, pointing to one saloon
 which rose almost to the dignity of being a hotel. "Jack McGinty is
 the boss there."

 "What sort of a man is he?" McMurdo asked.

 "What! have you never heard of the boss?"

 "How could I have heard of him when you know that I am a stranger in
 these parts?"

 "Well, I thought his name was known clear across the country. It's
 been in the papers often enough."

 "What for?"

 "Well," the miner lowered his voice--"over the affairs."

 "What affairs?"

 "Good Lord, mister! you are queer, if I must say it without offense.
 There's only one set of affairs that you'll hear of in these parts,
 and that's the affairs of the Scowrers."

 "Why, I seem to have read of the Scowrers in Chicago. A gang of
 murderers, are they not?"

 "Hush, on your life!" cried the miner, standing still in alarm, and
 gazing in amazement at his companion. "Man, you won't live long in
 these parts if you speak in the open street like that. Many a man has
 had the life beaten out of him for less."

 "Well, I know nothing about them. It's only what I have read."

 "And I'm not saying that you have not read the truth." The man looked
 nervously round him as he spoke, peering into the shadows as if he
 feared to see some lurking danger. "If killing is murder, then God
 knows there is murder and to spare. But don't you dare to breathe the
 name of Jack McGinty in connection with it, stranger; for every
 whisper goes back to him, and he is not one that is likely to let it
 pass. Now, that's the house you're after, that one standing back from
 the street. You'll find old Jacob Shafter that runs it as honest a
 man as lives in this township."

 "I thank you," said McMurdo, and shaking hands with his new
 acquaintance he plodded, gripsack in hand, up the path which led to
 the dwelling house, at the door of which he gave a resounding knock.

 It was opened at once by someone very different from what he had
 expected. It was a woman, young and singularly beautiful. She was of
 the German type, blonde and fair-haired, with the piquant contrast of
 a pair of beautiful dark eyes with which she surveyed the stranger
 with surprise and a pleasing embarrassment which brought a wave of
 colour over her pale face. Framed in the bright light of the open
 doorway, it seemed to McMurdo that he had never seen a more beautiful
 picture; the more attractive for its contrast with the sordid and
 gloomy surroundings. A lovely violet growing upon one of those black
 slag-heaps of the mines would not have seemed more surprising. So
 entranced was he that he stood staring without a word, and it was she
 who broke the silence.

 "I thought it was father," said she with a pleasing little touch of a
 German accent. "Did you come to see him? He is downtown. I expect him
 back every minute."

 McMurdo continued to gaze at her in open admiration until her eyes
 dropped in confusion before this masterful visitor.

 "No, miss," he said at last, "I'm in no hurry to see him. But your
 house was recommended to me for board. I thought it might suit
 me--and now I know it will."

 "You are quick to make up your mind," said she with a smile.

 "Anyone but a blind man could do as much," the other answered.

 She laughed at the compliment. "Come right in, sir," she said. "I'm
 Miss Ettie Shafter, Mr. Shafter's daughter. My mother's dead, and I
 run the house. You can sit down by the stove in the front room until
 father comes along--Ah, here he is! So you can fix things with him
 right away."

 A heavy, elderly man came plodding up the path. In a few words
 McMurdo explained his business. A man of the name of Murphy had given
 him the address in Chicago. He in turn had had it from someone else.
 Old Shafter was quite ready. The stranger made no bones about terms,
 agreed at once to every condition, and was apparently fairly flush of
 money. For seven dollars a week paid in advance he was to have board
 and lodging.

 So it was that McMurdo, the self-confessed fugitive from justice,
 took up his abode under the roof of the Shafters, the first step
 which was to lead to so long and dark a train of events, ending in a
 far distant land.





      CHAPTER II
      The Bodymaster


 McMurdo was a man who made his mark quickly. Wherever he was the folk
 around soon knew it. Within a week he had become infinitely the most
 important person at Shafter's. There were ten or a dozen boarders
 there; but they were honest foremen or commonplace clerks from the
 stores, of a very different calibre from the young Irishman. Of an
 evening when they gathered together his joke was always the readiest,
 his conversation the brightest, and his song the best. He was a born
 boon companion, with a magnetism which drew good humour from all
 around him.

 And yet he showed again and again, as he had shown in the railway
 carriage, a capacity for sudden, fierce anger, which compelled the
 respect and even the fear of those who met him. For the law, too, and
 all who were connected with it, he exhibited a bitter contempt which
 delighted some and alarmed others of his fellow boarders.

 From the first he made it evident, by his open admiration, that the
 daughter of the house had won his heart from the instant that he had
 set eyes upon her beauty and her grace. He was no backward suitor. On
 the second day he told her that he loved her, and from then onward he
 repeated the same story with an absolute disregard of what she might
 say to discourage him.

 "Someone else?" he would cry. "Well, the worse luck for someone else!
 Let him look out for himself! Am I to lose my life's chance and all
 my heart's desire for someone else? You can keep on saying no, Ettie:
 the day will come when you will say yes, and I'm young enough to
 wait."

 He was a dangerous suitor, with his glib Irish tongue, and his
 pretty, coaxing ways. There was about him also that glamour of
 experience and of mystery which attracts a woman's interest, and
 finally her love. He could talk of the sweet valleys of County
 Monaghan from which he came, of the lovely, distant island, the low
 hills and green meadows of which seemed the more beautiful when
 imagination viewed them from this place of grime and snow.

 Then he was versed in the life of the cities of the North, of
 Detroit, and the lumber camps of Michigan, and finally of Chicago,
 where he had worked in a planing mill. And afterwards came the hint
 of romance, the feeling that strange things had happened to him in
 that great city, so strange and so intimate that they might not be
 spoken of. He spoke wistfully of a sudden leaving, a breaking of old
 ties, a flight into a strange world, ending in this dreary valley,
 and Ettie listened, her dark eyes gleaming with pity and with
 sympathy--those two qualities which may turn so rapidly and so
 naturally to love.

 McMurdo had obtained a temporary job as bookkeeper; for he was a
 well-educated man. This kept him out most of the day, and he had not
 found occasion yet to report himself to the head of the lodge of the
 Eminent Order of Freemen. He was reminded of his omission, however,
 by a visit one evening from Mike Scanlan, the fellow member whom he
 had met in the train. Scanlan, the small, sharp-faced, nervous,
 black-eyed man, seemed glad to see him once more. After a glass or
 two of whisky he broached the object of his visit.

 "Say, McMurdo," said he, "I remembered your address, so l made bold
 to call. I'm surprised that you've not reported to the Bodymaster.
 Why haven't you seen Boss McGinty yet?"

 "Well, I had to find a job. I have been busy."

 "You must find time for him if you have none for anything else. Good
 Lord, man! you're a fool not to have been down to the Union House and
 registered your name the first morning after you came here! If you
 run against him--well, you mustn't, that's all!"

 McMurdo showed mild surprise. "I've been a member of the lodge for
 over two years, Scanlan, but I never heard that duties were so
 pressing as all that."

 "Maybe not in Chicago."

 "Well, it's the same society here."

 "Is it?"

 Scanlan looked at him long and fixedly. There was something sinister
 in his eyes.

 "Isn't it?"

 "You'll tell me that in a month's time. I hear you had a talk with
 the patrolmen after I left the train."

 "How did you know that?"

 "Oh, it got about--things do get about for good and for bad in this
 district."

 "Well, yes. I told the hounds what I thought of them."

 "By the Lord, you'll be a man after McGinty's heart!"

 "What, does he hate the police too?"

 Scanlan burst out laughing. "You go and see him, my lad," said he as
 he took his leave. "It's not the police but you that he'll hate if
 you don't! Now, take a friend's advice and go at once!"

 It chanced that on the same evening McMurdo had another more pressing
 interview which urged him in the same direction. It may have been
 that his attentions to Ettie had been more evident than before, or
 that they had gradually obtruded themselves into the slow mind of his
 good German host; but, whatever the cause, the boarding-house keeper
 beckoned the young man into his private room and started on the
 subject without any circumlocution.

 "It seems to me, mister," said he, "that you are gettin' set on my
 Ettie. Ain't that so, or am I wrong?"

 "Yes, that is so," the young man answered.

 "Vell, I vant to tell you right now that it ain't no manner of use.
 There's someone slipped in afore you."

 "She told me so."

 "Vell, you can lay that she told you truth. But did she tell you who
 it vas?"

 "No, I asked her; but she wouldn't tell."

 "I dare say not, the leetle baggage! Perhaps she did not vish to
 frighten you avay."

 "Frighten!" McMurdo was on fire in a moment.

 "Ah, yes, my friend! You need not be ashamed to be frightened of him.
 It is Teddy Baldwin."

 "And who the devil is he?"

 "He is a boss of Scowrers."

 "Scowrers! I've heard of them before. It's Scowrers here and Scowrers
 there, and always in a whisper! What are you all afraid of? Who are
 the Scowrers?"

 The boarding-house keeper instinctively sank his voice, as everyone
 did who talked about that terrible society. "The Scowrers," said he,
 "are the Eminent Order of Freemen!"

 The young man stared. "Why, I am a member of that order myself."

 "You! I vould never have had you in my house if I had known it--not
 if you vere to pay me a hundred dollar a week."

 "What's wrong with the order? It's for charity and good fellowship.
 The rules say so."

 "Maybe in some places. Not here!"

 "What is it here?"

 "It's a murder society, that's vat it is."

 McMurdo laughed incredulously. "How can you prove that?" he asked.

 "Prove it! Are there not fifty murders to prove it? Vat about Milman
 and Van Shorst, and the Nicholson family, and old Mr. Hyam, and
 little Billy James, and the others? Prove it! Is there a man or a
 voman in this valley vat does not know it?"

 "See here!" said McMurdo earnestly. "I want you to take back what
 you've said, or else make it good. One or the other you must do
 before I quit this room. Put yourself in my place. Here am I, a
 stranger in the town. I belong to a society that I know only as an
 innocent one. You'll find it through the length and breadth of the
 States, but always as an innocent one. Now, when I am counting upon
 joining it here, you tell me that it is the same as a murder society
 called the Scowrers. I guess you owe me either an apology or else an
 explanation, Mr. Shafter."

 "I can but tell you vat the whole vorld knows, mister. The bosses of
 the one are the bosses of the other. If you offend the one, it is the
 other vat vill strike you. We have proved it too often."

 "That's just gossip--I want proof!" said McMurdo.

 "If you live here long you vill get your proof. But I forget that you
 are yourself one of them. You vill soon be as bad as the rest. But
 you vill find other lodgings, mister. I cannot have you here. Is it
 not bad enough that one of these people come courting my Ettie, and
 that I dare not turn him down, but that I should have another for my
 boarder? Yes, indeed, you shall not sleep here after to-night!"

 McMurdo found himself under sentence of banishment both from his
 comfortable quarters and from the girl whom he loved. He found her
 alone in the sitting-room that same evening, and he poured his
 troubles into her ear.

 "Sure, your father is after giving me notice," he said. "It's little
 I would care if it was just my room, but indeed, Ettie, though it's
 only a week that I've known you, you are the very breath of life to
 me, and I can't live without you!"

 "Oh, hush, Mr. McMurdo, don't speak so!" said the girl. "I have told
 you, have I not, that you are too late? There is another, and if I
 have not promised to marry him at once, at least I can promise no one
 else."

 "Suppose I had been first, Ettie, would I have had a chance?"

 The girl sank her face into her hands. "I wish to heaven that you had
 been first!" she sobbed.

 McMurdo was down on his knees before her in an instant. "For God's
 sake, Ettie, let it stand at that!" he cried. "Will you ruin your
 life and my own for the sake of this promise? Follow your heart,
 acushla! 'Tis a safer guide than any promise before you knew what it
 was that you were saying."

 He had seized Ettie's white hand between his own strong brown ones.

 "Say that you will be mine, and we will face it out together!"

 "Not here?"

 "Yes, here."

 "No, no, Jack!" His arms were round her now. "It could not be here.
 Could you take me away?"

 A struggle passed for a moment over McMurdo's face; but it ended by
 setting like granite. "No, here," he said. "I'll hold you against the
 world, Ettie, right here where we are!"

 "Why should we not leave together?"

 "No, Ettie, I can't leave here."

 "But why?"

 "I'd never hold my head up again if I felt that I had been driven
 out. Besides, what is there to be afraid of? Are we not free folks in
 a free country? If you love me, and I you, who will dare to come
 between?"

 "You don't know, Jack. You've been here too short a time. You don't
 know this Baldwin. You don't know McGinty and his Scowrers."

 "No, I don't know them, and I don't fear them, and I don't believe in
 them!" said McMurdo. "I've lived among rough men, my darling, and
 instead of fearing them it has always ended that they have feared
 me--always, Ettie. It's mad on the face of it! If these men, as your
 father says, have done crime after crime in the valley, and if
 everyone knows them by name, how comes it that none are brought to
 justice? You answer me that, Ettie!"

 "Because no witness dares to appear against them. He would not live a
 month if he did. Also because they have always their own men to swear
 that the accused one was far from the scene of the crime. But surely,
 Jack, you must have read all this. I had understood that every paper
 in the United States was writing about it."

 "Well, I have read something, it is true; but I had thought it was a
 story. Maybe these men have some reason in what they do. Maybe they
 are wronged and have no other way to help themselves."

 "Oh, Jack, don't let me hear you speak so! That is how he speaks--the
 other one!"

 "Baldwin--he speaks like that, does he?"

 "And that is why I loathe him so. Oh, Jack, now I can tell you the
 truth. I loathe him with all my heart; but I fear him also. I fear
 him for myself; but above all I fear him for father. I know that some
 great sorrow would come upon us if I dared to say what I really felt.
 That is why I have put him off with half-promises. It was in real
 truth our only hope. But if you would fly with me, Jack, we could
 take father with us and live forever far from the power of these
 wicked men."

 Again there was the struggle upon McMurdo's face, and again it set
 like granite. "No harm shall come to you, Ettie--nor to your father
 either. As to wicked men, I expect you may find that I am as bad as
 the worst of them before we're through."

 "No, no, Jack! I would trust you anywhere."

 McMurdo laughed bitterly. "Good Lord! how little you know of me! Your
 innocent soul, my darling, could not even guess what is passing in
 mine. But, hullo, who's the visitor?"

 The door had opened suddenly, and a young fellow came swaggering in
 with the air of one who is the master. He was a handsome, dashing
 young man of about the same age and build as McMurdo himself. Under
 his broad-brimmed black felt hat, which he had not troubled to
 remove, a handsome face with fierce, domineering eyes and a curved
 hawk-bill of a nose looked savagely at the pair who sat by the stove.

 Ettie had jumped to her feet full of confusion and alarm. "I'm glad
 to see you, Mr. Baldwin," said she. "You're earlier than I had
 thought. Come and sit down."

 Baldwin stood with his hands on his hips looking at McMurdo. "Who is
 this?" he asked curtly.

 "It's a friend of mine, Mr. Baldwin, a new boarder here. Mr. McMurdo,
 may I introduce you to Mr. Baldwin?"

 The young men nodded in surly fashion to each other.

 "Maybe Miss Ettie has told you how it is with us?" said Baldwin.

 "I didn't understand that there was any relation between you."

 "Didn't you? Well, you can understand it now. You can take it from me
 that this young lady is mine, and you'll find it a very fine evening
 for a walk."

 "Thank you, I am in no humour for a walk."

 "Aren't you?" The man's savage eyes were blazing with anger. "Maybe
 you are in a humour for a fight, Mr. Boarder!"

 "That I am!" cried McMurdo, springing to his feet. "You never said a
 more welcome word."

 "For God's sake, Jack! Oh, for God's sake!" cried poor, distracted
 Ettie. "Oh, Jack, Jack, he will hurt you!"

 "Oh, it's Jack, is it?" said Baldwin with an oath. "You've come to
 that already, have you?"

 "Oh, Ted, be reasonable--be kind! For my sake, Ted, if ever you loved
 me, be big-hearted and forgiving!"

 "I think, Ettie, that if you were to leave us alone we could get this
 thing settled," said McMurdo quietly. "Or maybe, Mr. Baldwin, you
 will take a turn down the street with me. It's a fine evening, and
 there's some open ground beyond the next block."

 "I'll get even with you without needing to dirty my hands," said his
 enemy. "You'll wish you had never set foot in this house before I am
 through with you!"

 "No time like the present," cried McMurdo.

 "I'll choose my own time, mister. You can leave the time to me. See
 here!" He suddenly rolled up his sleeve and showed upon his forearm a
 peculiar sign which appeared to have been branded there. It was a
 circle with a triangle within it. "D'you know what that means?"

 "I neither know nor care!"

 "Well, you will know, I'll promise you that. You won't be much older,
 either. Perhaps Miss Ettie can tell you something about it. As to
 you, Ettie, you'll come back to me on your knees--d'ye hear,
 girl?--on your knees--and then I'll tell you what your punishment may
 be. You've sowed--and by the Lord, I'll see that you reap!" He
 glanced at them both in fury. Then he turned upon his heel, and an
 instant later the outer door had banged behind him.

 For a few moments McMurdo and the girl stood in silence. Then she
 threw her arms around him.

 "Oh, Jack, how brave you were! But it is no use, you must fly!
 To-night--Jack--to-night! It's your only hope. He will have your
 life. I read it in his horrible eyes. What chance have you against a
 dozen of them, with Boss McGinty and all the power of the lodge
 behind them?"

 McMurdo disengaged her hands, kissed her, and gently pushed her back
 into a chair. "There, acushla, there! Don't be disturbed or fear for
 me. I'm a Freeman myself. I'm after telling your father about it.
 Maybe I am no better than the others; so don't make a saint of me.
 Perhaps you hate me too, now that I've told you as much?"

 "Hate you, Jack? While life lasts I could never do that! I've heard
 that there is no harm in being a Freeman anywhere but here; so why
 should I think the worse of you for that? But if you are a Freeman,
 Jack, why should you not go down and make a friend of Boss McGinty?
 Oh, hurry, Jack, hurry! Get your word in first, or the hounds will be
 on your trail."

 "I was thinking the same thing," said McMurdo. "I'll go right now and
 fix it. You can tell your father that I'll sleep here to-night and
 find some other quarters in the morning."

 The bar of McGinty's saloon was crowded as usual, for it was the
 favourite loafing place of all the rougher elements of the town. The
 man was popular; for he had a rough, jovial disposition which formed
 a mask, covering a great deal which lay behind it. But apart from
 this popularity, the fear in which he was held throughout the
 township, and indeed down the whole thirty miles of the valley and
 past the mountains on each side of it, was enough in itself to fill
 his bar; for none could afford to neglect his good will.

 Besides those secret powers which it was universally believed that he
 exercised in so pitiless a fashion, he was a high public official, a
 municipal councillor, and a commissioner of roads, elected to the
 office through the votes of the ruffians who in turn expected to
 receive favours at his hands. Assessments and taxes were enormous;
 the public works were notoriously neglected, the accounts were
 slurred over by bribed auditors, and the decent citizen was
 terrorized into paying public blackmail, and holding his tongue lest
 some worse thing befall him.

 Thus it was that, year by year, Boss McGinty's diamond pins became
 more obtrusive, his gold chains more weighty across a more gorgeous
 vest, and his saloon stretched farther and farther, until it
 threatened to absorb one whole side of the Market Square.

 McMurdo pushed open the swinging door of the saloon and made his way
 amid the crowd of men within, through an atmosphere blurred with
 tobacco smoke and heavy with the smell of spirits. The place was
 brilliantly lighted, and the huge, heavily gilt mirrors upon every
 wall reflected and multiplied the garish illumination. There were
 several bartenders in their shirt sleeves, hard at work mixing drinks
 for the loungers who fringed the broad, brass-trimmed counter.

 At the far end, with his body resting upon the bar and a cigar stuck
 at an acute angle from the corner of his mouth, stood a tall, strong,
 heavily built man who could be none other than the famous McGinty
 himself. He was a black-maned giant, bearded to the cheek-bones, and
 with a shock of raven hair which fell to his collar. His complexion
 was as swarthy as that of an Italian, and his eyes were of a strange
 dead black, which, combined with a slight squint, gave them a
 particularly sinister appearance.

 All else in the man--his noble proportions, his fine features, and
 his frank bearing--fitted in with that jovial, man-to-man manner
 which he affected. Here, one would say, is a bluff, honest fellow,
 whose heart would be sound however rude his outspoken words might
 seem. It was only when those dead, dark eyes, deep and remorseless,
 were turned upon a man that he shrank within himself, feeling that he
 was face to face with an infinite possibility of latent evil, with a
 strength and courage and cunning behind it which made it a thousand
 times more deadly.

 Having had a good look at his man, McMurdo elbowed his way forward
 with his usual careless audacity, and pushed himself through the
 little group of courtiers who were fawning upon the powerful boss,
 laughing uproariously at the smallest of his jokes. The young
 stranger's bold gray eyes looked back fearlessly through their
 glasses at the deadly black ones which turned sharply upon him.

 "Well, young man, I can't call your face to mind."

 "I'm new here, Mr. McGinty."

 "You are not so new that you can't give a gentleman his proper
 title."

 "He's Councillor McGinty, young man," said a voice from the group.

 "I'm sorry, Councillor. I'm strange to the ways of the place. But I
 was advised to see you."

 "Well, you see me. This is all there is. What d'you think of me?"

 "Well, it's early days. If your heart is as big as your body, and
 your soul as fine as your face, then I'd ask for nothing better,"
 said McMurdo.

 "By Gar! you've got an Irish tongue in your head anyhow," cried the
 saloon-keeper, not quite certain whether to humour this audacious
 visitor or to stand upon his dignity.

 "So you are good enough to pass my appearance?"

 "Sure," said McMurdo.

 "And you were told to see me?"

 "I was."

 "And who told you?"

 "Brother Scanlan of Lodge 341, Vermissa. I drink your health
 Councillor, and to our better acquaintance." He raised a glass with
 which he had been served to his lips and elevated his little finger
 as he drank it.

 McGinty, who had been watching him narrowly, raised his thick black
 eyebrows. "Oh, it's like that, is it?" said he. "I'll have to look a
 bit closer into this, Mister--"

 "McMurdo."

 "A bit closer, Mr. McMurdo; for we don't take folk on trust in these
 parts, nor believe all we're told neither. Come in here for a moment,
 behind the bar."

 There was a small room there, lined with barrels. McGinty carefully
 closed the door, and then seated himself on one of them, biting
 thoughtfully on his cigar and surveying his companion with those
 disquieting eyes. For a couple of minutes he sat in complete silence.
 McMurdo bore the inspection cheerfully, one hand in his coat pocket,
 the other twisting his brown moustache. Suddenly McGinty stooped and
 produced a wicked-looking revolver.

 "See here, my joker," said he, "if I thought you were playing any
 game on us, it would be short work for you."

 "This is a strange welcome," McMurdo answered with some dignity, "for
 the Bodymaster of a lodge of Freemen to give to a stranger brother."

 "Ay, but it's just that same that you have to prove," said McGinty,
 "and God help you if you fail! Where were you made?"

 "Lodge 29, Chicago."

 "When?"

 "June 24, 1872."

 "What Bodymaster?"

 "James H. Scott."

 "Who is your district ruler?"

 "Bartholomew Wilson."

 "Hum! You seem glib enough in your tests. What are you doing here?"

 "Working, the same as you--but a poorer job."

 "You have your back answer quick enough."

 "Yes, I was always quick of speech."

 "Are you quick of action?"

 "I have had that name among those that knew me best."

 "Well, we may try you sooner than you think. Have you heard anything
 of the lodge in these parts?"

 "I've heard that it takes a man to be a brother."

 "True for you, Mr. McMurdo. Why did you leave Chicago?"

 "I'm damned if I tell you that!"

 McGinty opened his eyes. He was not used to being answered in such
 fashion, and it amused him. "Why won't you tell me?"

 "Because no brother may tell another a lie."

 "Then the truth is too bad to tell?"

 "You can put it that way if you like."

 "See here, mister, you can't expect me, as Bodymaster, to pass into
 the lodge a man for whose past he can't answer."

 McMurdo looked puzzled. Then he took a worn newspaper cutting from an
 inner pocket.

 "You wouldn't squeal on a fellow?" said he.

 "I'll wipe my hand across your face if you say such words to me!"
 cried McGinty hotly.

 "You are right, Councillor," said McMurdo meekly. "I should
 apologize. I spoke without thought. Well, I know that I am safe in
 your hands. Look at that clipping."

 McGinty glanced his eyes over the account of the shooting of one
 Jonas Pinto, in the Lake Saloon, Market Street, Chicago, in the New
 Year week of 1874.

 "Your work?" he asked, as he handed back the paper.

 McMurdo nodded.

 "Why did you shoot him?"

 "I was helping Uncle Sam to make dollars. Maybe mine were not as good
 gold as his, but they looked as well and were cheaper to make. This
 man Pinto helped me to shove the queer--"

 "To do what?"

 "Well, it means to pass the dollars out into circulation. Then he
 said he would split. Maybe he did split. I didn't wait to see. I just
 killed him and lighted out for the coal country."

 "Why the coal country?"

 "'Cause I'd read in the papers that they weren't too particular in
 those parts."

 McGinty laughed. "You were first a coiner and then a murderer, and
 you came to these parts because you thought you'd be welcome."

 "That's about the size of it," McMurdo answered.

 "Well, I guess you'll go far. Say, can you make those dollars yet?"

 McMurdo took half a dozen from his pocket. "Those never passed the
 Philadelphia mint," said he.

 "You don't say!" McGinty held them to the light in his enormous hand,
 which was hairy as a gorilla's. "I can see no difference. Gar! you'll
 be a mighty useful brother, I'm thinking! We can do with a bad man or
 two among us, Friend McMurdo: for there are times when we have to
 take our own part. We'd soon be against the wall if we didn't shove
 back at those that were pushing us."

 "Well, I guess I'll do my share of shoving with the rest of the
 boys."

 "You seem to have a good nerve. You didn't squirm when I shoved this
 gun at you."

 "It was not me that was in danger."

 "Who then?"

 "It was you, Councillor." McMurdo drew a cocked pistol from the side
 pocket of his peajacket. "I was covering you all the time. I guess my
 shot would have been as quick as yours."

 "By Gar!" McGinty flushed an angry red and then burst into a roar of
 laughter. "Say, we've had no such holy terror come to hand this many
 a year. I reckon the lodge will learn to be proud of you ... Well,
 what the hell do you want? And can't I speak alone with a gentleman
 for five minutes but you must butt in on us?"

 The bartender stood abashed. "I'm sorry, Councillor, but it's Ted
 Baldwin. He says he must see you this very minute."

 The message was unnecessary; for the set, cruel face of the man
 himself was looking over the servant's shoulder. He pushed the
 bartender out and closed the door on him.

 "So," said he with a furious glance at McMurdo, "you got here first,
 did you? I've a word to say to you, Councillor, about this man."

 "Then say it here and now before my face," cried McMurdo.

 "I'll say it at my own time, in my own way."

 "Tut! Tut!" said McGinty, getting off his barrel. "This will never
 do. We have a new brother here, Baldwin, and it's not for us to greet
 him in such fashion. Hold out your hand, man, and make it up!"

 "Never!" cried Baldwin in a fury.

 "I've offered to fight him if he thinks I have wronged him," said
 McMurdo. "I'll fight him with fists, or, if that won't satisfy him,
 I'll fight him any other way he chooses. Now, I'll leave it to you,
 Councillor, to judge between us as a Bodymaster should."

 "What is it, then?"

 "A young lady. She's free to choose for herself."

 "Is she?" cried Baldwin.

 "As between two brothers of the lodge I should say that she was,"
 said the Boss.

 "Oh, that's your ruling, is it?"

 "Yes, it is, Ted Baldwin," said McGinty, with a wicked stare. "Is it
 you that would dispute it?"

 "You would throw over one that has stood by you this five years in
 favour of a man that you never saw before in your life? You're not
 Bodymaster for life, Jack McGinty, and by God! when next it comes to
 a vote--"

 The Councillor sprang at him like a tiger. His hand closed round the
 other's neck, and he hurled him back across one of the barrels. In
 his mad fury he would have squeezed the life out of him if McMurdo
 had not interfered.

 "Easy, Councillor! For heaven's sake, go easy!" he cried, as he
 dragged him back.

 McGinty released his hold, and Baldwin, cowed and shaken gasping for
 breath, and shivering in every limb, as one who has looked over the
 very edge of death, sat up on the barrel over which he had been
 hurled.

 "You've been asking for it this many a day, Ted Baldwin--now you've
 got it!" cried McGinty, his huge chest rising and falling. "Maybe you
 think if I was voted down from Bodymaster you would find yourself in
 my shoes. It's for the lodge to say that. But so long as I am the
 chief I'll have no man lift his voice against me or my rulings."

 "I have nothing against you," mumbled Baldwin, feeling his throat.

 "Well, then," cried the other, relapsing in a moment into a bluff
 joviality, "we are all good friends again and there's an end of the
 matter."

 He took a bottle of champagne down from the shelf and twisted out the
 cork.

 "See now," he continued, as he filled three high glasses. "Let us
 drink the quarrelling toast of the lodge. After that, as you know,
 there can be no bad blood between us. Now, then the left hand on the
 apple of my throat. I say to you, Ted Baldwin, what is the offense,
 sir?"

 "The clouds are heavy," answered Baldwin.

 "But they will forever brighten."

 "And this I swear!"

 The men drank their glasses, and the same ceremony was performed
 between Baldwin and McMurdo

 "There!" cried McGinty, rubbing his hands. "That's the end of the
 black blood. You come under lodge discipline if it goes further, and
 that's a heavy hand in these parts, as Brother Baldwin knows--and as
 you will damn soon find out, Brother McMurdo, if you ask for
 trouble!"

 "Faith, I'd be slow to do that," said McMurdo. He held out his hand
 to Baldwin. "I'm quick to quarrel and quick to forgive. It's my hot
 Irish blood, they tell me. But it's over for me, and I bear no
 grudge."

 Baldwin had to take the proffered hand, for the baleful eye of the
 terrible Boss was upon him. But his sullen face showed how little the
 words of the other had moved him.

 McGinty clapped them both on the shoulders. "Tut! These girls! These
 girls!" he cried. "To think that the same petticoats should come
 between two of my boys! It's the devil's own luck! Well, it's the
 colleen inside of them that must settle the question for it's outside
 the jurisdiction of a Bodymaster--and the Lord be praised for that!
 We have enough on us, without the women as well. You'll have to be
 affiliated to Lodge 341, Brother McMurdo. We have our own ways and
 methods, different from Chicago. Saturday night is our meeting, and
 if you come then, we'll make you free forever of the Vermissa
 Valley."





      CHAPTER III
      Lodge 341, Vermissa


 On the day following the evening which had contained so many exciting
 events, McMurdo moved his lodgings from old Jacob Shafter's and took
 up his quarters at the Widow MacNamara's on the extreme outskirts of
 the town. Scanlan, his original acquaintance aboard the train, had
 occasion shortly afterwards to move into Vermissa, and the two lodged
 together. There was no other boarder, and the hostess was an
 easy-going old Irishwoman who left them to themselves; so that they
 had a freedom for speech and action welcome to men who had secrets in
 common.

 Shafter had relented to the extent of letting McMurdo come to his
 meals there when he liked; so that his intercourse with Ettie was by
 no means broken. On the contrary, it drew closer and more intimate as
 the weeks went by.

 In his bedroom at his new abode McMurdo felt it safe to take out the
 coining moulds, and under many a pledge of secrecy a number of
 brothers from the lodge were allowed to come in and see them, each
 carrying away in his pocket some examples of the false money, so
 cunningly struck that there was never the slightest difficulty or
 danger in passing it. Why, with such a wonderful art at his command,
 McMurdo should condescend to work at all was a perpetual mystery to
 his companions; though he made it clear to anyone who asked him that
 if he lived without any visible means it would very quickly bring the
 police upon his track.

 One policeman was indeed after him already; but the incident, as luck
 would have it, did the adventurer a great deal more good than harm.
 After the first introduction there were few evenings when he did not
 find his way to McGinty's saloon, there to make closer acquaintance
 with "the boys," which was the jovial title by which the dangerous
 gang who infested the place were known to one another. His dashing
 manner and fearlessness of speech made him a favourite with them all;
 while the rapid and scientific way in which he polished off his
 antagonist in an "all in" bar-room scrap earned the respect of that
 rough community. Another incident, however, raised him even higher in
 their estimation.

 Just at the crowded hour one night, the door opened and a man entered
 with the quiet blue uniform and peaked cap of the mine police. This
 was a special body raised by the railways and colliery owners to
 supplement the efforts of the ordinary civil police, who were
 perfectly helpless in the face of the organized ruffianism which
 terrorized the district. There was a hush as he entered, and many a
 curious glance was cast at him; but the relations between policemen
 and criminals are peculiar in some parts of the States, and McGinty
 himself standing behind his counter, showed no surprise when the
 policeman enrolled himself among his customers.

 "A straight whisky, for the night is bitter," said the police
 officer. "I don't think we have met before, Councillor?"

 "You'll be the new captain?" said McGinty.

 "That's so. We're looking to you, Councillor, and to the other
 leading citizens, to help us in upholding law and order in this
 township. Captain Marvin is my name."

 "We'd do better without you, Captain Marvin," said McGinty coldly;
 "for we have our own police of the township, and no need for any
 imported goods. What are you but the paid tool of the capitalists,
 hired by them to club or shoot your poorer fellow citizen?"

 "Well, well, we won't argue about that," said the police officer
 good-humouredly. "I expect we all do our duty same as we see it; but
 we can't all see it the same." He had drunk off his glass and had
 turned to go, when his eyes fell upon the face of Jack McMurdo, who
 was scowling at his elbow. "Hullo! Hullo!" he cried, looking him up
 and down. "Here's an old acquaintance!"

 McMurdo shrank away from him. "I was never a friend to you nor any
 other cursed copper in my life," said he.

 "An acquaintance isn't always a friend," said the police captain,
 grinning. "You're Jack McMurdo of Chicago, right enough, and don't
 you deny it!"

 McMurdo shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not denying it," said he. "D'ye
 think I'm ashamed of my own name?"

 "You've got good cause to be, anyhow."

 "What the devil d'you mean by that?" he roared with his fists
 clenched.

 "No, no, Jack, bluster won't do with me. I was an officer in Chicago
 before ever I came to this darned coal bunker, and I know a Chicago
 crook when I see one."

 McMurdo's face fell. "Don't tell me that you're Marvin of the Chicago
 Central!" he cried.

 "Just the same old Teddy Marvin, at your service. We haven't
 forgotten the shooting of Jonas Pinto up there."

 "I never shot him."

 "Did you not? That's good impartial evidence, ain't it? Well, his
 death came in uncommon handy for you, or they would have had you for
 shoving the queer. Well, we can let that be bygones; for, between you
 and me--and perhaps I'm going further than my duty in saying it--they
 could get no clear case against you, and Chicago's open to you
 to-morrow."

 "I'm very well where I am."

 "Well, I've given you the pointer, and you're a sulky dog not to
 thank me for it."

 "Well, I suppose you mean well, and I do thank you," said McMurdo in
 no very gracious manner.

 "It's mum with me so long as I see you living on the straight," said
 the captain. "But, by the Lord! if you get off after this, it's
 another story! So good-night to you--and goodnight, Councillor."

 He left the bar-room; but not before he had created a local hero.
 McMurdo's deeds in far Chicago had been whispered before. He had put
 off all questions with a smile, as one who did not wish to have
 greatness thrust upon him. But now the thing was officially
 confirmed. The bar loafers crowded round him and shook him heartily
 by the hand. He was free of the community from that time on. He could
 drink hard and show little trace of it; but that evening, had his
 mate Scanlan not been at hand to lead him home, the feted hero would
 surely have spent his night under the bar.

 On a Saturday night McMurdo was introduced to the lodge. He had
 thought to pass in without ceremony as being an initiate of Chicago;
 but there were particular rites in Vermissa of which they were proud,
 and these had to be undergone by every postulant. The assembly met in
 a large room reserved for such purposes at the Union House. Some
 sixty members assembled at Vermissa; but that by no means represented
 the full strength of the organization, for there were several other
 lodges in the valley, and others across the mountains on each side,
 who exchanged members when any serious business was afoot, so that a
 crime might be done by men who were strangers to the locality.
 Altogether there were not less than five hundred scattered over the
 coal district.

 In the bare assembly room the men were gathered round a long table.
 At the side was a second one laden with bottles and glasses, on which
 some members of the company were already turning their eyes. McGinty
 sat at the head with a flat black velvet cap upon his shock of
 tangled black hair, and a coloured purple stole round his neck, so
 that he seemed to be a priest presiding over some diabolical ritual.
 To right and left of him were the higher lodge officials, the cruel,
 handsome face of Ted Baldwin among them. Each of these wore some
 scarf or medallion as emblem of his office.

 They were, for the most part, men of mature age; but the rest of the
 company consisted of young fellows from eighteen to twenty-five, the
 ready and capable agents who carried out the commands of their
 seniors. Among the older men were many whose features showed the
 tigerish, lawless souls within; but looking at the rank and file it
 was difficult to believe that these eager and open-faced young
 fellows were in very truth a dangerous gang of murderers, whose minds
 had suffered such complete moral perversion that they took a horrible
 pride in their proficiency at the business, and looked with deepest
 respect at the man who had the reputation of making what they called
 "a clean job."

 To their contorted natures it had become a spirited and chivalrous
 thing to volunteer for service against some man who had never injured
 them, and whom in many cases they had never seen in their lives. The
 crime committed, they quarrelled as to who had actually struck the
 fatal blow, and amused one another and the company by describing the
 cries and contortions of the murdered man.

 At first they had shown some secrecy in their arrangements; but at
 the time which this narrative describes their proceedings were
 extraordinarily open, for the repeated failures of the law had proved
 to them that, on the one hand, no one would dare to witness against
 them, and on the other they had an unlimited number of stanch
 witnesses upon whom they could call, and a well-filled treasure chest
 from which they could draw the funds to engage the best legal talent
 in the state. In ten long years of outrage there had been no single
 conviction, and the only danger that ever threatened the Scowrers lay
 in the victim himself--who, however outnumbered and taken by
 surprise, might and occasionally did leave his mark upon his
 assailants.

 McMurdo had been warned that some ordeal lay before him; but no one
 would tell him in what it consisted. He was led now into an outer
 room by two solemn brothers. Through the plank partition he could
 hear the murmur of many voices from the assembly within. Once or
 twice he caught the sound of his own name, and he knew that they were
 discussing his candidacy. Then there entered an inner guard with a
 green and gold sash across his chest.

 "The Bodymaster orders that he shall be trussed, blinded, and
 entered," said he.

 The three of them removed his coat, turned up the sleeve of his right
 arm, and finally passed a rope round above the elbows and made it
 fast. They next placed a thick black cap right over his head and the
 upper part of his face, so that he could see nothing. He was then led
 into the assembly hall.

 It was pitch dark and very oppressive under his hood. He heard the
 rustle and murmur of the people round him, and then the voice of
 McGinty sounded dull and distant through the covering of his ears.

 "John McMurdo," said the voice, "are you already a member of the
 Ancient Order of Freemen?"

 He bowed in assent.

 "Is your lodge No. 29, Chicago?"

 He bowed again.

 "Dark nights are unpleasant," said the voice.

 "Yes, for strangers to travel," he answered.

 "The clouds are heavy."

 "Yes, a storm is approaching."

 "Are the brethren satisfied?" asked the Bodymaster.

 There was a general murmur of assent.

 "We know, Brother, by your sign and by your countersign that you are
 indeed one of us," said McGinty. "We would have you know, however,
 that in this county and in other counties of these parts we have
 certain rites, and also certain duties of our own which call for good
 men. Are you ready to be tested?"

 "I am."

 "Are you of stout heart?"

 "I am."

 "Take a stride forward to prove it."

 As the words were said he felt two hard points in front of his eyes,
 pressing upon them so that it appeared as if he could not move
 forward without a danger of losing them. None the less, he nerved
 himself to step resolutely out, and as he did so the pressure melted
 away. There was a low murmur of applause.

 "He is of stout heart," said the voice. "Can you bear pain?"

 "As well as another," he answered.

 "Test him!"

 It was all he could do to keep himself from screaming out, for an
 agonizing pain shot through his forearm. He nearly fainted at the
 sudden shock of it; but he bit his lip and clenched his hands to hide
 his agony.

 "I can take more than that," said he.

 This time there was loud applause. A finer first appearance had never
 been made in the lodge. Hands clapped him on the back, and the hood
 was plucked from his head. He stood blinking and smiling amid the
 congratulations of the brothers.

 "One last word, Brother McMurdo," said McGinty. "You have already
 sworn the oath of secrecy and fidelity, and you are aware that the
 punishment for any breach of it is instant and inevitable death?"

 "I am," said McMurdo.

 "And you accept the rule of the Bodymaster for the time being under
 all circumstances?"

 "I do."

 "Then in the name of Lodge 341, Vermissa, I welcome you to its
 privileges and debates. You will put the liquor on the table, Brother
 Scanlan, and we will drink to our worthy brother."

 McMurdo's coat had been brought to him; but before putting it on he
 examined his right arm, which still smarted heavily. There on the
 flesh of the forearm was a circle with a triangle within it, deep and
 red, as the branding iron had left it. One or two of his neighbours
 pulled up their sleeves and showed their own lodge marks.

 "We've all had it," said one; "but not all as brave as you over it."

 "Tut! It was nothing," said he; but it burned and ached all the same.

 When the drinks which followed the ceremony of initiation had all
 been disposed of, the business of the lodge proceeded. McMurdo,
 accustomed only to the prosaic performances of Chicago, listened with
 open ears and more surprise than he ventured to show to what
 followed.

 "The first business on the agenda paper," said McGinty, "is to read
 the following letter from Division Master Windle of Merton County
 Lodge 249. He says:

 "Dear Sir:
 "There is a job to be done on Andrew Rae of Rae & Sturmash, coal
 owners near this place. You will remember that your lodge owes us a
 return, having had the service of two brethren in the matter of the
 patrolman last fall. You will send two good men, they will be taken
 charge of by Treasurer Higgins of this lodge, whose address you know.
 He will show them when to act and where. Yours in freedom,
 "J. W. Windle D. M. A. O. F.

 "Windle has never refused us when we have had occasion to ask for the
 loan of a man or two, and it is not for us to refuse him." McGinty
 paused and looked round the room with his dull, malevolent eyes. "Who
 will volunteer for the job?"

 Several young fellows held up their hands. The Bodymaster looked at
 them with an approving smile.

 "You'll do, Tiger Cormac. If you handle it as well as you did the
 last, you won't be wrong. And you, Wilson."

 "I've no pistol," said the volunteer, a mere boy in his teens.

 "It's your first, is it not? Well, you have to be blooded some time.
 It will be a great start for you. As to the pistol, you'll find it
 waiting for you, or I'm mistaken. If you report yourselves on Monday,
 it will be time enough. You'll get a great welcome when you return."

 "Any reward this time?" asked Cormac, a thick-set, dark-faced,
 brutal-looking young man, whose ferocity had earned him the nickname
 of "Tiger."

 "Never mind the reward. You just do it for the honour of the thing.
 Maybe when it is done there will be a few odd dollars at the bottom
 of the box."

 "What has the man done?" asked young Wilson.

 "Sure, it's not for the likes of you to ask what the man has done. He
 has been judged over there. That's no business of ours. All we have
 to do is to carry it out for them, same as they would for us.
 Speaking of that, two brothers from the Merton lodge are coming over
 to us next week to do some business in this quarter."

 "Who are they?" asked someone.

 "Faith, it is wiser not to ask. If you know nothing, you can testify
 nothing, and no trouble can come of it. But they are men who will
 make a clean job when they are about it."

 "And time, too!" cried Ted Baldwin. "Folk are gettin' out of hand in
 these parts. It was only last week that three of our men were turned
 off by Foreman Blaker. It's been owing him a long time, and he'll get
 it full and proper."

 "Get what?" McMurdo whispered to his neighbour.

 "The business end of a buckshot cartridge!" cried the man with a loud
 laugh. "What think you of our ways, Brother?"

 McMurdo's criminal soul seemed to have already absorbed the spirit of
 the vile association of which he was now a member. "I like it well,"
 said he. "'Tis a proper place for a lad of mettle."

 Several of those who sat around heard his words and applauded them.

 "What's that?" cried the black-maned Bodymaster from the end of the
 table.

 "'Tis our new brother, sir, who finds our ways to his taste."

 McMurdo rose to his feet for an instant. "I would say, Eminent
 Bodymaster, that if a man should be wanted I should take it as an
 honour to be chosen to help the lodge."

 There was great applause at this. It was felt that a new sun was
 pushing its rim above the horizon. To some of the elders it seemed
 that the progress was a little too rapid.

 "I would move," said the secretary, Harraway, a vulture-faced old
 graybeard who sat near the chairman, "that Brother McMurdo should
 wait until it is the good pleasure of the lodge to employ him."

 "Sure, that was what I meant; I'm in your hands," said McMurdo.

 "Your time will come, Brother," said the chairman. "We have marked
 you down as a willing man, and we believe that you will do good work
 in these parts. There is a small matter to-night in which you may
 take a hand if it so please you."

 "I will wait for something that is worth while."

 "You can come to-night, anyhow, and it will help you to know what we
 stand for in this community. I will make the announcement later.
 Meanwhile," he glanced at his agenda paper, "I have one or two more
 points to bring before the meeting. First of all, I will ask the
 treasurer as to our bank balance. There is the pension to Jim
 Carnaway's widow. He was struck down doing the work of the lodge, and
 it is for us to see that she is not the loser."

 "Jim was shot last month when they tried to kill Chester Wilcox of
 Marley Creek," McMurdo's neighbour informed him.

 "The funds are good at the moment," said the treasurer, with the
 bankbook in front of him. "The firms have been generous of late. Max
 Linder & Co. paid five hundred to be left alone. Walker Brothers sent
 in a hundred; but I took it on myself to return it and ask for five.
 If I do not hear by Wednesday, their winding gear may get out of
 order. We had to burn their breaker last year before they became
 reasonable. Then the West Section Coaling Company has paid its annual
 contribution. We have enough on hand to meet any obligations."

 "What about Archie Swindon?" asked a brother.

 "He has sold out and left the district. The old devil left a note for
 us to say that he had rather be a free crossing sweeper in New York
 than a large mine owner under the power of a ring of blackmailers. By
 Gar! it was as well that he made a break for it before the note
 reached us! I guess he won't show his face in this valley again."

 An elderly, clean-shaved man with a kindly face and a good brow rose
 from the end of the table which faced the chairman. "Mr. Treasurer,"
 he asked, "may I ask who has bought the property of this man that we
 have driven out of the district?"

 "Yes, Brother Morris. It has been bought by the State & Merton County
 Railroad Company."

 "And who bought the mines of Todman and of Lee that came into the
 market in the same way last year?"

 "The same company, Brother Morris."

 "And who bought the ironworks of Manson and of Shuman and of Van
 Deher and of Atwood, which have all been given up of late?"

 "They were all bought by the West Gilmerton General Mining Company."

 "I don't see, Brother Morris," said the chairman, "that it matters to
 us who buys them, since they can't carry them out of the district."

 "With all respect to you, Eminent Bodymaster, I think it may matter
 very much to us. This process has been going on now for ten long
 years. We are gradually driving all the small men out of trade. What
 is the result? We find in their places great companies like the
 Railroad or the General Iron, who have their directors in New York or
 Philadelphia, and care nothing for our threats. We can take it out of
 their local bosses, but it only means that others will be sent in
 their stead. And we are making it dangerous for ourselves. The small
 men could not harm us. They had not the money nor the power. So long
 as we did not squeeze them too dry, they would stay on under our
 power. But if these big companies find that we stand between them and
 their profits, they will spare no pains and no expense to hunt us
 down and bring us to court."

 There was a hush at these ominous words, and every face darkened as
 gloomy looks were exchanged. So omnipotent and unchallenged had they
 been that the very thought that there was possible retribution in the
 background had been banished from their minds. And yet the idea
 struck a chill to the most reckless of them.

 "It is my advice," the speaker continued, "that we go easier upon the
 small men. On the day that they have all been driven out the power of
 this society will have been broken."

 Unwelcome truths are not popular. There were angry cries as the
 speaker resumed his seat. McGinty rose with gloom upon his brow.

 "Brother Morris," said he, "you were always a croaker. So long as the
 members of this lodge stand together there is no power in the United
 States that can touch them. Sure, have we not tried it often enough
 in the law courts? I expect the big companies will find it easier to
 pay than to fight, same as the little companies do. And now,
 Brethren," McGinty took off his black velvet cap and his stole as he
 spoke, "this lodge has finished its business for the evening, save
 for one small matter which may be mentioned when we are parting. The
 time has now come for fraternal refreshment and for harmony."

 Strange indeed is human nature. Here were these men, to whom murder
 was familiar, who again and again had struck down the father of the
 family, some man against whom they had no personal feeling, without
 one thought of compunction or of compassion for his weeping wife or
 helpless children, and yet the tender or pathetic in music could move
 them to tears. McMurdo had a fine tenor voice, and if he had failed
 to gain the good will of the lodge before, it could no longer have
 been withheld after he had thrilled them with "I'm Sitting on the
 Stile, Mary," and "On the Banks of Allan Water."

 In his very first night the new recruit had made himself one of the
 most popular of the brethren, marked already for advancement and high
 office. There were other qualities needed, however, besides those of
 good fellowship, to make a worthy Freeman, and of these he was given
 an example before the evening was over. The whisky bottle had passed
 round many times, and the men were flushed and ripe for mischief when
 their Bodymaster rose once more to address them.

 "Boys," said he, "there's one man in this town that wants trimming
 up, and it's for you to see that he gets it. I'm speaking of James
 Stanger of the Herald. You've seen how he's been opening his mouth
 against us again?"

 There was a murmur of assent, with many a muttered oath. McGinty took
 a slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket.

                             Law and Order!

 That's how he heads it.

             "Reign of terror in the coal and iron district
 "Twelve years have now elapsed since the first assassinations which
 proved the existence of a criminal organization in our midst. From
 that day these outrages have never ceased, until now they have
 reached a pitch which makes us the opprobrium of the civilized world.
 Is it for such results as this that our great country welcomes to its
 bosom the alien who flies from the despotisms of Europe? Is it that
 they shall themselves become tyrants over the very men who have given
 them shelter, and that a state of terrorism and lawlessness should be
 established under the very shadow of the sacred folds of the starry
 Flag of Freedom which would raise horror in our minds if we read of
 it as existing under the most effete monarchy of the East? The men
 are known. The organization is patent and public. How long are we to
 endure it? Can we forever live--

 Sure, I've read enough of the slush!" cried the chairman, tossing the
 paper down upon the table. "That's what he says of us. The question
 I'm asking you is what shall we say to him?"

 "Kill him!" cried a dozen fierce voices.

 "I protest against that," said Brother Morris, the man of the good
 brow and shaved face. "I tell you, Brethren, that our hand is too
 heavy in this valley, and that there will come a point where in
 self-defense every man will unite to crush us out. James Stanger is
 an old man. He is respected in the township and the district. His
 paper stands for all that is solid in the valley. If that man is
 struck down, there will be a stir through this state that will only
 end with our destruction."

 "And how would they bring about our destruction, Mr. Standback?"
 cried McGinty. "Is it by the police? Sure, half of them are in our
 pay and half of them afraid of us. Or is it by the law courts and the
 judge? Haven't we tried that before now, and what ever came of it?"

 "There is a Judge Lynch that might try the case," said Brother
 Morris.

 A general shout of anger greeted the suggestion.

 "I have but to raise my finger," cried McGinty, "and I could put two
 hundred men into this town that would clear it out from end to end."
 Then suddenly raising his voice and bending his huge black brows into
 a terrible frown, "See here, Brother Morris, I have my eye on you,
 and have had for some time! You've no heart yourself, and you try to
 take the heart out of others. It will be an ill day for you, Brother
 Morris, when your own name comes on our agenda paper, and I'm
 thinking that it's just there that I ought to place it."

 Morris had turned deadly pale, and his knees seemed to give way under
 him as he fell back into his chair. He raised his glass in his
 trembling hand and drank before he could answer. "I apologize,
 Eminent Bodymaster, to you and to every brother in this lodge if I
 have said more than I should. I am a faithful member--you all know
 that--and it is my fear lest evil come to the lodge which makes me
 speak in anxious words. But I have greater trust in your judgment
 than in my own, Eminent Bodymaster, and I promise you that I will not
 offend again."

 The Bodymaster's scowl relaxed as he listened to the humble words.
 "Very good, Brother Morris. It's myself that would be sorry if it
 were needful to give you a lesson. But so long as I am in this chair
 we shall be a united lodge in word and in deed. And now, boys," he
 continued, looking round at the company, "I'll say this much, that if
 Stanger got his full deserts there would be more trouble than we need
 ask for. These editors hang together, and every journal in the state
 would be crying out for police and troops. But I guess you can give
 him a pretty severe warning. Will you fix it, Brother Baldwin?"

 "Sure!" said the young man eagerly.

 "How many will you take?"

 "Half a dozen, and two to guard the door. You'll come, Gower, and
 you, Mansel, and you, Scanlan, and the two Willabys."

 "I promised the new brother he should go," said the chairman.

 Ted Baldwin looked at McMurdo with eyes which showed that he had not
 forgotten nor forgiven. "Well, he can come if he wants," he said in a
 surly voice. "That's enough. The sooner we get to work the better."

 The company broke up with shouts and yells and snatches of drunken
 song. The bar was still crowded with revellers, and many of the
 brethren remained there. The little band who had been told off for
 duty passed out into the street, proceeding in twos and threes along
 the sidewalk so as not to provoke attention. It was a bitterly cold
 night, with a half-moon shining brilliantly in a frosty,
 star-spangled sky. The men stopped and gathered in a yard which faced
 a high building. The words "Vermissa Herald" were printed in gold
 lettering between the brightly lit windows. From within came the
 clanking of the printing press.

 "Here, you," said Baldwin to McMurdo, "you can stand below at the
 door and see that the road is kept open for us. Arthur Willaby can
 stay with you. You others come with me. Have no fears, boys; for we
 have a dozen witnesses that we are in the Union Bar at this very
 moment."

 It was nearly midnight, and the street was deserted save for one or
 two revellers upon their way home. The party crossed the road, and,
 pushing open the door of the newspaper office, Baldwin and his men
 rushed in and up the stair which faced them. McMurdo and another
 remained below. From the room above came a shout, a cry for help, and
 then the sound of trampling feet and of falling chairs. An instant
 later a gray-haired man rushed out on the landing.

 He was seized before he could get farther, and his spectacles came
 tinkling down to McMurdo's feet. There was a thud and a groan. He was
 on his face, and half a dozen sticks were clattering together as they
 fell upon him. He writhed, and his long, thin limbs quivered under
 the blows. The others ceased at last; but Baldwin, his cruel face set
 in an infernal smile, was hacking at the man's head, which he vainly
 endeavoured to defend with his arms. His white hair was dabbled with
 patches of blood. Baldwin was still stooping over his victim, putting
 in a short, vicious blow whenever he could see a part exposed, when
 McMurdo dashed up the stair and pushed him back.

 "You'll kill the man," said he. "Drop it!"

 Baldwin looked at him in amazement. "Curse you!" he cried. "Who are
 you to interfere--you that are new to the lodge? Stand back!" He
 raised his stick; but McMurdo had whipped his pistol out of his hip
 pocket.

 "Stand back yourself!" he cried. "I'll blow your face in if you lay a
 hand on me. As to the lodge, wasn't it the order of the Bodymaster
 that the man was not to be killed--and what are you doing but killing
 him?"

 "It's truth he says," remarked one of the men.

 "By Gar! you'd best hurry yourselves!" cried the man below. "The
 windows are all lighting up, and you'll have the whole town here
 inside of five minutes."

 There was indeed the sound of shouting in the street, and a little
 group of compositors and pressmen was forming in the hall below and
 nerving itself to action. Leaving the limp and motionless body of the
 editor at the head of the stair, the criminals rushed down and made
 their way swiftly along the street. Having reached the Union House,
 some of them mixed with the crowd in McGinty's saloon, whispering
 across the bar to the Boss that the job had been well carried
 through. Others, and among them McMurdo, broke away into side
 streets, and so by devious paths to their own homes.





      CHAPTER IV
      The Valley of Fear


 When McMurdo awoke next morning he had good reason to remember his
 initiation into the lodge. His head ached with the effect of the
 drink, and his arm, where he had been branded, was hot and swollen.
 Having his own peculiar source of income, he was irregular in his
 attendance at his work; so he had a late breakfast, and remained at
 home for the morning writing a long letter to a friend. Afterwards he
 read the Daily Herald. In a special column put in at the last moment
 he read:

        Outrage at the herald office -- Editor seriously injured

 It was a short account of the facts with which he was himself more
 familiar than the writer could have been. It ended with the
 statement:

 The matter is now in the hands of the police; but it can hardly be
 hoped that their exertions will be attended by any better results
 than in the past. Some of the men were recognized, and there is hope
 that a conviction may be obtained. The source of the outrage was, it
 need hardly be said, that infamous society which has held this
 community in bondage for so long a period, and against which the
 Herald has taken so uncompromising a stand. Mr. Stanger's many
 friends will rejoice to hear that, though he has been cruelly and
 brutally beaten, and though he has sustained severe injuries about
 the head, there is no immediate danger to his life.

 Below it stated that a guard of police, armed with Winchester rifles,
 had been requisitioned for the defense of the office.

 McMurdo had laid down the paper, and was lighting his pipe with a
 hand which was shaky from the excesses of the previous evening, when
 there was a knock outside, and his landlady brought to him a note
 which had just been handed in by a lad. It was unsigned, and ran
 thus:

 I should wish to speak to you, but would rather not do so in your
 house. You will find me beside the flagstaff upon Miller Hill. If you
 will come there now, I have something which it is important for you
 to hear and for me to say.

 McMurdo read the note twice with the utmost surprise; for he could
 not imagine what it meant or who was the author of it. Had it been in
 a feminine hand, he might have imagined that it was the beginning of
 one of those adventures which had been familiar enough in his past
 life. But it was the writing of a man, and of a well educated one,
 too. Finally, after some hesitation, he determined to see the matter
 through.

 Miller Hill is an ill-kept public park in the very centre of the
 town. In summer it is a favourite resort of the people; but in winter
 it is desolate enough. From the top of it one has a view not only of
 the whole straggling, grimy town, but of the winding valley beneath,
 with its scattered mines and factories blackening the snow on each
 side of it, and of the wooded and white-capped ranges flanking it.

 McMurdo strolled up the winding path hedged in with evergreens until
 he reached the deserted restaurant which forms the centre of summer
 gaiety. Beside it was a bare flagstaff, and underneath it a man, his
 hat drawn down and the collar of his overcoat turned up. When he
 turned his face McMurdo saw that it was Brother Morris, he who had
 incurred the anger of the Bodymaster the night before. The lodge sign
 was given and exchanged as they met.

 "I wanted to have a word with you, Mr. McMurdo," said the older man,
 speaking with a hesitation which showed that he was on delicate
 ground. "It was kind of you to come."

 "Why did you not put your name to the note?"

 "One has to be cautious, mister. One never knows in times like these
 how a thing may come back to one. One never knows either who to trust
 or who not to trust."

 "Surely one may trust brothers of the lodge."

 "No, no, not always," cried Morris with vehemence. "Whatever we say,
 even what we think, seems to go back to that man McGinty."

 "Look here!" said McMurdo sternly. "It was only last night, as you
 know well, that I swore good faith to our Bodymaster. Would you be
 asking me to break my oath?"

 "If that is the view you take," said Morris sadly, "I can only say
 that I am sorry I gave you the trouble to come and meet me. Things
 have come to a bad pass when two free citizens cannot speak their
 thoughts to each other."

 McMurdo, who had been watching his companion very narrowly, relaxed
 somewhat in his bearing. "Sure I spoke for myself only," said he. "I
 am a newcomer, as you know, and I am strange to it all. It is not for
 me to open my mouth, Mr. Morris, and if you think well to say
 anything to me I am here to hear it."

 "And to take it back to Boss McGinty!" said Morris bitterly.

 "Indeed, then, you do me injustice there," cried McMurdo. "For myself
 I am loyal to the lodge, and so I tell you straight; but I would be a
 poor creature if I were to repeat to any other what you might say to
 me in confidence. It will go no further than me; though I warn you
 that you may get neither help nor sympathy."

 "I have given up looking for either the one or the other," said
 Morris. "I may be putting my very life in your hands by what I say;
 but, bad as you are--and it seemed to me last night that you were
 shaping to be as bad as the worst--still you are new to it, and your
 conscience cannot yet be as hardened as theirs. That was why I
 thought to speak with you."

 "Well, what have you to say?"

 "If you give me away, may a curse be on you!"

 "Sure, I said I would not."

 "I would ask you, then, when you joined the Freeman's society in
 Chicago and swore vows of charity and fidelity, did ever it cross
 your mind that you might find it would lead you to crime?"

 "If you call it crime," McMurdo answered.

 "Call it crime!" cried Morris, his voice vibrating with passion. "You
 have seen little of it if you can call it anything else. Was it crime
 last night when a man old enough to be your father was beaten till
 the blood dripped from his white hairs? Was that crime--or what else
 would you call it?"

 "There are some would say it was war," said McMurdo, "a war of two
 classes with all in, so that each struck as best it could."

 "Well, did you think of such a thing when you joined the Freeman's
 society at Chicago?"

 "No, I'm bound to say I did not."

 "Nor did I when I joined it at Philadelphia. It was just a benefit
 club and a meeting place for one's fellows. Then I heard of this
 place--curse the hour that the name first fell upon my ears!--and I
 came to better myself! My God! to better myself! My wife and three
 children came with me. I started a dry goods store on Market Square,
 and I prospered well. The word had gone round that I was a Freeman,
 and I was forced to join the local lodge, same as you did last night.
 I've the badge of shame on my forearm and something worse branded on
 my heart. I found that I was under the orders of a black villain and
 caught in a meshwork of crime. What could I do? Every word I said to
 make things better was taken as treason, same as it was last night. I
 can't get away; for all I have in the world is in my store. If I
 leave the society, I know well that it means murder to me, and God
 knows what to my wife and children. Oh, man, it is awful--awful!" He
 put his hands to his face, and his body shook with convulsive sobs.

 McMurdo shrugged his shoulders. "You were too soft for the job," said
 he. "You are the wrong sort for such work."

 "I had a conscience and a religion; but they made me a criminal among
 them. I was chosen for a job. If I backed down I knew well what would
 come to me. Maybe I'm a coward. Maybe it's the thought of my poor
 little woman and the children that makes me one. Anyhow I went. I
 guess it will haunt me forever.

 "It was a lonely house, twenty miles from here, over the range
 yonder. I was told off for the door, same as you were last night.
 They could not trust me with the job. The others went in. When they
 came out their hands were crimson to the wrists. As we turned away a
 child was screaming out of the house behind us. It was a boy of five
 who had seen his father murdered. I nearly fainted with the horror of
 it, and yet I had to keep a bold and smiling face; for well I knew
 that if I did not it would be out of my house that they would come
 next with their bloody hands and it would be my little Fred that
 would be screaming for his father.

 "But I was a criminal then, part sharer in a murder, lost forever in
 this world, and lost also in the next. I am a good Catholic; but the
 priest would have no word with me when he heard I was a Scowrer, and
 I am excommunicated from my faith. That's how it stands with me. And
 I see you going down the same road, and I ask you what the end is to
 be. Are you ready to be a cold-blooded murderer also, or can we do
 anything to stop it?"

 "What would you do?" asked McMurdo abruptly. "You would not inform?"

 "God forbid!" cried Morris. "Sure, the very thought would cost me my
 life."

 "That's well," said McMurdo. "I'm thinking that you are a weak man
 and that you make too much of the matter."

 "Too much! Wait till you have lived here longer. Look down the
 valley! See the cloud of a hundred chimneys that overshadows it! I
 tell you that the cloud of murder hangs thicker and lower than that
 over the heads of the people. It is the Valley of Fear, the Valley of
 Death. The terror is in the hearts of the people from the dusk to the
 dawn. Wait, young man, and you will learn for yourself."

 "Well, I'll let you know what I think when I have seen more," said
 McMurdo carelessly. "What is very clear is that you are not the man
 for the place, and that the sooner you sell out--if you only get a
 dime a dollar for what the business is worth--the better it will be
 for you. What you have said is safe with me; but, by Gar! if I
 thought you were an informer--"

 "No, no!" cried Morris piteously.

 "Well, let it rest at that. I'll bear what you have said in mind, and
 maybe some day I'll come back to it. I expect you meant kindly by
 speaking to me like this. Now I'll be getting home."

 "One word before you go," said Morris. "We may have been seen
 together. They may want to know what we have spoken about."

 "Ah! that's well thought of."

 "I offer you a clerkship in my store."

 "And I refuse it. That's our business. Well, so long, Brother Morris,
 and may you find things go better with you in the future."

 That same afternoon, as McMurdo sat smoking, lost in thought beside
 the stove of his sitting-room, the door swung open and its framework
 was filled with the huge figure of Boss McGinty. He passed the sign,
 and then seating himself opposite to the young man he looked at him
 steadily for some time, a look which was as steadily returned.

 "I'm not much of a visitor, Brother McMurdo," he said at last. "I
 guess I am too busy over the folk that visit me. But I thought I'd
 stretch a point and drop down to see you in your own house."

 "I'm proud to see you here, Councillor," McMurdo answered heartily,
 bringing his whisky bottle out of the cupboard. "It's an honour that
 I had not expected."

 "How's the arm?" asked the Boss.

 McMurdo made a wry face. "Well, I'm not forgetting it," he said; "but
 it's worth it."

 "Yes, it's worth it," the other answered, "to those that are loyal
 and go through with it and are a help to the lodge. What were you
 speaking to Brother Morris about on Miller Hill this morning?"

 The question came so suddenly that it was well that he had his answer
 prepared. He burst into a hearty laugh. "Morris didn't know I could
 earn a living here at home. He shan't know either; for he has got too
 much conscience for the likes of me. But he's a good-hearted old
 chap. It was his idea that I was at a loose end, and that he would do
 me a good turn by offering me a clerkship in a dry goods store."

 "Oh, that was it?"

 "Yes, that was it."

 "And you refused it?"

 "Sure. Couldn't I earn ten times as much in my own bedroom with four
 hours' work?"

 "That's so. But I wouldn't get about too much with Morris."

 "Why not?"

 "Well, I guess because I tell you not. That's enough for most folk in
 these parts."

 "It may be enough for most folk; but it ain't enough for me,
 Councillor," said McMurdo boldly. "If you are a judge of men, you'll
 know that."

 The swarthy giant glared at him, and his hairy paw closed for an
 instant round the glass as though he would hurl it at the head of his
 companion. Then he laughed in his loud, boisterous, insincere
 fashion.

 "You're a queer card, for sure," said he. "Well, if you want reasons,
 I'll give them. Did Morris say nothing to you against the lodge?"

 "No."

 "Nor against me?"

 "No."

 "Well, that's because he daren't trust you. But in his heart he is
 not a loyal brother. We know that well. So we watch him and we wait
 for the time to admonish him. I'm thinking that the time is drawing
 near. There's no room for scabby sheep in our pen. But if you keep
 company with a disloyal man, we might think that you were disloyal,
 too. See?"

 "There's no chance of my keeping company with him; for I dislike the
 man," McMurdo answered. "As to being disloyal, if it was any man but
 you he would not use the word to me twice."

 "Well, that's enough," said McGinty, draining off his glass. "I came
 down to give you a word in season, and you've had it."

 "I'd like to know," said McMurdo, "how you ever came to learn that I
 had spoken with Morris at all?"

 McGinty laughed. "It's my business to know what goes on in this
 township," said he. "I guess you'd best reckon on my hearing all that
 passes. Well, time's up, and I'll just say--"

 But his leavetaking was cut short in a very unexpected fashion. With
 a sudden crash the door flew open, and three frowning, intent faces
 glared in at them from under the peaks of police caps. McMurdo sprang
 to his feet and half drew his revolver; but his arm stopped midway as
 he became conscious that two Winchester rifles were levelled at his
 head. A man in uniform advanced into the room, a six-shooter in his
 hand. It was Captain Marvin, once of Chicago, and now of the Mine
 Constabulary. He shook his head with a half-smile at McMurdo.

 "I thought you'd be getting into trouble, Mr. Crooked McMurdo of
 Chicago," said he. "Can't keep out of it, can you? Take your hat and
 come along with us."

 "I guess you'll pay for this, Captain Marvin," said McGinty. "Who are
 you, I'd like to know, to break into a house in this fashion and
 molest honest, law-abiding men?"

 "You're standing out in this deal, Councillor McGinty," said the
 police captain. "We are not out after you, but after this man
 McMurdo. It is for you to help, not to hinder us in our duty,"

 "He is a friend of mine, and I'll answer for his conduct," said the
 Boss.

 "By all accounts, Mr. McGinty, you may have to answer for your own
 conduct some of these days," the captain answered. "This man McMurdo
 was a crook before ever he came here, and he's a crook still. Cover
 him, Patrolman, while I disarm him."

 "There's my pistol," said McMurdo coolly. "Maybe, Captain Marvin, if
 you and I were alone and face to face you would not take me so
 easily."

 "Where's your warrant?" asked McGinty. "By Gar! a man might as well
 live in Russia as in Vermissa while folk like you are running the
 police. It's a capitalist outrage, and you'll hear more of it, I
 reckon."

 "You do what you think is your duty the best way you can, Councillor.
 We'll look after ours."

 "What am I accused of?" asked McMurdo.

 "Of being concerned in the beating of old Editor Stanger at the
 Herald office. It wasn't your fault that it isn't a murder charge."

 "Well, if that's all you have against him," cried McGinty with a
 laugh, "you can save yourself a deal of trouble by dropping it right
 now. This man was with me in my saloon playing poker up to midnight,
 and I can bring a dozen to prove it."

 "That's your affair, and I guess you can settle it in court
 to-morrow. Meanwhile, come on, McMurdo, and come quietly if you don't
 want a gun across your head. You stand wide, Mr. McGinty; for I warn
 you I will stand no resistance when I am on duty!"

 So determined was the appearance of the captain that both McMurdo and
 his boss were forced to accept the situation. The latter managed to
 have a few whispered words with the prisoner before they parted.

 "What about--" he jerked his thumb upward to signify the coining
 plant.

 "All right," whispered McMurdo, who had devised a safe hiding place
 under the floor.

 "I'll bid you good-bye," said the Boss, shaking hands. "I'll see
 Reilly the lawyer and take the defense upon myself. Take my word for
 it that they won't be able to hold you."

 "I wouldn't bet on that. Guard the prisoner, you two, and shoot him
 if he tries any games. I'll search the house before I leave."

 He did so; but apparently found no trace of the concealed plant. When
 he had descended he and his men escorted McMurdo to headquarters.
 Darkness had fallen, and a keen blizzard was blowing so that the
 streets were nearly deserted; but a few loiterers followed the group,
 and emboldened by invisibility shouted imprecations at the prisoner.

 "Lynch the cursed Scowrer!" they cried. "Lynch him!" They laughed and
 jeered as he was pushed into the police station. After a short,
 formal examination from the inspector in charge he was put into the
 common cell. Here he found Baldwin and three other criminals of the
 night before, all arrested that afternoon and waiting their trial
 next morning.

 But even within this inner fortress of the law the long arm of the
 Freemen was able to extend. Late at night there came a jailer with a
 straw bundle for their bedding, out of which he extracted two bottles
 of whisky, some glasses, and a pack of cards. They spent a hilarious
 night, without an anxious thought as to the ordeal of the morning.

 Nor had they cause, as the result was to show. The magistrate could
 not possibly, on the evidence, have held them for a higher court. On
 the one hand the compositors and pressmen were forced to admit that
 the light was uncertain, that they were themselves much perturbed,
 and that it was difficult for them to swear to the identity of the
 assailants; although they believed that the accused were among them.
 Cross examined by the clever attorney who had been engaged by
 McGinty, they were even more nebulous in their evidence.

 The injured man had already deposed that he was so taken by surprise
 by the suddenness of the attack that he could state nothing beyond
 the fact that the first man who struck him wore a moustache. He added
 that he knew them to be Scowrers, since no one else in the community
 could possibly have any enmity to him, and he had long been
 threatened on account of his outspoken editorials. On the other hand,
 it was clearly shown by the united and unfaltering evidence of six
 citizens, including that high municipal official, Councillor McGinty,
 that the men had been at a card party at the Union House until an
 hour very much later than the commission of the outrage.

 Needless to say that they were discharged with something very near to
 an apology from the bench for the inconvenience to which they had
 been put, together with an implied censure of Captain Marvin and the
 police for their officious zeal.

 The verdict was greeted with loud applause by a court in which
 McMurdo saw many familiar faces. Brothers of the lodge smiled and
 waved. But there were others who sat with compressed lips and
 brooding eyes as the men filed out of the dock. One of them, a
 little, dark-bearded, resolute fellow, put the thoughts of himself
 and comrades into words as the ex-prisoners passed him.

 "You damned murderers!" he said. "We'll fix you yet!"





      CHAPTER V
      The Darkest Hour


 If anything had been needed to give an impetus to Jack McMurdo's
 popularity among his fellows it would have been his arrest and
 acquittal. That a man on the very night of joining the lodge should
 have done something which brought him before the magistrate was a new
 record in the annals of the society. Already he had earned the
 reputation of a good boon companion, a cheery reveller, and withal a
 man of high temper, who would not take an insult even from the
 all-powerful Boss himself. But in addition to this he impressed his
 comrades with the idea that among them all there was not one whose
 brain was so ready to devise a bloodthirsty scheme, or whose hand
 would be more capable of carrying it out. "He'll be the boy for the
 clean job," said the oldsters to one another, and waited their time
 until they could set him to his work.

 McGinty had instruments enough already; but he recognized that this
 was a supremely able one. He felt like a man holding a fierce
 bloodhound in leash. There were curs to do the smaller work; but some
 day he would slip this creature upon its prey. A few members of the
 lodge, Ted Baldwin among them, resented the rapid rise of the
 stranger and hated him for it; but they kept clear of him, for he was
 as ready to fight as to laugh.

 But if he gained favour with his fellows, there was another quarter,
 one which had become even more vital to him, in which he lost it.
 Ettie Shafter's father would have nothing more to do with him, nor
 would he allow him to enter the house. Ettie herself was too deeply
 in love to give him up altogether, and yet her own good sense warned
 her of what would come from a marriage with a man who was regarded as
 a criminal.

 One morning after a sleepless night she determined to see him,
 possibly for the last time, and make one strong endeavour to draw him
 from those evil influences which were sucking him down. She went to
 his house, as he had often begged her to do, and made her way into
 the room which he used as his sitting-room. He was seated at a table,
 with his back turned and a letter in front of him. A sudden spirit of
 girlish mischief came over her--she was still only nineteen. He had
 not heard her when she pushed open the door. Now she tiptoed forward
 and laid her hand lightly upon his bended shoulders.

 If she had expected to startle him, she certainly succeeded; but only
 in turn to be startled herself. With a tiger spring he turned on her,
 and his right hand was feeling for her throat. At the same instant
 with the other hand he crumpled up the paper that lay before him. For
 an instant he stood glaring. Then astonishment and joy took the place
 of the ferocity which had convulsed his features--a ferocity which
 had sent her shrinking back in horror as from something which had
 never before intruded into her gentle life.

 "It's you!" said he, mopping his brow. "And to think that you should
 come to me, heart of my heart, and I should find nothing better to do
 than to want to strangle you! Come then, darling," and he held out
 his arms, "let me make it up to you."

 But she had not recovered from that sudden glimpse of guilty fear
 which she had read in the man's face. All her woman's instinct told
 her that it was not the mere fright of a man who is startled.
 Guilt--that was it--guilt and fear!

 "What's come over you, Jack?" she cried. "Why were you so scared of
 me? Oh, Jack, if your conscience was at ease, you would not have
 looked at me like that!"

 "Sure, I was thinking of other things, and when you came tripping so
 lightly on those fairy feet of yours--"

 "No, no, it was more than that, Jack." Then a sudden suspicion seized
 her. "Let me see that letter you were writing."

 "Ah, Ettie, I couldn't do that."

 Her suspicions became certainties. "It's to another woman," she
 cried. "I know it! Why else should you hold it from me? Was it to
 your wife that you were writing? How am I to know that you are not a
 married man--you, a stranger, that nobody knows?"

 "I am not married, Ettie. See now, I swear it! You're the only one
 woman on earth to me. By the cross of Christ I swear it!"

 He was so white with passionate earnestness that she could not but
 believe him.

 "Well, then," she cried, "why will you not show me the letter?"

 "I'll tell you, acushla," said he. "I'm under oath not to show it,
 and just as I wouldn't break my word to you so I would keep it to
 those who hold my promise. It's the business of the lodge, and even
 to you it's secret. And if I was scared when a hand fell on me, can't
 you understand it when it might have been the hand of a detective?"

 She felt that he was telling the truth. He gathered her into his arms
 and kissed away her fears and doubts.

 "Sit here by me, then. It's a queer throne for such a queen; but it's
 the best your poor lover can find. He'll do better for you some of
 these days, I'm thinking. Now your mind is easy once again, is it
 not?"

 "How can it ever be at ease, Jack, when I know that you are a
 criminal among criminals, when I never know the day that I may hear
 you are in court for murder? 'McMurdo the Scowrer,' that's what one
 of our boarders called you yesterday. It went through my heart like a
 knife."

 "Sure, hard words break no bones."

 "But they were true."

 "Well, dear, it's not so bad as you think. We are but poor men that
 are trying in our own way to get our rights."

 Ettie threw her arms round her lover's neck. "Give it up, Jack! For
 my sake, for God's sake, give it up! It was to ask you that I came
 here to-day. Oh, Jack, see--I beg it of you on my bended knees!
 Kneeling here before you I implore you to give it up!"

 He raised her and soothed her with her head against his breast.

 "Sure, my darlin', you don't know what it is you are asking. How
 could I give it up when it would be to break my oath and to desert my
 comrades? If you could see how things stand with me you could never
 ask it of me. Besides, if I wanted to, how could I do it? You don't
 suppose that the lodge would let a man go free with all its secrets?"

 "I've thought of that, Jack. I've planned it all. Father has saved
 some money. He is weary of this place where the fear of these people
 darkens our lives. He is ready to go. We would fly together to
 Philadelphia or New York, where we would be safe from them."

 McMurdo laughed. "The lodge has a long arm. Do you think it could not
 stretch from here to Philadelphia or New York?"

 "Well, then, to the West, or to England, or to Germany, where father
 came from--anywhere to get away from this Valley of Fear!"

 McMurdo thought of old Brother Morris. "Sure, it is the second time I
 have heard the valley so named," said he. "The shadow does indeed
 seem to lie heavy on some of you."

 "It darkens every moment of our lives. Do you suppose that Ted
 Baldwin has ever forgiven us? If it were not that he fears you, what
 do you suppose our chances would be? If you saw the look in those
 dark, hungry eyes of his when they fall on me!"

 "By Gar! I'd teach him better manners if I caught him at it! But see
 here, little girl. I can't leave here. I can't--take that from me
 once and for all. But if you will leave me to find my own way, I will
 try to prepare a way of getting honourably out of it."

 "There is no honour in such a matter."

 "Well, well, it's just how you look at it. But if you'll give me six
 months, I'll work it so that I can leave without being ashamed to
 look others in the face."

 The girl laughed with joy. "Six months!" she cried. "Is it a
 promise?"

 "Well, it may be seven or eight. But within a year at the furthest we
 will leave the valley behind us."

 It was the most that Ettie could obtain, and yet it was something.
 There was this distant light to illuminate the gloom of the immediate
 future. She returned to her father's house more light-hearted than
 she had ever been since Jack McMurdo had come into her life.

 It might be thought that as a member, all the doings of the society
 would be told to him; but he was soon to discover that the
 organization was wider and more complex than the simple lodge. Even
 Boss McGinty was ignorant as to many things; for there was an
 official named the County Delegate, living at Hobson's Patch farther
 down the line, who had power over several different lodges which he
 wielded in a sudden and arbitrary way. Only once did McMurdo see him,
 a sly, little gray-haired rat of a man, with a slinking gait and a
 sidelong glance which was charged with malice. Evans Pott was his
 name, and even the great Boss of Vermissa felt towards him something
 of the repulsion and fear which the huge Danton may have felt for the
 puny but dangerous Robespierre.

 One day Scanlan, who was McMurdo's fellow boarder, received a note
 from McGinty inclosing one from Evans Pott, which informed him that
 he was sending over two good men, Lawler and Andrews, who had
 instructions to act in the neighbourhood; though it was best for the
 cause that no particulars as to their objects should be given. Would
 the Bodymaster see to it that suitable arrangements be made for their
 lodgings and comfort until the time for action should arrive? McGinty
 added that it was impossible for anyone to remain secret at the Union
 House, and that, therefore, he would be obliged if McMurdo and
 Scanlan would put the strangers up for a few days in their boarding
 house.

 The same evening the two men arrived, each carrying his gripsack.
 Lawler was an elderly man, shrewd, silent, and self-contained, clad
 in an old black frock coat, which with his soft felt hat and ragged,
 grizzled beard gave him a general resemblance to an itinerant
 preacher. His companion Andrews was little more than a boy,
 frank-faced and cheerful, with the breezy manner of one who is out
 for a holiday and means to enjoy every minute of it. Both men were
 total abstainers, and behaved in all ways as exemplary members of the
 society, with the one simple exception that they were assassins who
 had often proved themselves to be most capable instruments for this
 association of murder. Lawler had already carried out fourteen
 commissions of the kind, and Andrews three.

 They were, as McMurdo found, quite ready to converse about their
 deeds in the past, which they recounted with the half-bashful pride
 of men who had done good and unselfish service for the community.
 They were reticent, however, as to the immediate job in hand.

 "They chose us because neither I nor the boy here drink," Lawler
 explained. "They can count on us saying no more than we should. You
 must not take it amiss, but it is the orders of the County Delegate
 that we obey."

 "Sure, we are all in it together," said Scanlan, McMurdo's mate, as
 the four sat together at supper.

 "That's true enough, and we'll talk till the cows come home of the
 killing of Charlie Williams or of Simon Bird, or any other job in the
 past. But till the work is done we say nothing."

 "There are half a dozen about here that I have a word to say to,"
 said McMurdo, with an oath. "I suppose it isn't Jack Knox of Ironhill
 that you are after. I'd go some way to see him get his deserts."

 "No, it's not him yet."

 "Or Herman Strauss?"

 "No, nor him either."

 "Well, if you won't tell us we can't make you; but I'd be glad to
 know."

 Lawler smiled and shook his head. He was not to be drawn.

 In spite of the reticence of their guests, Scanlan and McMurdo were
 quite determined to be present at what they called "the fun." When,
 therefore, at an early hour one morning McMurdo heard them creeping
 down the stairs he awakened Scanlan, and the two hurried on their
 clothes. When they were dressed they found that the others had stolen
 out, leaving the door open behind them. It was not yet dawn, and by
 the light of the lamps they could see the two men some distance down
 the street. They followed them warily, treading noiselessly in the
 deep snow.

 The boarding house was near the edge of the town, and soon they were
 at the crossroads which is beyond its boundary. Here three men were
 waiting, with whom Lawler and Andrews held a short, eager
 conversation. Then they all moved on together. It was clearly some
 notable job which needed numbers. At this point there are several
 trails which lead to various mines. The strangers took that which led
 to the Crow Hill, a huge business which was in strong hands which had
 been able, thanks to their energetic and fearless New England
 manager, Josiah H. Dunn, to keep some order and discipline during the
 long reign of terror.

 Day was breaking now, and a line of workmen were slowly making their
 way, singly and in groups, along the blackened path.

 McMurdo and Scanlan strolled on with the others, keeping in sight of
 the men whom they followed. A thick mist lay over them, and from the
 heart of it there came the sudden scream of a steam whistle. It was
 the ten-minute signal before the cages descended and the day's labour
 began.

 When they reached the open space round the mine shaft there were a
 hundred miners waiting, stamping their feet and blowing on their
 fingers; for it was bitterly cold. The strangers stood in a little
 group under the shadow of the engine house. Scanlan and McMurdo
 climbed a heap of slag from which the whole scene lay before them.
 They saw the mine engineer, a great bearded Scotchman named Menzies,
 come out of the engine house and blow his whistle for the cages to be
 lowered.

 At the same instant a tall, loose-framed young man with a
 clean-shaved, earnest face advanced eagerly towards the pit head. As
 he came forward his eyes fell upon the group, silent and motionless,
 under the engine house. The men had drawn down their hats and turned
 up their collars to screen their faces. For a moment the presentiment
 of Death laid its cold hand upon the manager's heart. At the next he
 had shaken it off and saw only his duty towards intrusive strangers.

 "Who are you?" he asked as he advanced. "What are you loitering there
 for?"

 There was no answer; but the lad Andrews stepped forward and shot him
 in the stomach. The hundred waiting miners stood as motionless and
 helpless as if they were paralyzed. The manager clapped his two hands
 to the wound and doubled himself up. Then he staggered away; but
 another of the assassins fired, and he went down sidewise, kicking
 and clawing among a heap of clinkers. Menzies, the Scotchman, gave a
 roar of rage at the sight and rushed with an iron spanner at the
 murderers; but was met by two balls in the face which dropped him
 dead at their very feet.

 There was a surge forward of some of the miners, and an inarticulate
 cry of pity and of anger; but a couple of the strangers emptied their
 six-shooters over the heads of the crowd, and they broke and
 scattered, some of them rushing wildly back to their homes in
 Vermissa.

 When a few of the bravest had rallied, and there was a return to the
 mine, the murderous gang had vanished in the mists of morning,
 without a single witness being able to swear to the identity of these
 men who in front of a hundred spectators had wrought this double
 crime.

 Scanlan and McMurdo made their way back; Scanlan somewhat subdued,
 for it was the first murder job that he had seen with his own eyes,
 and it appeared less funny than he had been led to believe. The
 horrible screams of the dead manager's wife pursued them as they
 hurried to the town. McMurdo was absorbed and silent; but he showed
 no sympathy for the weakening of his companion.

 "Sure, it is like a war," he repeated. "What is it but a war between
 us and them, and we hit back where we best can."

 There was high revel in the lodge room at the Union House that night,
 not only over the killing of the manager and engineer of the Crow
 Hill mine, which would bring this organization into line with the
 other blackmailed and terror-stricken companies of the district, but
 also over a distant triumph which had been wrought by the hands of
 the lodge itself.

 It would appear that when the County Delegate had sent over five good
 men to strike a blow in Vermissa, he had demanded that in return
 three Vermissa men should be secretly selected and sent across to
 kill William Hales of Stake Royal, one of the best known and most
 popular mine owners in the Gilmerton district, a man who was believed
 not to have an enemy in the world; for he was in all ways a model
 employer. He had insisted, however, upon efficiency in the work, and
 had, therefore, paid off certain drunken and idle employees who were
 members of the all-powerful society. Coffin notices hung outside his
 door had not weakened his resolution, and so in a free, civilized
 country he found himself condemned to death.

 The execution had now been duly carried out. Ted Baldwin, who
 sprawled now in the seat of honour beside the Bodymaster, had been
 chief of the party. His flushed face and glazed, blood-shot eyes told
 of sleeplessness and drink. He and his two comrades had spent the
 night before among the mountains. They were unkempt and
 weather-stained. But no heroes, returning from a forlorn hope, could
 have had a warmer welcome from their comrades.

 The story was told and retold amid cries of delight and shouts of
 laughter. They had waited for their man as he drove home at
 nightfall, taking their station at the top of a steep hill, where his
 horse must be at a walk. He was so furred to keep out the cold that
 he could not lay his hand on his pistol. They had pulled him out and
 shot him again and again. He had screamed for mercy. The screams were
 repeated for the amusement of the lodge.

 "Let's hear again how he squealed," they cried.

 None of them knew the man; but there is eternal drama in a killing,
 and they had shown the Scowrers of Gilmerton that the Vermissa men
 were to be relied upon.

 There had been one contretemps; for a man and his wife had driven up
 while they were still emptying their revolvers into the silent body.
 It had been suggested that they should shoot them both; but they were
 harmless folk who were not connected with the mines, so they were
 sternly bidden to drive on and keep silent, lest a worse thing befall
 them. And so the blood-mottled figure had been left as a warning to
 all such hard-hearted employers, and the three noble avengers had
 hurried off into the mountains where unbroken nature comes down to
 the very edge of the furnaces and the slag heaps. Here they were,
 safe and sound, their work well done, and the plaudits of their
 companions in their ears.

 It had been a great day for the Scowrers. The shadow had fallen even
 darker over the valley. But as the wise general chooses the moment of
 victory in which to redouble his efforts, so that his foes may have
 no time to steady themselves after disaster, so Boss McGinty, looking
 out upon the scene of his operations with his brooding and malicious
 eyes, had devised a new attack upon those who opposed him. That very
 night, as the half-drunken company broke up, he touched McMurdo on
 the arm and led him aside into that inner room where they had their
 first interview.

 "See here, my lad," said he, "I've got a job that's worthy of you at
 last. You'll have the doing of it in your own hands."

 "Proud I am to hear it," McMurdo answered.

 "You can take two men with you--Manders and Reilly. They have been
 warned for service. We'll never be right in this district until
 Chester Wilcox has been settled, and you'll have the thanks of every
 lodge in the coal fields if you can down him."

 "I'll do my best, anyhow. Who is he, and where shall I find him?"

 McGinty took his eternal half-chewed, half-smoked cigar from the
 corner of his mouth, and proceeded to draw a rough diagram on a page
 torn from his notebook.

 "He's the chief foreman of the Iron Dike Company. He's a hard
 citizen, an old colour sergeant of the war, all scars and grizzle.
 We've had two tries at him; but had no luck, and Jim Carnaway lost
 his life over it. Now it's for you to take it over. That's the
 house--all alone at the Iron Dike crossroad, same as you see here on
 the map--without another within earshot. It's no good by day. He's
 armed and shoots quick and straight, with no questions asked. But at
 night--well, there he is with his wife, three children, and a hired
 help. You can't pick or choose. It's all or none. If you could get a
 bag of blasting powder at the front door with a slow match to it--"

 "What's the man done?"

 "Didn't I tell you he shot Jim Carnaway?"

 "Why did he shoot him?"

 "What in thunder has that to do with you? Carnaway was about his
 house at night, and he shot him. That's enough for me and you. You've
 got to settle the thing right."

 "There's these two women and the children. Do they go up too?"

 "They have to--else how can we get him?"

 "It seems hard on them; for they've done nothing."

 "What sort of fool's talk is this? Do you back out?"

 "Easy, Councillor, easy! What have I ever said or done that you
 should think I would be after standing back from an order of the
 Bodymaster of my own lodge? If it's right or if it's wrong, it's for
 you to decide."

 "You'll do it, then?"

 "Of course I will do it."

 "When?"

 "Well, you had best give me a night or two that I may see the house
 and make my plans. Then--"

 "Very good," said McGinty, shaking him by the hand. "I leave it with
 you. It will be a great day when you bring us the news. It's just the
 last stroke that will bring them all to their knees."

 McMurdo thought long and deeply over the commission which had been so
 suddenly placed in his hands. The isolated house in which Chester
 Wilcox lived was about five miles off in an adjacent valley. That
 very night he started off all alone to prepare for the attempt. It
 was daylight before he returned from his reconnaissance. Next day he
 interviewed his two subordinates, Manders and Reilly, reckless
 youngsters who were as elated as if it were a deer-hunt.

 Two nights later they met outside the town, all three armed, and one
 of them carrying a sack stuffed with the powder which was used in the
 quarries. It was two in the morning before they came to the lonely
 house. The night was a windy one, with broken clouds drifting swiftly
 across the face of a three-quarter moon. They had been warned to be
 on their guard against bloodhounds; so they moved forward cautiously,
 with their pistols cocked in their hands. But there was no sound save
 the howling of the wind, and no movement but the swaying branches
 above them.

 McMurdo listened at the door of the lonely house; but all was still
 within. Then he leaned the powder bag against it, ripped a hole in it
 with his knife, and attached the fuse. When it was well alight he and
 his two companions took to their heels, and were some distance off,
 safe and snug in a sheltering ditch, before the shattering roar of
 the explosion, with the low, deep rumble of the collapsing building,
 told them that their work was done. No cleaner job had ever been
 carried out in the bloodstained annals of the society.

 But alas that work so well organized and boldly carried out should
 all have gone for nothing! Warned by the fate of the various victims,
 and knowing that he was marked down for destruction, Chester Wilcox
 had moved himself and his family only the day before to some safer
 and less known quarters, where a guard of police should watch over
 them. It was an empty house which had been torn down by the
 gunpowder, and the grim old colour sergeant of the war was still
 teaching discipline to the miners of Iron Dike.

 "Leave him to me," said McMurdo. "He's my man, and I'll get him sure
 if I have to wait a year for him."

 A vote of thanks and confidence was passed in full lodge, and so for
 the time the matter ended. When a few weeks later it was reported in
 the papers that Wilcox had been shot at from an ambuscade, it was an
 open secret that McMurdo was still at work upon his unfinished job.

 Such were the methods of the Society of Freemen, and such were the
 deeds of the Scowrers by which they spread their rule of fear over
 the great and rich district which was for so long a period haunted by
 their terrible presence. Why should these pages be stained by further
 crimes? Have I not said enough to show the men and their methods?

 These deeds are written in history, and there are records wherein one
 may read the details of them. There one may learn of the shooting of
 Policemen Hunt and Evans because they had ventured to arrest two
 members of the society--a double outrage planned at the Vermissa
 lodge and carried out in cold blood upon two helpless and disarmed
 men. There also one may read of the shooting of Mrs. Larbey when she
 was nursing her husband, who had been beaten almost to death by
 orders of Boss McGinty. The killing of the elder Jenkins, shortly
 followed by that of his brother, the mutilation of James Murdoch, the
 blowing up of the Staphouse family, and the murder of the Stendals
 all followed hard upon one another in the same terrible winter.

 Darkly the shadow lay upon the Valley of Fear. The spring had come
 with running brooks and blossoming trees. There was hope for all
 Nature bound so long in an iron grip; but nowhere was there any hope
 for the men and women who lived under the yoke of the terror. Never
 had the cloud above them been so dark and hopeless as in the early
 summer of the year 1875.





      CHAPTER VI
      Danger


 It was the height of the reign of terror. McMurdo, who had already
 been appointed Inner Deacon, with every prospect of some day
 succeeding McGinty as Bodymaster, was now so necessary to the
 councils of his comrades that nothing was done without his help and
 advice. The more popular he became, however, with the Freemen, the
 blacker were the scowls which greeted him as he passed along the
 streets of Vermissa. In spite of their terror the citizens were
 taking heart to band themselves together against their oppressors.
 Rumours had reached the lodge of secret gatherings in the Herald
 office and of distribution of firearms among the law-abiding people.
 But McGinty and his men were undisturbed by such reports. They were
 numerous, resolute, and well armed. Their opponents were scattered
 and powerless. It would all end, as it had done in the past, in
 aimless talk and possibly in impotent arrests. So said McGinty,
 McMurdo, and all the bolder spirits.

 It was a Saturday evening in May. Saturday was always the lodge
 night, and McMurdo was leaving his house to attend it when Morris,
 the weaker brother of the order, came to see him. His brow was
 creased with care, and his kindly face was drawn and haggard.

 "Can I speak with you freely, Mr. McMurdo?"

 "Sure."

 "I can't forget that I spoke my heart to you once, and that you kept
 it to yourself, even though the Boss himself came to ask you about
 it."

 "What else could I do if you trusted me? It wasn't that I agreed with
 what you said."

 "I know that well. But you are the one that I can speak to and be
 safe. I've a secret here," he put his hand to his breast, "and it is
 just burning the life out of me. I wish it had come to any one of you
 but me. If I tell it, it will mean murder, for sure. If I don't, it
 may bring the end of us all. God help me, but I am near out of my
 wits over it!"

 McMurdo looked at the man earnestly. He was trembling in every limb.
 He poured some whisky into a glass and handed it to him. "That's the
 physic for the likes of you," said he. "Now let me hear of it."

 Morris drank, and his white face took a tinge of colour. "I can tell
 it to you all in one sentence," said he. "There's a detective on our
 trail."

 McMurdo stared at him in astonishment. "Why, man, you're crazy," he
 said. "Isn't the place full of police and detectives and what harm
 did they ever do us?"

 "No, no, it's no man of the district. As you say, we know them, and
 it is little that they can do. But you've heard of Pinkerton's?"

 "I've read of some folk of that name."

 "Well, you can take it from me you've no show when they are on your
 trail. It's not a take-it-or-miss-it government concern. It's a dead
 earnest business proposition that's out for results and keeps out
 till by hook or crook it gets them. If a Pinkerton man is deep in
 this business, we are all destroyed."

 "We must kill him."

 "Ah, it's the first thought that came to you! So it will be up at the
 lodge. Didn't I say to you that it would end in murder?"

 "Sure, what is murder? Isn't it common enough in these parts?"

 "It is, indeed; but it's not for me to point out the man that is to
 be murdered. I'd never rest easy again. And yet it's our own necks
 that may be at stake. In God's name what shall I do?" He rocked to
 and fro in his agony of indecision.

 But his words had moved McMurdo deeply. It was easy to see that he
 shared the other's opinion as to the danger, and the need for meeting
 it. He gripped Morris's shoulder and shook him in his earnestness.

 "See here, man," he cried, and he almost screeched the words in his
 excitement, "you won't gain anything by sitting keening like an old
 wife at a wake. Let's have the facts. Who is the fellow? Where is he?
 How did you hear of him? Why did you come to me?"

 "I came to you; for you are the one man that would advise me. I told
 you that I had a store in the East before I came here. I left good
 friends behind me, and one of them is in the telegraph service.
 Here's a letter that I had from him yesterday. It's this part from
 the top of the page. You can read it yourself."

 This was what McMurdo read:

 How are the Scowrers getting on in your parts? We read plenty of them
 in the papers. Between you and me I expect to hear news from you
 before long. Five big corporations and the two railroads have taken
 the thing up in dead earnest. They mean it, and you can bet they'll
 get there! They are right deep down into it. Pinkerton has taken hold
 under their orders, and his best man, Birdy Edwards, is operating.
 The thing has got to be stopped right now.

 "Now read the postscript."

 Of course, what I give you is what I learned in business; so it goes
 no further. It's a queer cipher that you handle by the yard every day
 and can get no meaning from.

 McMurdo sat in silence for some time, with the letter in his listless
 hands. The mist had lifted for a moment, and there was the abyss
 before him.

 "Does anyone else know of this?" he asked.

 "I have told no one else."

 "But this man--your friend--has he any other person that he would be
 likely to write to?"

 "Well, I dare say he knows one or two more."

 "Of the lodge?"

 "It's likely enough."

 "I was asking because it is likely that he may have given some
 description of this fellow Birdy Edwards--then we could get on his
 trail."

 "Well, it's possible. But I should not think he knew him. He is just
 telling me the news that came to him by way of business. How would he
 know this Pinkerton man?"

 McMurdo gave a violent start.

 "By Gar!" he cried, "I've got him. What a fool I was not to know it.
 Lord! but we're in luck! We will fix him before he can do any harm.
 See here, Morris, will you leave this thing in my hands?"

 "Sure, if you will only take it off mine."

 "I'll do that. You can stand right back and let me run it. Even your
 name need not be mentioned. I'll take it all on myself, as if it were
 to me that this letter has come. Will that content you?"

 "It's just what I would ask."

 "Then leave it at that and keep your head shut. Now I'll get down to
 the lodge, and we'll soon make old man Pinkerton sorry for himself."

 "You wouldn't kill this man?"

 "The less you know, Friend Morris, the easier your conscience will
 be, and the better you will sleep. Ask no questions, and let these
 things settle themselves. I have hold of it now."

 Morris shook his head sadly as he left. "I feel that his blood is on
 my hands," he groaned.

 "Self-protection is no murder, anyhow," said McMurdo, smiling grimly.
 "It's him or us. I guess this man would destroy us all if we left him
 long in the valley. Why, Brother Morris, we'll have to elect you
 Bodymaster yet; for you've surely saved the lodge."

 And yet it was clear from his actions that he thought more seriously
 of this new intrusion than his words would show. It may have been his
 guilty conscience, it may have been the reputation of the Pinkerton
 organization, it may have been the knowledge that great, rich
 corporations had set themselves the task of clearing out the
 Scowrers; but, whatever his reason, his actions were those of a man
 who is preparing for the worst. Every paper which would incriminate
 him was destroyed before he left the house. After that he gave a long
 sigh of satisfaction; for it seemed to him that he was safe. And yet
 the danger must still have pressed somewhat upon him; for on his way
 to the lodge he stopped at old man Shafter's. The house was forbidden
 him; but when he tapped at the window Ettie came out to him. The
 dancing Irish deviltry had gone from her lover's eyes. She read his
 danger in his earnest face.

 "Something has happened!" she cried. "Oh, Jack, you are in danger!"

 "Sure, it is not very bad, my sweetheart. And yet it may be wise that
 we make a move before it is worse."

 "Make a move?"

 "I promised you once that I would go some day. I think the time is
 coming. I had news to-night, bad news, and I see trouble coming."

 "The police?"

 "Well, a Pinkerton. But, sure, you wouldn't know what that is,
 acushla, nor what it may mean to the likes of me. I'm too deep in
 this thing, and I may have to get out of it quick. You said you would
 come with me if I went."

 "Oh, Jack, it would be the saving of you!"

 "I'm an honest man in some things, Ettie. I wouldn't hurt a hair of
 your bonny head for all that the world can give, nor ever pull you
 down one inch from the golden throne above the clouds where I always
 see you. Would you trust me?"

 She put her hand in his without a word. "Well, then, listen to what I
 say, and do as I order you, for indeed it's the only way for us.
 Things are going to happen in this valley. I feel it in my bones.
 There may be many of us that will have to look out for ourselves. I'm
 one, anyhow. If I go, by day or night, it's you that must come with
 me!"

 "I'd come after you, Jack."

 "No, no, you shall come with me. If this valley is closed to me and I
 can never come back, how can I leave you behind, and me perhaps in
 hiding from the police with never a chance of a message? It's with me
 you must come. I know a good woman in the place I come from, and it's
 there I'd leave you till we can get married. Will you come?"

 "Yes, Jack, I will come."

 "God bless you for your trust in me! It's a fiend out of hell that I
 should be if I abused it. Now, mark you, Ettie, it will be just a
 word to you, and when it reaches you, you will drop everything and
 come right down to the waiting room at the depot and stay there till
 I come for you."

 "Day or night, I'll come at the word, Jack."

 Somewhat eased in mind, now that his own preparations for escape had
 been begun, McMurdo went on to the lodge. It had already assembled,
 and only by complicated signs and counter-signs could he pass through
 the outer guard and inner guard who close-tiled it. A buzz of
 pleasure and welcome greeted him as he entered. The long room was
 crowded, and through the haze of tobacco smoke he saw the tangled
 black mane of the Bodymaster, the cruel, unfriendly features of
 Baldwin, the vulture face of Harraway, the secretary, and a dozen
 more who were among the leaders of the lodge. He rejoiced that they
 should all be there to take counsel over his news.

 "Indeed, it's glad we are to see you, Brother!" cried the chairman.
 "There's business here that wants a Solomon in judgment to set it
 right."

 "It's Lander and Egan," explained his neighbour as he took his seat.
 "They both claim the head money given by the lodge for the shooting
 of old man Crabbe over at Stylestown, and who's to say which fired
 the bullet?"

 McMurdo rose in his place and raised his hand. The expression of his
 face froze the attention of the audience. There was a dead hush of
 expectation.

 "Eminent Bodymaster," he said, in a solemn voice, "I claim urgency!"

 "Brother McMurdo claims urgency," said McGinty. "It's a claim that by
 the rules of this lodge takes precedence. Now Brother, we attend
 you."

 McMurdo took the letter from his pocket.

 "Eminent Bodymaster and Brethren," he said, "I am the bearer of ill
 news this day; but it is better that it should be known and
 discussed, than that a blow should fall upon us without warning which
 would destroy us all. I have information that the most powerful and
 richest organizations in this state have bound themselves together
 for our destruction, and that at this very moment there is a
 Pinkerton detective, one Birdy Edwards, at work in the valley
 collecting the evidence which may put a rope round the necks of many
 of us, and send every man in this room into a felon's cell. That is
 the situation for the discussion of which I have made a claim of
 urgency."

 There was a dead silence in the room. It was broken by the chairman.

 "What is your evidence for this, Brother McMurdo?" he asked.

 "It is in this letter which has come into my hands," said McMurdo. He
 read the passage aloud. "It is a matter of honour with me that I can
 give no further particulars about the letter, nor put it into your
 hands; but I assure you that there is nothing else in it which can
 affect the interests of the lodge. I put the case before you as it
 has reached me."

 "Let me say, Mr. Chairman," said one of the older brethren, "that I
 have heard of Birdy Edwards, and that he has the name of being the
 best man in the Pinkerton service."

 "Does anyone know him by sight?" asked McGinty.

 "Yes," said McMurdo, "I do."

 There was a murmur of astonishment through the hall.

 "I believe we hold him in the hollow of our hands," he continued with
 an exulting smile upon his face. "If we act quickly and wisely, we
 can cut this thing short. If I have your confidence and your help, it
 is little that we have to fear."

 "What have we to fear, anyhow? What can he know of our affairs?"

 "You might say so if all were as stanch as you, Councillor. But this
 man has all the millions of the capitalists at his back. Do you think
 there is no weaker brother among all our lodges that could not be
 bought? He will get at our secrets--maybe has got them already.
 There's only one sure cure."

 "That he never leaves the valley," said Baldwin.

 McMurdo nodded. "Good for you, Brother Baldwin," he said. "You and I
 have had our differences, but you have said the true word to-night."

 "Where is he, then? Where shall we know him?"

 "Eminent Bodymaster," said McMurdo, earnestly, "I would put it to you
 that this is too vital a thing for us to discuss in open lodge. God
 forbid that I should throw a doubt on anyone here; but if so much as
 a word of gossip got to the ears of this man, there would be an end
 of any chance of our getting him. I would ask the lodge to choose a
 trusty committee, Mr. Chairman--yourself, if I might suggest it, and
 Brother Baldwin here, and five more. Then I can talk freely of what I
 know and of what I advise should be done."

 The proposition was at once adopted, and the committee chosen.
 Besides the chairman and Baldwin there were the vulture-faced
 secretary, Harraway, Tiger Cormac, the brutal young assassin, Carter,
 the treasurer, and the brothers Willaby, fearless and desperate men
 who would stick at nothing.

 The usual revelry of the lodge was short and subdued: for there was a
 cloud upon the men's spirits, and many there for the first time began
 to see the cloud of avenging Law drifting up in that serene sky under
 which they had dwelt so long. The horrors they had dealt out to
 others had been so much a part of their settled lives that the
 thought of retribution had become a remote one, and so seemed the
 more startling now that it came so closely upon them. They broke up
 early and left their leaders to their council.

 "Now, McMurdo!" said McGinty when they were alone. The seven men sat
 frozen in their seats.

 "I said just now that I knew Birdy Edwards," McMurdo explained. "I
 need not tell you that he is not here under that name. He's a brave
 man, but not a crazy one. He passes under the name of Steve Wilson,
 and he is lodging at Hobson's Patch."

 "How do you know this?"

 "Because I fell into talk with him. I thought little of it at the
 time, nor would have given it a second thought but for this letter;
 but now I'm sure it's the man. I met him on the cars when I went down
 the line on Wednesday--a hard case if ever there was one. He said he
 was a reporter. I believed it for the moment. Wanted to know all he
 could about the Scowrers and what he called 'the outrages' for a New
 York paper. Asked me every kind of question so as to get something.
 You bet I was giving nothing away. 'I'd pay for it and pay well,'
 said he, 'if I could get some stuff that would suit my editor.' I
 said what I thought would please him best, and he handed me a
 twenty-dollar bill for my information. 'There's ten times that for
 you,' said he, 'if you can find me all that I want.'"

 "What did you tell him, then?"

 "Any stuff I could make up."

 "How do you know he wasn't a newspaper man?"

 "I'll tell you. He got out at Hobson's Patch, and so did I. I chanced
 into the telegraph bureau, and he was leaving it.

 "'See here,' said the operator after he'd gone out, 'I guess we
 should charge double rates for this.'--'I guess you should,' said I.
 He had filled the form with stuff that might have been Chinese, for
 all we could make of it. 'He fires a sheet of this off every day,'
 said the clerk. 'Yes,' said I; 'it's special news for his paper, and
 he's scared that the others should tap it.' That was what the
 operator thought and what I thought at the time; but I think
 differently now."

 "By Gar! I believe you are right," said McGinty. "But what do you
 allow that we should do about it?"

 "Why not go right down now and fix him?" someone suggested.

 "Ay, the sooner the better."

 "I'd start this next minute if I knew where we could find him," said
 McMurdo. "He's in Hobson's Patch; but I don't know the house. I've
 got a plan, though, if you'll only take my advice."

 "Well, what is it?"

 "I'll go to the Patch to-morrow morning. I'll find him through the
 operator. He can locate him, I guess. Well, then I'll tell him that
 I'm a Freeman myself. I'll offer him all the secrets of the lodge for
 a price. You bet he'll tumble to it. I'll tell him the papers are at
 my house, and that it's as much as my life would be worth to let him
 come while folk were about. He'll see that that's horse sense. Let
 him come at ten o'clock at night, and he shall see everything. That
 will fetch him sure."

 "Well?"

 "You can plan the rest for yourselves. Widow MacNamara's is a lonely
 house. She's as true as steel and as deaf as a post. There's only
 Scanlan and me in the house. If I get his promise--and I'll let you
 know if I do--I'd have the whole seven of you come to me by nine
 o'clock. We'll get him in. If ever he gets out alive--well, he can
 talk of Birdy Edwards's luck for the rest of his days!"

 "There's going to be a vacancy at Pinkerton's or I'm mistaken. Leave
 it at that, McMurdo. At nine to-morrow we'll be with you. You once
 get the door shut behind him, and you can leave the rest with us."





      CHAPTER VII
      The Trapping of Birdy Edwards


 As McMurdo had said, the house in which he lived was a lonely one and
 very well suited for such a crime as they had planned. It was on the
 extreme fringe of the town and stood well back from the road. In any
 other case the conspirators would have simply called out their man,
 as they had many a time before, and emptied their pistols into his
 body; but in this instance it was very necessary to find out how much
 he knew, how he knew it, and what had been passed on to his
 employers.

 It was possible that they were already too late and that the work had
 been done. If that was indeed so, they could at least have their
 revenge upon the man who had done it. But they were hopeful that
 nothing of great importance had yet come to the detective's
 knowledge, as otherwise, they argued, he would not have troubled to
 write down and forward such trivial information as McMurdo claimed to
 have given him. However, all this they would learn from his own lips.
 Once in their power, they would find a way to make him speak. It was
 not the first time that they had handled an unwilling witness.

 McMurdo went to Hobson's Patch as agreed. The police seemed to take
 particular interest in him that morning, and Captain Marvin--he who
 had claimed the old acquaintance with him at Chicago--actually
 addressed him as he waited at the station. McMurdo turned away and
 refused to speak with him. He was back from his mission in the
 afternoon, and saw McGinty at the Union House.

 "He is coming," he said.

 "Good!" said McGinty. The giant was in his shirt sleeves, with chains
 and seals gleaming athwart his ample waistcoat and a diamond
 twinkling through the fringe of his bristling beard. Drink and
 politics had made the Boss a very rich as well as powerful man. The
 more terrible, therefore, seemed that glimpse of the prison or the
 gallows which had risen before him the night before.

 "Do you reckon he knows much?" he asked anxiously.

 McMurdo shook his head gloomily. "He's been here some time--six weeks
 at the least. I guess he didn't come into these parts to look at the
 prospect. If he has been working among us all that time with the
 railroad money at his back, I should expect that he has got results,
 and that he has passed them on."

 "There's not a weak man in the lodge," cried McGinty. "True as steel,
 every man of them. And yet, by the Lord! there is that skunk Morris.
 What about him? If any man gives us away, it would be he. I've a mind
 to send a couple of the boys round before evening to give him a
 beating up and see what they can get from him."

 "Well, there would be no harm in that," McMurdo answered. "I won't
 deny that I have a liking for Morris and would be sorry to see him
 come to harm. He has spoken to me once or twice over lodge matters,
 and though he may not see them the same as you or I, he never seemed
 the sort that squeals. But still it is not for me to stand between
 him and you."

 "I'll fix the old devil!" said McGinty with an oath. "I've had my eye
 on him this year past."

 "Well, you know best about that," McMurdo answered. "But whatever you
 do must be to-morrow; for we must lie low until the Pinkerton affair
 is settled up. We can't afford to set the police buzzing, to-day of
 all days."

 "True for you," said McGinty. "And we'll learn from Birdy Edwards
 himself where he got his news if we have to cut his heart out first.
 Did he seem to scent a trap?"

 McMurdo laughed. "I guess I took him on his weak point," he said. "If
 he could get on a good trail of the Scowrers, he's ready to follow it
 into hell. I took his money," McMurdo grinned as he produced a wad of
 dollar notes, "and as much more when he has seen all my papers."

 "What papers?"

 "Well, there are no papers. But I filled him up about constitutions
 and books of rules and forms of membership. He expects to get right
 down to the end of everything before he leaves."

 "Faith, he's right there," said McGinty grimly. "Didn't he ask you
 why you didn't bring him the papers?"

 "As if I would carry such things, and me a suspected man, and Captain
 Marvin after speaking to me this very day at the depot!"

 "Ay, I heard of that," said McGinty. "I guess the heavy end of this
 business is coming on to you. We could put him down an old shaft when
 we've done with him; but however we work it we can't get past the man
 living at Hobson's Patch and you being there to-day."

 McMurdo shrugged his shoulders. "If we handle it right, they can
 never prove the killing," said he. "No one can see him come to the
 house after dark, and I'll lay to it that no one will see him go. Now
 see here, Councillor, I'll show you my plan and I'll ask you to fit
 the others into it. You will all come in good time. Very well. He
 comes at ten. He is to tap three times, and me to open the door for
 him. Then I'll get behind him and shut it. He's our man then."

 "That's all easy and plain."

 "Yes; but the next step wants considering. He's a hard proposition.
 He's heavily armed. I've fooled him proper, and yet he is likely to
 be on his guard. Suppose I show him right into a room with seven men
 in it where he expected to find me alone. There is going to be
 shooting, and somebody is going to be hurt."

 "That's so."

 "And the noise is going to bring every damned copper in the township
 on top of it."

 "I guess you are right."

 "This is how I should work it. You will all be in the big room--same
 as you saw when you had a chat with me. I'll open the door for him,
 show him into the parlour beside the door, and leave him there while
 I get the papers. That will give me the chance of telling you how
 things are shaping. Then I will go back to him with some faked
 papers. As he is reading them I will jump for him and get my grip on
 his pistol arm. You'll hear me call and in you will rush. The quicker
 the better; for he is as strong a man as I, and I may have more than
 I can manage. But I allow that I can hold him till you come."

 "It's a good plan," said McGinty. "The lodge will owe you a debt for
 this. I guess when I move out of the chair I can put a name to the
 man that's coming after me."

 "Sure, Councillor, I am little more than a recruit," said McMurdo;
 but his face showed what he thought of the great man's compliment.

 When he had returned home he made his own preparations for the grim
 evening in front of him. First he cleaned, oiled, and loaded his
 Smith & Wesson revolver. Then he surveyed the room in which the
 detective was to be trapped. It was a large apartment, with a long
 deal table in the centre, and the big stove at one side. At each of
 the other sides were windows. There were no shutters on these: only
 light curtains which drew across. McMurdo examined these attentively.
 No doubt it must have struck him that the apartment was very exposed
 for so secret a meeting. Yet its distance from the road made it of
 less consequence. Finally he discussed the matter with his fellow
 lodger. Scanlan, though a Scowrer, was an inoffensive little man who
 was too weak to stand against the opinion of his comrades, but was
 secretly horrified by the deeds of blood at which he had sometimes
 been forced to assist. McMurdo told him shortly what was intended.

 "And if I were you, Mike Scanlan, I would take a night off and keep
 clear of it. There will be bloody work here before morning."

 "Well, indeed then, Mac," Scanlan answered. "It's not the will but
 the nerve that is wanting in me. When I saw Manager Dunn go down at
 the colliery yonder it was just more than I could stand. I'm not made
 for it, same as you or McGinty. If the lodge will think none the
 worse of me, I'll just do as you advise and leave you to yourselves
 for the evening."

 The men came in good time as arranged. They were outwardly
 respectable citizens, well clad and cleanly; but a judge of faces
 would have read little hope for Birdy Edwards in those hard mouths
 and remorseless eyes. There was not a man in the room whose hands had
 not been reddened a dozen times before. They were as hardened to
 human murder as a butcher to sheep.

 Foremost, of course, both in appearance and in guilt, was the
 formidable Boss. Harraway, the secretary, was a lean, bitter man with
 a long, scraggy neck and nervous, jerky limbs, a man of incorruptible
 fidelity where the finances of the order were concerned, and with no
 notion of justice or honesty to anyone beyond. The treasurer, Carter,
 was a middle-aged man, with an impassive, rather sulky expression,
 and a yellow parchment skin. He was a capable organizer, and the
 actual details of nearly every outrage had sprung from his plotting
 brain. The two Willabys were men of action, tall, lithe young fellows
 with determined faces, while their companion, Tiger Cormac, a heavy,
 dark youth, was feared even by his own comrades for the ferocity of
 his disposition. These were the men who assembled that night under
 the roof of McMurdo for the killing of the Pinkerton detective.

 Their host had placed whisky upon the table, and they had hastened to
 prime themselves for the work before them. Baldwin and Cormac were
 already half-drunk, and the liquor had brought out all their
 ferocity. Cormac placed his hands on the stove for an instant--it had
 been lighted, for the nights were still cold.

 "That will do," said he, with an oath.

 "Ay," said Baldwin, catching his meaning. "If he is strapped to that,
 we will have the truth out of him."

 "We'll have the truth out of him, never fear," said McMurdo. He had
 nerves of steel, this man; for though the whole weight of the affair
 was on him his manner was as cool and unconcerned as ever. The others
 marked it and applauded.

 "You are the one to handle him," said the Boss approvingly. "Not a
 warning will he get till your hand is on his throat. It's a pity
 there are no shutters to your windows."

 McMurdo went from one to the other and drew the curtains tighter.
 "Sure no one can spy upon us now. It's close upon the hour."

 "Maybe he won't come. Maybe he'll get a sniff of danger," said the
 secretary.

 "He'll come, never fear," McMurdo answered. "He is as eager to come
 as you can be to see him. Hark to that!"

 They all sat like wax figures, some with their glasses arrested
 halfway to their lips. Three loud knocks had sounded at the door.

 "Hush!" McMurdo raised his hand in caution. An exulting glance went
 round the circle, and hands were laid upon hidden weapons.

 "Not a sound, for your lives!" McMurdo whispered, as he went from the
 room, closing the door carefully behind him.

 With strained ears the murderers waited. They counted the steps of
 their comrade down the passage. Then they heard him open the outer
 door. There were a few words as of greeting. Then they were aware of
 a strange step inside and of an unfamiliar voice. An instant later
 came the slam of the door and the turning of the key in the lock.
 Their prey was safe within the trap. Tiger Cormac laughed horribly,
 and Boss McGinty clapped his great hand across his mouth.

 "Be quiet, you fool!" he whispered. "You'll be the undoing of us
 yet!"

 There was a mutter of conversation from the next room. It seemed
 interminable. Then the door opened, and McMurdo appeared, his finger
 upon his lip.

 He came to the end of the table and looked round at them. A subtle
 change had come over him. His manner was as of one who has great work
 to do. His face had set into granite firmness. His eyes shone with a
 fierce excitement behind his spectacles. He had become a visible
 leader of men. They stared at him with eager interest; but he said
 nothing. Still with the same singular gaze he looked from man to man.

 "Well!" cried Boss McGinty at last. "Is he here? Is Birdy Edwards
 here?"

 "Yes," McMurdo answered slowly. "Birdy Edwards is here. I am Birdy
 Edwards!"

 There were ten seconds after that brief speech during which the room
 might have been empty, so profound was the silence. The hissing of a
 kettle upon the stove rose sharp and strident to the ear. Seven white
 faces, all turned upward to this man who dominated them, were set
 motionless with utter terror. Then, with a sudden shivering of glass,
 a bristle of glistening rifle barrels broke through each window,
 while the curtains were torn from their hangings.

 At the sight Boss McGinty gave the roar of a wounded bear and plunged
 for the half-opened door. A levelled revolver met him there with the
 stern blue eyes of Captain Marvin of the Mine Police gleaming behind
 the sights. The Boss recoiled and fell back into his chair.

 "You're safer there, Councillor," said the man whom they had known as
 McMurdo. "And you, Baldwin, if you don't take your hand off your
 pistol, you'll cheat the hangman yet. Pull it out, or by the Lord
 that made me--There, that will do. There are forty armed men round
 this house, and you can figure it out for yourself what chance you
 have. Take their pistols, Marvin!"

 There was no possible resistance under the menace of those rifles.
 The men were disarmed. Sulky, sheepish, and amazed, they still sat
 round the table.

 "I'd like to say a word to you before we separate," said the man who
 had trapped them. "I guess we may not meet again until you see me on
 the stand in the courthouse. I'll give you something to think over
 between now and then. You know me now for what I am. At last I can
 put my cards on the table. I am Birdy Edwards of Pinkerton's. I was
 chosen to break up your gang. I had a hard and dangerous game to
 play. Not a soul, not one soul, not my nearest and dearest, knew that
 I was playing it. Only Captain Marvin here and my employers knew
 that. But it's over to-night, thank God, and I am the winner!"

 The seven pale, rigid faces looked up at him. There was unappeasable
 hatred in their eyes. He read the relentless threat.

 "Maybe you think that the game is not over yet. Well, I take my
 chance of that. Anyhow, some of you will take no further hand, and
 there are sixty more besides yourselves that will see a jail this
 night. I'll tell you this, that when I was put upon this job I never
 believed there was such a society as yours. I thought it was paper
 talk, and that I would prove it so. They told me it was to do with
 the Freemen; so I went to Chicago and was made one. Then I was surer
 than ever that it was just paper talk; for I found no harm in the
 society, but a deal of good.

 "Still, I had to carry out my job, and I came to the coal valleys.
 When I reached this place I learned that I was wrong and that it
 wasn't a dime novel after all. So I stayed to look after it. I never
 killed a man in Chicago. I never minted a dollar in my life. Those I
 gave you were as good as any others; but I never spent money better.
 But I knew the way into your good wishes and so I pretended to you
 that the law was after me. It all worked just as I thought.

 "So I joined your infernal lodge, and I took my share in your
 councils. Maybe they will say that I was as bad as you. They can say
 what they like, so long as I get you. But what is the truth? The
 night I joined you beat up old man Stanger. I could not warn him, for
 there was no time; but I held your hand, Baldwin, when you would have
 killed him. If ever I have suggested things, so as to keep my place
 among you, they were things which I knew I could prevent. I could not
 save Dunn and Menzies, for I did not know enough; but I will see that
 their murderers are hanged. I gave Chester Wilcox warning, so that
 when I blew his house in he and his folk were in hiding. There was
 many a crime that I could not stop; but if you look back and think
 how often your man came home the other road, or was down in town when
 you went for him, or stayed indoors when you thought he would come
 out, you'll see my work."

 "You blasted traitor!" hissed McGinty through his closed teeth.

 "Ay, John McGinty, you may call me that if it eases your smart. You
 and your like have been the enemy of God and man in these parts. It
 took a man to get between you and the poor devils of men and women
 that you held under your grip. There was just one way of doing it,
 and I did it. You call me a traitor; but I guess there's many a
 thousand will call me a deliverer that went down into hell to save
 them. I've had three months of it. I wouldn't have three such months
 again if they let me loose in the treasury at Washington for it. I
 had to stay till I had it all, every man and every secret right here
 in this hand. I'd have waited a little longer if it hadn't come to my
 knowledge that my secret was coming out. A letter had come into the
 town that would have set you wise to it all. Then I had to act and
 act quickly.

 "I've nothing more to say to you, except that when my time comes I'll
 die the easier when I think of the work I have done in this valley.
 Now, Marvin, I'll keep you no more. Take them in and get it over."

 There is little more to tell. Scanlan had been given a sealed note to
 be left at the address of Miss Ettie Shafter, a mission which he had
 accepted with a wink and a knowing smile. In the early hours of the
 morning a beautiful woman and a much muffled man boarded a special
 train which had been sent by the railroad company, and made a swift,
 unbroken journey out of the land of danger. It was the last time that
 ever either Ettie or her lover set foot in the Valley of Fear. Ten
 days later they were married in Chicago, with old Jacob Shafter as
 witness of the wedding.

 The trial of the Scowrers was held far from the place where their
 adherents might have terrified the guardians of the law. In vain they
 struggled. In vain the money of the lodge--money squeezed by
 blackmail out of the whole countryside--was spent like water in the
 attempt to save them. That cold, clear, unimpassioned statement from
 one who knew every detail of their lives, their organization, and
 their crimes was unshaken by all the wiles of their defenders. At
 last after so many years they were broken and scattered. The cloud
 was lifted forever from the valley.

 McGinty met his fate upon the scaffold, cringing and whining when the
 last hour came. Eight of his chief followers shared his fate.
 Fifty-odd had various degrees of imprisonment. The work of Birdy
 Edwards was complete.

 And yet, as he had guessed, the game was not over yet. There was
 another hand to be played, and yet another and another. Ted Baldwin,
 for one, had escaped the scaffold; so had the Willabys; so had
 several others of the fiercest spirits of the gang. For ten years
 they were out of the world, and then came a day when they were free
 once more--a day which Edwards, who knew his men, was very sure would
 be an end of his life of peace. They had sworn an oath on all that
 they thought holy to have his blood as a vengeance for their
 comrades. And well they strove to keep their vow!

 From Chicago he was chased, after two attempts so near success that
 it was sure that the third would get him. From Chicago he went under
 a changed name to California, and it was there that the light went
 for a time out of his life when Ettie Edwards died. Once again he was
 nearly killed, and once again under the name of Douglas he worked in
 a lonely canyon, where with an English partner named Barker he
 amassed a fortune. At last there came a warning to him that the
 bloodhounds were on his track once more, and he cleared--only just in
 time--for England. And thence came the John Douglas who for a second
 time married a worthy mate, and lived for five years as a Sussex
 county gentleman, a life which ended with the strange happenings of
 which we have heard.





      CHAPTER VIII
      Epilogue


 The police trial had passed, in which the case of John Douglas was
 referred to a higher court. So had the Quarter Sessions, at which he
 was acquitted as having acted in self-defense.

 "Get him out of England at any cost," wrote Holmes to the wife.
 "There are forces here which may be more dangerous than those he has
 escaped. There is no safety for your husband in England."

 Two months had gone by, and the case had to some extent passed from
 our minds. Then one morning there came an enigmatic note slipped into
 our letter box. "Dear me, Mr. Holmes. Dear me!" said this singular
 epistle. There was neither superscription nor signature. I laughed at
 the quaint message; but Holmes showed unwonted seriousness.

 "Deviltry, Watson!" he remarked, and sat long with a clouded brow.

 Late last night Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, brought up a message that
 a gentleman wished to see Holmes, and that the matter was of the
 utmost importance. Close at the heels of his messenger came Cecil
 Barker, our friend of the moated Manor House. His face was drawn and
 haggard.

 "I've had bad news--terrible news, Mr. Holmes," said he.

 "I feared as much," said Holmes.

 "You have not had a cable, have you?"

 "I have had a note from someone who has."

 "It's poor Douglas. They tell me his name is Edwards; but he will
 always be Jack Douglas of Benito Canyon to me. I told you that they
 started together for South Africa in the Palmyra three weeks ago."

 "Exactly."

 "The ship reached Cape Town last night. I received this cable from
 Mrs. Douglas this morning:--

 "Jack has been lost overboard in gale off St. Helena. No one knows
 how accident occurred.
 "Ivy Douglas."

 "Ha! It came like that, did it?" said Holmes, thoughtfully. "Well,
 I've no doubt it was well stage-managed."

 "You mean that you think there was no accident?"

 "None in the world."

 "He was murdered?"

 "Surely!"

 "So I think also. These infernal Scowrers, this cursed vindictive
 nest of criminals--"

 "No, no, my good sir," said Holmes. "There is a master hand here. It
 is no case of sawed-off shot-guns and clumsy six-shooters. You can
 tell an old master by the sweep of his brush. I can tell a Moriarty
 when I see one. This crime is from London, not from America."

 "But for what motive?"

 "Because it is done by a man who cannot afford to fail--one whose
 whole unique position depends upon the fact that all he does must
 succeed. A great brain and a huge organization have been turned to
 the extinction of one man. It is crushing the nut with the hammer--an
 absurd extravagance of energy--but the nut is very effectually
 crushed all the same."

 "How came this man to have anything to do with it?"

 "I can only say that the first word that ever came to us of the
 business was from one of his lieutenants. These Americans were well
 advised. Having an English job to do, they took into partnership, as
 any foreign criminal could do, this great consultant in crime. From
 that moment their man was doomed. At first he would content himself
 by using his machinery in order to find their victim. Then he would
 indicate how the matter might be treated. Finally, when he read in
 the reports of the failure of this agent, he would step in himself
 with a master touch. You heard me warn this man at Birlstone Manor
 House that the coming danger was greater than the past. Was I right?"

 Barker beat his head with his clenched fist in his impotent anger.

 "Do you tell me that we have to sit down under this? Do you say that
 no one can ever get level with this king-devil?"

 "No, I don't say that," said Holmes, and his eyes seemed to be
 looking far into the future. "I don't say that he can't be beat. But
 you must give me time--you must give me time!"

 We all sat in silence for some minutes, while those fateful eyes
 still strained to pierce the veil.






                              HIS LAST BOW





                                 PREFACE

 The friends of Mr. Sherlock Holmes will be glad to learn that he is
 still alive and well, though somewhat crippled by occasional attacks
 of rheumatism. He has, for many years, lived in a small farm upon the
 downs five miles from Eastbourne, where his time is divided between
 philosophy and agriculture. During this period of rest he has refused
 the most princely offers to take up various cases, having determined
 that his retirement was a permanent one. The approach of the German
 war caused him, however, to lay his remarkable combination of
 intellectual and practical activity at the disposal of the
 government, with historical results which are recounted in His Last
 Bow. Several previous experiences which have lain long in my
 portfolio have been added to His Last Bow so as to complete the
 volume.


         John H. Watson, M. D.






                     THE ADVENTURE OF WISTERIA LODGE





                            Table of contents
    The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles
    The Tiger of San Pedro















      CHAPTER I
      The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles


 I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windy day
 towards the end of March in the year 1892.  Holmes had received a
 telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had scribbled a reply.  He
 made no remark, but the matter remained in his thoughts, for he stood
 in front of the fire afterwards with a thoughtful face, smoking his
 pipe, and casting an occasional glance at the message. Suddenly he
 turned upon me with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

 "I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters," said
 he. "How do you define the word 'grotesque'?"

 "Strange--remarkable," I suggested.

 He shook his head at my definition.

 "There is surely something more than that," said he; "some underlying
 suggestion of the tragic and the terrible.  If you cast your mind
 back to some of those narratives with which you have afflicted a
 long-suffering public, you will recognize how often the grotesque has
 deepened into the criminal.  Think of that little affair of the
 red-headed men.  That was grotesque enough in the outset, and yet it
 ended in a desperate attempt at robbery.  Or, again, there was that
 most grotesque affair of the five orange pips, which let straight to
 a murderous conspiracy. The word puts me on the alert."

 "Have you it there?" I asked.

 He read the telegram aloud.

 "Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May I
 consult you?
 "Scott Eccles,
 "Post Office, Charing Cross."

 "Man or woman?" I asked.

 "Oh, man, of course. No woman would ever send a reply-paid telegram.
 She would have come."

 "Will you see him?"

 "My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked up
 Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself
 to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it
 was built. Life is commonplace, the papers are sterile; audacity and
 romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world. Can you
 ask me, then, whether I am ready to look into any new problem,
 however trivial it may prove? But here, unless I am mistaken, is our
 client."

 A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a moment later a
 stout, tall, gray-whiskered and solemnly respectable person was
 ushered into the room.  His life history was written in his heavy
 features and pompous manner.  From his spats to his gold-rimmed
 spectacles he was a Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen,
 orthodox and conventional to the last degree. But some amazing
 experience had disturbed his native composure and left its traces in
 his bristling hair, his flushed, angry cheeks, and his flurried,
 excited manner. He plunged instantly into his business.

 "I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr. Holmes,"
 said he. "Never in my life have I been placed in such a situation. It
 is most improper--most outrageous. I must insist upon some
 explanation." He swelled and puffed in his anger.

 "Pray sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles," said Holmes in a soothing voice.
 "May I ask, in the first place, why you came to me at all?"

 "Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter which concerned the
 police, and yet, when you have heard the facts, you must admit that I
 could not leave it where it was. Private detectives are a class with
 whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the less, having heard
 your name--"

 "Quite so.  But, in the second place, why did you not come at once?"

 "What do you mean?"

 Holmes glanced at his watch.

 "It is a quarter-past two," he said. "Your telegram was dispatched
 about one. But no one can glance at your toilet and attire without
 seeing that your disturbance dates from the moment of your waking."

 Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt his unshaven
 chin.

 "You are right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my toilet. I
 was only too glad to get out of such a house. But I have been running
 round making inquiries before I came to you. I went to the house
 agents, you know, and they said that Mr. Garcia's rent was paid up
 all right and that everything was in order at Wisteria Lodge."

 "Come, come, sir," said Holmes, laughing. "You are like my friend,
 Dr. Watson, who has a bad habit of telling his stories wrong end
 foremost. Please arrange your thoughts and let me know, in their due
 sequence, exactly what those events are which have sent you out
 unbrushed and unkempt, with dress boots and waistcoat buttoned awry,
 in search of advice and assistance."

 Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own unconventional
 appearance.

 "I'm sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not aware that
 in my whole life such a thing has ever happened before. But will tell
 you the whole queer business, and when I have done so you will admit,
 I am sure, that there has been enough to excuse me."

 But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a bustle outside,
 and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two robust and
 official-looking individuals, one of whom was well known to us as
 Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant, and,
 within his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands with Holmes
 and introduced his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of the Surrey
 Constabulary.

 "We are hunting together, Mr. Holmes, and our trail lay in this
 direction." He turned his bulldog eyes upon our visitor. "Are you Mr.
 John Scott Eccles, of Popham House, Lee?"

 "I am."

 "We have been following you about all the morning."

 "You traced him through the telegram, no doubt," said Holmes. 

 "Exactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up the scent at Charing Cross
 Post-Office and came on here."

 "But why do you follow me? What do you want?"

 "We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which let up
 to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge,
 near Esher."

 Our client had sat up with staring eyes and every tinge of colour
 struck from his astonished face.

 "Dead?  Did you say he was dead?"

 "Yes, sir, he is dead."

 "But how?  An accident?"

 "Murder, if ever there was one upon earth."

 "Good God! This is awful! You don't mean--you don't mean that I am
 suspected?"

 "A letter of yours was found in the dead man's pocket, and we know by
 it that you had planned to pass last night at his house."

 "So I did."

 "Oh, you did, did you?"

 Out came the official notebook.

 "Wait a bit, Gregson," said Sherlock Holmes. "All you desire is a
 plain statement, is it not?"

 "And it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it may be used
 against him."

 "Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered the room.
 I think, Watson, a brandy and soda would do him no harm. Now, sir, I
 suggest that you take no notice of this addition to your audience,
 and that you proceed with your narrative exactly as you would have
 done had you never been interrupted."

 Our visitor had gulped off the brandy and the colour had returned to
 his face.  With a dubious glance at the inspector's notebook, he
 plunged at once into his extraordinary statement.

 "I am a bachelor," said he, "and being of a sociable turn I cultivate
 a large number of friends. Among these are the family of a retired
 brewer called Melville, living at Abermarle Mansion, Kensington. It
 was at his table that I met some weeks ago a young fellow named
 Garcia. He was, I understood, of Spanish descent and connected in
 some way with the embassy. He spoke perfect English, was pleasing in
 his manners, and as good-looking a man as ever I saw in my life.

 "In some way we struck up quite a friendship, this young fellow and
 I. He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first, and within two
 days of our meeting he came to see me at Lee. One thing led to
 another, and it ended in his inviting me out to spend a few days at
 his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and Oxshott. Yesterday
 evening I went to Esher to fulfil this engagement.

 "He had described his household to me before I went there. He lived
 with a faithful servant, a countryman of his own, who looked after
 all his needs. This fellow could speak English and did his
 housekeeping for him. Then there was a wonderful cook, he said, a
 half-breed whom he had picked up in his travels, who could serve an
 excellent dinner. I remember that he remarked what a queer household
 it was to find in the heart of Surrey, and that I agreed with him,
 though it has proved a good deal queerer than I thought.

 "I drove to the place--about two miles on the south side of Esher.
 The house was a fair-sized one, standing back from the road, with a
 curving drive which was banked with high evergreen shrubs. It was an
 old, tumbledown building in a crazy state of disrepair. When the trap
 pulled up on the grass-grown drive in front of the blotched and
 weather-stained door, I had doubts as to my wisdom in visiting a man
 whom I knew so slightly. He opened the door himself, however, and
 greeted me with a great show of cordiality. I was handed over to the
 manservant, a melancholy, swarthy individual, who led the way, my bag
 in his hand, to my bedroom. The whole place was depressing. Our
 dinner was tÃªte-Ã -tÃªte, and though my host did his best to be
 entertaining, his thoughts seemed to continually wander, and he
 talked so vaguely and wildly that I could hardly understand him. He
 continually drummed his fingers on the table, gnawed his nails, and
 gave other signs of nervous impatience. The dinner itself was neither
 well served nor well cooked, and the gloomy presence of the taciturn
 servant did not help to enliven us. I can assure you that many times
 in the course of the evening I wished that I could invent some excuse
 which would take me back to Lee.

 "One thing comes back to my memory which may have a bearing upon the
 business that you two gentlemen are investigating. I thought nothing
 of it at the time. Near the end of dinner a note was handed in by the
 servant. I noticed that after my host had read it he seemed even more
 distrait and strange than before. He gave up all pretence at
 conversation and sat, smoking endless cigarettes, lost in his own
 thoughts, but he made no remark as to the contents. About eleven I
 was glad to go to bed. Some time later Garcia looked in at my
 door--the room was dark at the time--and asked me if I had rung. I
 said that I had not. He apologized for having disturbed me so late,
 saying that it was nearly one o'clock. I dropped off after this and
 slept soundly all night.

 "And now I come to the amazing part of my tale. When I woke it was
 broad daylight. I glanced at my watch, and the time was nearly nine.
 I had particularly asked to be called at eight, so I was very much
 astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up and rang for the
 servant. There was no response. I rang again and again, with the same
 result. Then I came to the conclusion that the bell was out of order.
 I huddled on my clothes and hurried downstairs in an exceedingly bad
 temper to order some hot water. You can imagine my surprise when I
 found that there was no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was
 no answer. Then I ran from room to room. All were deserted. My host
 had shown me which was his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at
 the door. No reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room was
 empty, and the bed had never been slept in. He had gone with the
 rest. The foreign host, the foreign footman, the foreign cook, all
 had vanished in the night! That was the end of my visit to Wisteria
 Lodge."

 Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling as he added this
 bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.

 "Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly unique," said he.
 "May I ask, sir, what you did then?"

 "I was furious. My first idea was that I had been the victim of some
 absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the hall door
 behind me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. I called at
 Allan Brothers', the chief land agents in the village, and found that
 it was from this firm that the villa had been rented. It struck me
 that the whole proceeding could hardly be for the purpose of making a
 fool of me, and that the main objet must be to get out of the rent.
 It is late in March, so quarter-day is at hand. But this theory would
 not work. The agent was obliged to me for my warning, but told me
 that the rent had been paid in advance. Then I made my way to town
 and called at the Spanish embassy. The man was unknown there. After
 this I went to see Melville, at whose house I had first met Garcia,
 but I found that he really knew rather less about him than I did.
 Finally when I got your reply to my wire I came out to you, since I
 gather that you are a person who gives advice in difficult cases. But
 now, Mr. Inspector, I understand, from what you said when you entered
 the room, that you can carry the story on, and that some tragedy had
 occurred. I can assure you that every word I have said is the truth,
 and that, outside of what I have told you, I know absolutely nothing
 about the fate of this man. My only desire is to help the law in
 every possible way."

 "I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles--I am sure of it," said Inspector
 Gregson in a very amiable tone. "I am bound to say that everything
 which you have said agrees very closely with the facts as they have
 come to our notice. For example, there was that note which arrived
 during dinner. Did you chance to observe what became of it?"

 "Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire."

 "What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?"

 The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was
 only redeemed from grossness by two extraordinarily bright eyes,
 almost hidden behind the heavy creases of cheek and brow. With a slow
 smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap of paper from his
 pocket.

 "It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked this
 out unburned from the back of it."

 Holmes smiled his appreciation.

 "You must have examined the house very carefully to find a single
 pellet of paper."

 "I did, Mr. Holmes. It's my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson?"

 The Londoner nodded.

 "The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without
 watermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two snips
 with a short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over three times and
 sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and pressed down with some
 flat oval object. It is addressed to Mr. Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It
 says:

 "Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main
 stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize. Godspeed.
 D.

 "It is a woman's writing, done with a sharp-pointed pen, but the
 address is either done with another pen or by someone else. It is
 thicker and bolder, as you see."

 "A very remarkable note," said Holmes, glancing it over. "I must
 compliment you, Mr. Baynes, upon your attention to detail in your
 examination of it. A few trifling points might perhaps be added. The
 oval seal is undoubtedly a plain sleeve-link--what else is of such a
 shape? The scissors were bent nail scissors. Short as the two snips
 are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve in each."

 The country detective chuckled.

 "I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I see there
 was a little over," he said. "I'm bound to say that I make nothing of
 the note except that there was something on hand, and that a woman,
 as usual, was at the bottom of it."

 Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this conversation.

 "I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates my story," said
 he. "But I beg to point out that I have not yet heard what has
 happened to Mr. Garcia, nor what has become of his household."

 "As to Garcia," said Gregson, "that is easily answered. He was found
 dead this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from his home.
 His head had been smashed to pulp by heavy blows of a sandbag or some
 such instrument, which had crushed rather than wounded. It is a
 lonely corner, and there is no house within a quarter of a mile of
 the spot. He had apparently been struck down first from behind, but
 his assailant had gone on beating him long after he was dead. It was
 a most furious assault. There are no footsteps nor any clue to the
 criminals."

 "Robbed?"

 "No, there was no attempt at robbery."

 "This is very painful--very painful and terrible," said Mr. Scott
 Eccles in a querulous voice, "but it is really uncommonly hard on me.
 I had nothing to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal excursion
 and meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed up with the
 case?"

 "Very simply, sir," Inspector Baynes answered. "The only document
 found in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from you saying that
 you would be with him on the night of his death. It was the envelope
 of this letter which gave us the dead man's name and address. It was
 after nine this morning when we reached his house and found neither
 you nor anyone else inside it. I wired to Mr. Gregson to run you down
 in London while I examined Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town,
 joined Mr. Gregson, and here we are."

 "I think now," said Gregson, rising, "we had best put this matter
 into an official shape. You will come round with us to the station,
 Mr. Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in writing."

 "Certainly, I will come at once. But I retain your services, Mr.
 Holmes. I desire you to spare no expense and no pains to get at the
 truth."

 My friend turned to the country inspector.

 "I suppose that you have no objection to my collaborating with you,
 Mr. Baynes?"

 "Highly honoured, sir, I am sure."

 "You appear to have been very prompt and businesslike in all that you
 have done. Was there any clue, may I ask, as to the exact hour that
 the man met his death?"

 "He had been there since one o'clock. There was rain about that time,
 and his death had certainly been before the rain."

 "But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes," cried our client.
 "His voice is unmistakable. I could swear to it that it was he who
 addressed me in my bedroom at that very hour."

 "Remarkable, but by no means impossible," said Holmes, smiling.

 "You have a clue?" asked Gregson.

 "On the face of it the case is not a very complex one, though it
 certainly presents some novel and interesting features. A further
 knowledge of facts is necessary before I would venture to give a
 final and definite opinion. By the way, Mr. Baynes, did you find
 anything remarkable besides this note in your examination of the
 house?"

 The detective looked at my friend in a singular way.

 "There were," said he, "one or two very remarkable things. Perhaps
 when I have finished at the police-station you would care to come out
 and give me your opinion of them."

 "In am entirely at your service," said Sherlock Holmes, ringing the
 bell. "You will show these gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, and kindly
 send the boy with this telegram. He is to pay a five-shilling reply."

 We sat for some time in silence after our visitors had left. Holmes
 smoked hard, with his browns drawn down over his keen eyes, and his
 head thrust forward in the eager way characteristic of the man.

 "Well, Watson," he asked, turning suddenly upon me, "what do you make
 of it?"

 "I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott Eccles."

 "But the crime?"

 "Well, taken with the disappearance of the man's companions, I should
 say that they were in some way concerned in the murder and had fled
 from justice."

 "That is certainly a possible point of view. On the face of it you
 must admit, however, that it is very strange that his two servants
 should have been in a conspiracy against him and should have attacked
 him on the one night when he had a guest. They had him alone at their
 mercy every other night in the week."

 "Then why did they fly?"

 "Quite so. Why did they fly? There is a big fact. Another big fact is
 the remarkable experience of our client, Scott Eccles. Now, my dear
 Watson, is it beyond the limits of human ingenuity to furnish an
 explanation which would cover both of these big facts? If it were one
 which would also admit of the mysterious note with its very curious
 phraseology, why, then it would be worth accepting as a temporary
 hypothesis. If the fresh facts which come to our knowledge all fit
 themselves into the scheme, then our hypothesis may gradually become
 a solution."

 "But what is our hypothesis?"

 Holmes leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes.

 "You must admit, my dear Watson, that the idea of a joke is
 impossible. There were grave events afoot, as the sequel showed, and
 the coaxing of Scott Eccles to Wisteria Lodge had some connection
 with them."

 "But what possible connection?"

 "Let us take it link by link. There is, on the face of it, something
 unnatural about this strange and sudden friendship between the young
 Spaniard and Scott Eccles. It was the former who forced the pace. He
 called upon Eccles at the other end of London on the very day after
 he first met him, and he kept in close touch with him until he got
 him down to Esher. Now, what did he want with Eccles? What could
 Eccles supply? I see no charm in the man. He is not particulary
 intelligent--not a man likely to be congenial to a quick-witted
 Latin. Why, then, was he picked out from all the other people whom
 Garcia met as particularly suited to his purpose? Has he any one
 outstanding quality? I say that he has. He is the very type of
 conventional British respectability, and the very man as a witness to
 impress another Briton. You saw yourself how neither of the
 inspectors dreamed of questioning his statement, extraordinary as it
 was."

 "But what was he to witness?"

 "Nothing, as things turned out, but everything had they gone another
 way. That is how I read the matter."

 "I see, he might have proved an alibi."

 "Exactly, my dear Watson; he might have proved an alibi. We will
 suppose, for argument's sake, that the household of Wisteria Lodge
 are confederates in some design. The attempt, whatever it may be, is
 to come off, we will say, before one o'clock. By some juggling of the
 clocks it is quite possible that they may have got Scott Eccles to
 bed earlier than he thought, but in any case it is likely that when
 Garcia went out of his way to tell him that it was one it was really
 not more than twelve. If Garcia could do whatever he had to do and be
 back by the hour mentioned he had evidently a powerful reply to any
 accusation. Here was this irreproachable Englishman ready to swear in
 any court of law that the accused was in the house all the time. It
 was an insurance against the worst."

 "Yes, yes, I see that. But how about the disappearance of the
 others?"

 "I have not all my facts yet, but I do not think there are any
 insuperable difficulties. Still, it is an error to argue in front of
 your data. You find yourself insensibly twisting them round to fit
 your theories."

 "And the message?"

 "How did it run? 'Our own colours, green and white.' Sounds like
 racing. 'Green open, white shut.' That is clearly a signal. 'Main
 stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize.' This is an
 assignation. We may find a jealous husband at the bottom of it all.
 It was clearly a dangerous quest. She would not have said 'Godspeed'
 had it not been so. 'D'--that should be a guide."

 "The man was a Spaniard. I suggest that 'D' stands for Dolores, a
 common female name in Spain."

 "Good, Watson, very good--but quite inadmissable. A Spaniard would
 write to a Spaniard in Spanish. The writer of this note is certainly
 English. Well, we can only possess our soul in patience until this
 excellent inspector come back for us. Meanwhile we can thank our
 lucky fate which has rescued us for a few short hours from the
 insufferable fatigues of idleness."

 An answer had arrived to Holmes's telegram before our Surrey officer
 had returned. Holmes read it and was about to place it in his
 notebook when he caught a glimpse of my expectant face. He tossed it
 across with a laugh.

 "We are moving in exalted circles," said he.

 The telegram was a list of names and addresses:

 Lord Harringby, The Dingle; Sir George Ffolliott, Oxshott Towers; Mr.
 Hynes Hynes, J.P., Purdley Place; Mr. James Baker Williams, Forton
 Old Hall; Mr. Henderson, High Gable; Rev. Joshua Stone, Nether
 Walsling.
 "This is a very obvious way of limiting our field of operations,"
 said Holmes. "No doubt Baynes, with his methodical mind, has already
 adopted some similar plan."

 "I don't quite understand."

 "Well, my dear fellow, we have already arrived at the conclusion that
 the massage received by Garcia at dinner was an appointment or an
 assignation. Now, if the obvious reading of it is correct, and in
 order to keep the tryst one has to ascend a main stair and seek the
 seventh door in a corridor, it is perfectly clear that the house is a
 very large one. It is equally certain that this house cannot be more
 than a mile or two from Oxshott, since Garcia was walking in that
 direction and hoped, according to my reading of the facts, to be back
 in Wisteria Lodge in time to avail himself of an alibi, which would
 only be valid up to one o'clock. As the number of large houses close
 to Oxshott must be limited, I adopted the obvious method of sending
 to the agents mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining a list of them.
 Here they are in this telegram, and the other end of our tangled
 skein must lie among them."

 It was nearly six o'clock before we found ourselves in the pretty
 Surrey village of Esher, with Inspector Baynes as our companion.

 Holmes and I had taken things for the night, and found comfortable
 quarters at the Bull. Finally we set out in the company of the
 detective on our visit to Wisteria Lodge. It was a cold, dark March
 evening, with a sharp wind and a fine rain beating upon our faces, a
 fit setting for the wild common over which our road passed and the
 tragic goal to which it led us.





      CHAPTER II
      The Tiger of San Pedro


 A cold and melancholy walk of a couple of miles brought us to a high
 wooden gate, which opened into a gloomy avenue of chestnuts. The
 curved and shadowed drive led us to a low, dark house, pitch-black
 against a slate-coloured sky. From the front window upon the left of
 the door there peeped a glimmer of a feeble light.

 "There's a constable in possession," said Baynes. "I'll knock at the
 window." He stepped across the grass plot and tapped with his hand on
 the pane. Through the fogged glass I dimly saw a man spring up from a
 chair beside the fire, and heard a sharp cry from within the room. An
 instant later a white-faced, hard-breathing policeman had opened the
 door, the candle wavering in his trembling hand.

 "What's the matter, Walters?" asked Baynes sharply.

 The man mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and agave a long
 sigh of relief.

 "I am glad you have come, sir. It has been a long evening, and I
 don't think my nerve is as good as it was."

 "Your nerve, Walters? I should not have thought you had a nerve in
 your body."

 "Well, sir, it's this lonely, silent house and the queer thing in the
 kitchen. Then when you tapped at the window I thought it had come
 again."

 "That what had come again?"

 "The devil, sir, for all I know. It was at the window."

 "What was at the window, and when?"

 "It was just about two hours ago. The light was just fading. I was
 sitting reading in the chair. I don't know what made me look up, but
 there was a face looking in at me through the lower pane. Lord, sir,
 what a face it was! I'll see it in my dreams."

 "Tut, tut, Walters. This is not talk for a police-constable."

 "I know, sir, I know; but it shook me, sir, and there's no use to
 deny it. It wasn't black, sir, nor was it white, nor any colour that
 I know but a kind of queer shade like clay with a splash of milk in
 it. Then there was the size of it--it was twice yours, sir. And the
 look of it--the great staring goggle eyes, and the line of white
 teeth like a hungry beast. I tell you, sir, I couldn't move a finger,
 nor get my breath, till it whisked away and was gone. Out I ran and
 through the shrubbery, but thank God there was no one there."

 "If I didn't know you were a good man, Walters, I should put a black
 mark against you for this. If it were the devil himself a constable
 on duty should never thank God that he could not lay his hands upon
 him. I suppose the whole thing is not a vision and a touch of
 nerves?"

 "That, at least, is very easily settled," said Holmes, lighting his
 little pocket lantern. "Yes," he reported, after a short examination
 of the grass bed, "a number twelve shoe, I should say. If he was all
 on the same scale as his foot he must certainly have been a giant."

 "What became of him?"

 "He seems to have broken through the shrubbery and made for the
 road."

 "Well," said the inspector with a grave and thoughtful face, "whoever
 he may have been, and whatever he may have wanted, he's gone for the
 present, and we have more immediate things to attend to. Now, Mr.
 Holmes, with your permission, I will show you round the house."

 The various bedrooms and sitting-rooms had yielded nothing to a
 careful search. Apparently the tenants had brought little or nothing
 with them, and all the furniture down to the smallest details had
 been taken over with the house. A good deal of clothing with the
 stamp of Marx and Co., High Holborn, had been left behind.
 Telegraphic inquiries had been already made which showed that Marx
 knew nothing of his customer save that he was a good payer. Odds and
 ends, some pipes, a few novels, two of them in Spanish, and
 old-fashioned pinfire revolver, and a guitar were among the personal
 property.

 "Nothing in all this," said Baynes, stalking, candle in hand, from
 room to room. "But now, Mr. Holmes, I invite your attention to the
 kitchen."

 It was a gloomy, high-ceilinged room at the back of the house, with a
 straw litter in one corner, which served apparently as a bed for the
 cook. The table was piled with half-eaten dishes and dirty plates,
 the debris of last night's dinner.

 "Look at this," said Baynes. "What do you make of it?"

 He held up his candle before an extraordinary object which stood at
 the back of the dresser. It was so wrinkled and shrunken and withered
 that it was difficult to say what it might have been. One could but
 say that it was black and leathery and that it bore some resemblance
 to a dwarfish, human figure. At first, as I examined it, I thought
 that it was a mummified negro baby, and then it seemed a very twisted
 and ancient monkey. Finally I was left in doubt as to whether it was
 animal or human. A double band of white shells were strung round the
 centre of it.

 "Very interesting--very interesting, indeed!" said Holmes, peering at
 this sinister relic. "Anything more?"

 In silence Baynes led the way to the sink and held forward his
 candle. The limbs and body of some large, white bird, torn savagely
 to pieces with the feathers still on, were littered all over it.
 Holmes pointed to the wattles on the severed head.

 "A white cock," said he. "Most interesting! It is really a very
 curious case."

 But Mr. Baynes had kept his most sinister exhibit to the last. From
 under the sink he drew a zinc pail which contained a quantity of
 blood. Then from the table he took a platter heaped with small pieces
 of charred bone.

 "Something has been killed and something has been burned. We raked
 all these out of the fire. We had a doctor in this morning. He says
 that they are not human."

 Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands.

 "I must congratulate you, Inspector, on handling so distinctive and
 instructive a case. Your powers, if I may say so without offence,
 seem superior to your opportunities."

 Inspector Baynes's small eyes twinkled with pleasure.

 "You're right, Mr. Holmes. We stagnate in the provinces. A case of
 this sort gives a man a chance, and I hope that I shall take it. What
 do you make of these bones?"

 "A lamb, I should say, or a kid."

 "And the white cock?"

 "Curious, Mr. Baynes, very curious. I should say almost unique."

 "Yes, sir, there must have been some very strange people with some
 very strange ways in this house. One of them is dead. Did his
 companions follow him and kill him? If they did we should have them,
 for every port is watched. But my own views are different. Yes, sir,
 my own views are very different."

 "You have a theory then?"

 "And I'll work it myself, Mr. Holmes. It's only due to my own credit
 to do so. Your name is made, but I have still to make mine. I should
 be glad to be able to say afterwards that I had solved it without
 your help."

 Holmes laughed good-humoredly.

 "Well, well, Inspector," said he. "Do you follow your path and I will
 follow mine. My results are always very much at your service if you
 care to apply to me for them. I think that I have seen all that I
 wish in this house, and that my time may be more profitably employed
 elsewhere. Au revoir and good luck!"

 I could tell by numerous subtle signs, which might have been lost
 upon anyone but myself, that Holmes was on a hot scent. As impassive
 as ever to the casual observer, there were none the less a subdued
 eagerness and suggestion of tension in his brightened eyes and
 brisker manner which assured me that the game was afoot. After his
 habit he said nothing, and after mine I asked no questions.
 Sufficient for me to share the sport and lend my humble help to the
 capture without distracting that intent brain with needless
 interruption. All would come round to me in due time.

 I waited, therefore--but to my ever-deepening disappointment I waited
 in vain. Day succeeded day, and my friend took no step forward. One
 morning he spent in town, and I learned from a casual reference that
 he had visited the British Museum. Save for this one excursion, he
 spent his days in long and often solitary walks, or in chatting with
 a number of village gossips whose acquaintance he had cultivated.

 "I'm sure, Watson, a week in the country will be invaluable to you,"
 he remarked. "It is very pleasant to see the first green shoots upon
 the hedges and the catkins on the hazels once again. With a spud, a
 tin box, and an elementary book on botany, there are instructive days
 to be spent." He prowled about with this equipment himself, but it
 was a poor show of plants which he would bring back of an evening.

 Occasionally in our rambles we came across Inspector Baynes. His fat,
 red face wreathed itself in smiles and his small eyes glittered as he
 greeted my companion. He said little about the case, but from that
 little we gathered that he also was not dissatisfied at the course of
 events. I must admit, however, that I was somewhat surprised when,
 some five days after the crime, I opened my morning paper to find in
 large letters:

                           The Oxshott Mystery
                               a solution
                       Arrest of Supposed Assassin

 Holmes sprang in his chair as if he had been stung when I read the
 headlines.

 "By Jove!" he cried. "You don't mean that Baynes has got him?"

 "Apparently," said I as I read the following report:

 "Great excitement was caused in Esher and the neighbouring district
 when it was learned late last night that an arrest had been effected
 in connection with the Oxshott murder. It will be remembered that Mr.
 Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, was found dead on Oxshott Common, his body
 showing signs of extreme violence, and that on the same night his
 servant and his cook fled, which appeared to show their participation
 in the crime. It was suggested, but never proved, that the deceased
 gentleman may have had valuables in the house, and that their
 abstraction was the motive of the crime. Every effort was made by
 Inspector Baynes, who has the case in hand, to ascertain the hiding
 place of the fugitives, and he had good reason to believe that they
 had not gone far but were lurking in some retreat which had been
 already prepared. It was certain from the first, however, that they
 would eventually be detected, as the cook, from the evidence of one
 or two tradespeople who have caught a glimpse of him through the
 window, was a man of most remarkable appearance--being a huge and
 hideous mulatto, with yellowish features of a pronounced negroid
 type. This man has been seen since the crime, for he was detected and
 pursued by Constable Walters on the same evening, when he had the
 audacity to revisit Wisteria Lodge. Inspector Baynes, considering
 that such a visit must have some purpose in view and was likely,
 therefore, to be repeated, abandoned the house but left an ambuscade
 in the shrubbery. The man walked into the trap and was captured last
 night after a struggle in which Constable Downing was badly bitten by
 the savage. We understand that when the prison is brought before the
 magistrates a remand will be applied for by the police, and that
 great developments are hoped from his capture."

 "Really we must see Baynes at once," cried Holmes, picking up his
 hat. "We will just catch him before he starts." We hurried down the
 village street and found, as we had expected, that the inspector was
 just leaving his lodgings.

 "You've seen the paper, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, holding one out to us.

 "Yes, Baynes, I've seen it. Pray don't think it a liberty if I give
 you a word of friendly warning."

 "Of warning, Mr. Holmes?"

 "I have looked into this case with some care, and I am not convinced
 that you are on the right lines. I don't want you to commit yourself
 too far unless you are sure."

 "You're very kind, Mr. Holmes."

 "I assure you I speak for your good."

 It seemed to me that something like a wink quivered for an instant
 over one of Mr. Baynes's tiny eyes.

 "We agreed to work on our own lines, Mr. Holmes. That's what I am
 doing."

 "Oh, very good," said Holmes. "Don't blame me."

 "No, sir; I believe you mean well by me. But we all have our own
 systems, Mr. Holmes. You have yours, and maybe I have mine."

 "Let us say no more about it."

 "You're welcome always to my news. This fellow is a perfect savage,
 as strong as a cart-horse and as fierce as the devil. He chewed
 Downing's thumb nearly off before they could master him. He hardly
 speaks a word of English, and we can get nothing out of him but
 grunts."

 "And you think you have evidence that he murdered his late master?"

 "I didn't say so, Mr. Holmes; I didn't say so. We all have our little
 ways. You try yours and I will try mine. That's the agreement."

 Holmes shrugged his shoulders as we walked away together. "I can't
 make the man out. He seems to be riding for a fall. Well, as he says,
 we must each try our own way and see what comes of it. But there's
 something in Inspector Baynes which I can't quite understand."

 "Just sit down in that chair, Watson," said Sherlock Holmes when we
 had returned to our apartment at the Bull. "I want to put you in
 touch with the situation, as I may need your help to-night. Let me
 show you the evolution of this case so far as I have been able to
 follow it. Simple as it has been in its leading features, it has none
 the less presented surprising difficulties in the way of an arrest.
 There are gaps in that direction which we have still to fill.

 "We will go back to the note which was handed in to Garcia upon the
 evening of his death. We may put aside this idea of Baynes's that
 Garcia's servants were concerned in the matter. The proof of this
 lies in the fact that it was he who had arranged for the presence of
 Scott Eccles, which could only have been done for the purpose of an
 alibi. It was Garcia, then, who had an enterprise, and apparently a
 criminal enterprise, in hand that night in the course of which he met
 his death. I say 'criminal' because only a man with a criminal
 enterprise desires to establish an alibi. Who, then, is most likely
 to have taken his life? Surely the person against whom the criminal
 enterprise was directed. So far it seems to me that we are on safe
 ground.

 "We can now see a reason for the disappearance of Garcia's household.
 They were all confederates in the same unknown crime. If it came off
 when Garcia returned, any possible suspicion would be warded off by
 the Englishman's evidence, and all would be well. But the attempt was
 a dangerous one, and if Garcia did not return by a certain hour it
 was probable that his own life had been sacrificed. It had been
 arranged, therefore, that in such a case his two subordinates were to
 make for some prearranged spot where they could escape investigation
 and be in a position afterwards to renew their attempt. That would
 fully explain the facts, would it not?"

 The whole inexplicable tangle seemed to straighten out before me. I
 wondered, as I always did, how it had not been obvious to me before.

 "But why should one servant return?"

 "We can imagine that in the confusion of flight something precious,
 something which he could not bear to part with, had been left behind.
 That would explain his persistence, would it not?"

 "Well, what is the next step?"

 "The next step is the note received by Garcia at the dinner. It
 indicates a confederate at the other end. Now, where was the other
 end? I have already shown you that it could only lie in some large
 house, and that the number of large houses is limited. My first days
 in this village were devoted to a series of walks in which in the
 intervals of my botanical researches I made a reconnaissance of all
 the large houses and an examination of the family history of the
 occupants. One house, and only one, riveted my attention. It is the
 famous old Jacobean grange of High Gable, one mile on the farther
 side of Oxshott, and less than half a mile from the scene of the
 tragedy. The other mansions belonged to prosaic and respectable
 people who live far aloof from romance. But Mr. Henderson, of High
 Gable, was by all accounts a curious man to whom curious adventures
 might befall. I concentrated my attention, therefore, upon him and
 his household.

 "A singular set of people, Watson--the man himself the most singular
 of them all. I managed to see him on a plausible pretext, but I
 seemed to read in his dark, deepset, brooding eyes that he was
 perfectly aware of my true business. He is a man of fifty, strong,
 active, with iron-gray hair, great bunched black eyebrows, the step
 of a deer and the air of an emperor--a fierce, masterful man, with a
 red-hot spirit behind his parchment face. He is either a foreigner or
 has lived long in the tropics, for he is yellow and sapless, but
 tough as whipcord. His friend and secretary, Mr. Lucas, is
 undoubtedly a foreigner, chocolate brown, wily, suave, and catlike,
 with a poisonous gentleness of speech. You see, Watson, we have come
 already upon two sets of foreigners--one at Wisteria Lodge and one at
 High Gable--so our gaps are beginning to close.

 "These two men, close and confidential friends, are the centre of the
 household; but there is one other person who for our immediate
 purpose may be even more important. Henderson has two children--girls
 of eleven and thirteen. Their governess is a Miss Burnet, an
 Englishwoman of forty or thereabouts. There is also one confidential
 manservant. This little group forms the real family, for their travel
 about together, and Henderson is a great traveller, always on the
 move. It is only within the last weeks that he has returned, after a
 year's absence, to High Gable. I may add that he is enormously rich,
 and whatever his whims may be he can very easily satisfy them. For
 the rest, his house is full of butlers, footmen, maidservants, and
 the usual overfed, underworked staff of a large English country
 house.

 "So much I learned partly from village gossip and partly from my own
 observation. There are no better instruments than discharged servants
 with a grievance, and I was lucky enough to find one. I call it luck,
 but it would not have come my way had I not been looking out for it.
 As Baynes remarks, we all have our systems. It was my system which
 enabled me to find John Warner, late gardener of High Gable, sacked
 in a moment of temper by his imperious employer. He in turn had
 friends among the indoor servants who unite in their fear and dislike
 of their master. So I had my key to the secrets of the establishment.

 "Curious people, Watson! I don't pretend to understand it all yet,
 but very curious people anyway. It's a double-winged house, and the
 servants live on one side, the family on the other. There's no link
 between the two save for Henderson's own servant, who serves the
 family's meals. Everything is carried to a certain door, which forms
 the one connection. Governess and children hardly go out at all,
 except into the garden. Henderson never by any chance walks alone.
 His dark secretary is like his shadow. The gossip among the servants
 is that their master is terribly afraid of something. 'Sold his soul
 to the devil in exchange for money,' says Warner, 'and expects his
 creditor to come up and claim his own.' Where they came from, or who
 they are, nobody has an idea. They are very violent. Twice Henderson
 has lashed at folk with his dog-whip, and only his long purse and
 heavy compensation have kept him out of the courts.

 "Well, now, Watson, let us judge the situation by this new
 information. We may take it that the letter came out of this strange
 household and was an invitation to Garcia to carry out some attempt
 which had already been planned. Who wrote the note? It was someone
 within the citadel, and it was a woman. Who then but Miss Burnet, the
 governess? All our reasoning seems to point that way. At any rate, we
 may take it as a hypothesis and see what consequences it would
 entail. I may add that Miss Burnet's age and character make it
 certain that my first idea that there might be a love interest in our
 story is out of the question.

 "If she wrote the note she was presumably the friend and confederate
 of Garcia. What, then, might she be expected to do if she heard of
 his death? If he met it in some nefarious enterprise her lips might
 be sealed. Still, in her heart, she must retain bitterness and hatred
 against those who had killed him and would presumably help so far as
 she could to have revenge upon them. Could we see her, then and try
 to use her? That was my first thought. But now we come to a sinister
 fact. Miss Burnet has not been seen by any human eye since the night
 of the murder. From that evening she has utterly vanished. Is she
 alive? Has she perhaps met her end on the same night as the friend
 whom she had summoned? Or is she merely a prisoner? There is the
 point which we still have to decide.

 "You will appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Watson. There
 is nothing upon which we can apply for a warrant. Our whole scheme
 might seem fantastic if laid before a magistrate. The woman's
 disappearance counts for nothing, since in that extraordinary
 household any member of it might be invisible for a week. And yet she
 may at the present moment be in danger of her life. All I can do is
 to watch the house and leave my agent, Warner, on guard at the gates.
 We can't let such a situation continue. If the law can do nothing we
 must take the risk ourselves."

 "What do you suggest?"

 "I know which is her room.  It is accessible from the top of an
 outhouse.  My suggestion is that you and I go to-night and see if we
 can strike at the very heart of the mystery."

 It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect. The old house
 with its atmosphere of murder, the singular and formidable
 inhabitants, the unknown dangers of the approach, and the fact that
 we were putting ourselves legally in a false position all combined to
 damp my ardour. But there was something in the ice-cold reasoning of
 Holmes which made it impossible to shrink from any adventure which he
 might recommend. One knew that thus, and only thus, could a solution
 be found. I clasped his hand in silence, and the die was cast.

 But it was not destined that our investigation should have so
 adventurous an ending. It was about five o'clock, and the shadows of
 the March evening were beginning to fall, when an excited rustic
 rushed into our room.

 "They've gone, Mr. Holmes. They went by the last train. The lady
 broke away, and I've got her in a cab downstairs."

 "Excellent, Warner!" cried Holmes, springing to his feet. "Watson,
 the gaps are closing rapidly."

 In the cab was a woman, half-collapsed from nervous exhaustion. She
 bore upon her aquiline and emaciated face the traces of some recent
 tragedy. Her head hung listlessly upon her breast, but as she raised
 it and turned her dull eyes upon us I saw that her pupils were dark
 dots in the centre of the broad gray iris. She was drugged with
 opium.

 "I watched at the gate, same as you advised, Mr. Holmes," said our
 emissary, the discharged gardener. "When the carriage came out I
 followed it to the station. She was like one walking in her sleep,
 but when they tried to get her into the train she came to life and
 struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She fought her way out
 again. I took her part, got her into a cab, and here we are. I shan't
 forget the face at the carriage window as I led her away. I'd have a
 short life if he had his way--the black-eyed, scowling, yellow
 devil."

 We carried her upstairs, laid her on the sofa, and a couple of cups
 of the strongest coffee soon cleared her brain from the mists of the
 drug. Baynes had been summoned by Holmes, and the situation rapidly
 explained to him.

 "Why, sir, you've got me the very evidence I want," said the
 inspector warmly, shaking my friend by the hand. "I was on the same
 scent as you from the first."

 "What! You were after Henderson?"

 "Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the shrubbery at High
 Gable I was up one of the trees in the plantation and saw you down
 below. It was just who would get his evidence first."

 "Then why did you arrest the mulatto?"

 Baynes chuckled.

 "I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he was
 suspected, and that he would lie low and make no move so long as he
 thought he was in any danger. I arrested the wrong man to make him
 believe that our eyes were off him. I knew he would be likely to
 clear off then and give us a chance of getting at Miss Burnet."

 Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector's shoulder.

 "You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and
 intuition," said he.

 Baynes flushed with pleasure.

 "I've had a plain-clothes man waiting at the station all the week.
 Wherever the High Gable folk go he will keep them in sight. But he
 must have been hard put to it when Miss Burnet broke away. However,
 your man picked her up, and it all ends well. We can't arrest without
 her evidence, that is clear, so the sooner we get a statement the
 better."

 "Every minute she gets stronger," said Holmes, glancing at the
 governess. "But tell me, Baynes, who is this man Henderson?"

 "Henderson," the inspector answered, "is Don Murillo, once called the
 Tiger of San Pedro."

 The Tiger of San Pedro! The whole history of the man came back to me
 in a flash. He had made his name as the most lewd and bloodthirsty
 tyrant that had ever governed any country with a pretence to
 civilization. Strong, fearless, and energetic, he had sufficient
 virtue to enable him to impose his odious vices upon a cowering
 people for ten or twelve years. His name was a terror through all
 Central America. At the end of that time there was a universal rising
 against him. But he was as cunning as he was cruel, and at the first
 whisper of coming trouble he had secretly conveyed his treasures
 aboard a ship which was manned by devoted adherents. It was an empty
 palace which was stormed by the insurgents next day. The dictator,
 his two children, his secretary, and his wealth had all escaped them.
 From that moment he had vanished from the world, and his identity had
 been a frequent subject for comment in the European press.

 "Yes, sir, Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro," said Baynes. "If you
 look it up you will find that the San Pedro colours are green and
 white, same as in the note, Mr. Holmes. Henderson he called himself,
 but I traced him back, Paris and Rome and Madrid to Barcelona, where
 his ship came in in '86. They've been looking for him all the time
 for their revenge, but it is only now that they have begun to find
 him out."

 "They discovered him a year ago," said Miss Burnet, who had sat up
 and was now intently following the conversation. "Once already his
 life has been attempted, but some evil spirit shielded him. Now,
 again, it is the noble, chivalrous Garcia who has fallen, while the
 monster goes safe. But another will come, and yet another, until some
 day justice will be done; that is as certain as the rise of
 to-morrow's sun." Her thin hands clenched, and her worn face blanched
 with the passion of her hatred.

 "But how come you into this matter, Miss Burnet?" asked Holmes. "How
 can an English lady join in such a murderous affair?"

 "I join in it because there is no other way in the world by which
 justice can be gained. What does the law of England care for the
 rivers of blood shed years ago in San Pedro, or for the shipload of
 treasure which this man has stolen? To you they are like crimes
 committed in some other planet. But we know. We have learned the
 truth in sorrow and in suffering. To us there is no fiend in hell
 like Juan Murillo, and no peace in life while his victims still cry
 for vengeance."

 "No doubt," said Holmes, "he was as you say. I have heard that he was
 atrocious. But how are you affected?"

 "I will tell you it all. This villain's policy was to murder, on one
 pretext or another, every man who showed such promise that he might
 in time come to be a dangerous rival. My husband--yes, my real name
 is Signora Victor Durando--was the San Pedro minister in London. He
 met me and married me there. A nobler man never lived upon earth.
 Unhappily, Murillo heard of his excellence, recalled him on some
 pretext, and had him shot. With a premonition of his fate he had
 refused to take me with him. His estates were confiscated, and I was
 left with a pittance and a broken heart.

 "Then came the downfall of the tyrant. He escaped as you have just
 described. But the many whose lives he had ruined, whose nearest and
 dearest had suffered torture and death at his hands, would not let
 the matter rest. They banded themselves into a society which should
 never be dissolved until the work was done. It was my part after we
 had discovered in the transformed Henderson the fallen despot, to
 attach myself to his household and keep the others in touch with his
 movements. This I was able to do by securing the position of
 governess in his family. He little knew that the woman who faced him
 at every meal was the woman whose husband he had hurried at an hour's
 notice into eternity. I smiled on him, did my duty to his children,
 and bided my time. An attempt was made in Paris and failed. We
 zig-zagged swiftly here and there over Europe to throw off the
 pursuers and finally returned to this house, which he had taken upon
 his first arrival in England.

 "But here also the ministers of justice were waiting. Knowing that he
 would return there, Garcia, who is the son of the former highest
 dignitary in San Pedro, was waiting with two trusty companions of
 humble station, all three fired with the same reasons for revenge. He
 could do little during the day, for Murillo took every precaution and
 never went out save with his satellite Lucas, or Lopez as he was
 known in the days of his greatness. At night, however, he slept
 alone, and the avenger might find him. On a certain evening, which
 had been prearranged, I sent my friend final instructions, for the
 man was forever on the alert and continually changed his room. I was
 to see that the doors were open and the signal of a green or white
 light in a window which faced the drive was to give notice if all was
 safe or if the attempt had better be postponed.

 "But everything went wrong with us. In some way I had excited the
 suspicion of Lopez, the secretary. He crept up behind me and sprang
 upon me just as I had finished the note. He and his master dragged me
 to my room and held judgment upon me as a convicted traitress. Then
 and there they would have plunged their knives into me could they
 have seen how to escape the consequences of the deed. Finally, after
 much debate, they concluded that my murder was too dangerous. But
 they determined to get rid forever of Garcia. They had gagged me, and
 Murillo twisted my arm round until I gave him the address. I swear
 that he might have twisted it off had I understood what it would mean
 to Garcia. Lopez addressed the note which I had written, sealed it
 with his sleeve-link, and sent it by the hand of the servant, Jose.
 How they murdered him I do not know, save that it was Murillo's hand
 who struck him down, for Lopez had remained to guard me. I believe he
 must have waited among the gorse bushes through which the path winds
 and struck him down as he passed. At first they were of a mind to let
 him enter the house and to kill him as a detected burglar; but they
 argued that if they were mixed up in an inquiry their own identity
 would at once be publicly disclosed and they would be open to further
 attacks. With the death of Garcia, the pursuit might cease, since
 such a death might frighten others from the task.

 "All would now have been well for them had it not been for my
 knowledge of what they had done. I have no doubt that there were
 times when my life hung in the balance. I was confined to my room,
 terrorized by the most horrible threats, cruelly ill-used to break my
 spirit--see this stab on my shoulder and the bruises from end to end
 of my arms--and a gag was thrust into my mouth on the one occasion
 when I tried to call from the window. For five days this cruel
 imprisonment continued, with hardly enough food to hold body and soul
 together. This afternoon a good lunch was brought me, but the moment
 after I took it I knew that I had been drugged. In a sort of dream I
 remember being half-led, half-carried to the carriage; in the same
 state I was conveyed to the train. Only then, when the wheels were
 almost moving, did I suddenly realize that my liberty lay in my own
 hands. I sprang out, they tried to drag me back, and had it not been
 for the help of this good man, who led me to the cab, I should never
 had broken away. Now, thank God, I am beyond their power forever."

 We had all listened intently to this remarkable statement. It was
 Holmes who broke the silence.

 "Our difficulties are not over," he remarked, shaking his head. "Our
 police work ends, but our legal work begins."

 "Exactly," said I. "A plausible lawyer could make it out as an act of
 self-defence. There may be a hundred crimes in the background, but it
 is only on this one that they can be tried."

 "Come, come," said Baynes cheerily, "I think better of the law than
 that. Self-defence is one thing. To entice a man in cold blood with
 the object of murdering him is another, whatever danger you may fear
 from him. No, no, we shall all be justified when we see the tenants
 of High Gable at the next Guildford Assizes."

 It is a matter of history, however, that a little time was still to
 elapse before the Tiger of San Pedro should meet with his deserts.
 Wily and bold, he and his companion threw their pursuer off their
 track by entering a lodging-house in Edmonton Street and leaving by
 the back-gate into Curzon Square. From that day they were seen no
 more in England. Some six months afterwards the Marquess of Montalva
 and Signor Rulli, his secretary, were both murdered in their rooms at
 the Hotel Escurial at Madrid. The crime was ascribed to Nihilism, and
 the murderers were never arrested. Inspector Baynes visited us at
 Baker Street with a printed description of the dark face of the
 secretary, and of the masterful features, the magnetic black eyes,
 and the tufted brows of his master. We could not doubt that justice,
 if belated, had come at last.

 "A chaotic case, my dear Watson," said Holmes over an evening pipe.
 "It will not be possible for you to present in that compact form
 which is dear to your heart. It covers two continents, concerns two
 groups of mysterious persons, and is further complicated by the
 highly respectable presence of our friend, Scott Eccles, whose
 inclusion shows me that the deceased Garcia had a scheming mind and a
 well-developed instinct of self-preservation. It is remarkable only
 for the fact that amid a perfect jungle of possibilities we, with our
 worthy collaborator, the inspector, have kept our close hold on the
 essentials and so been guided along the crooked and winding path. Is
 there any point which is not quite clear to you?"

 "The object of the mulatto cook's return?"

 "I think that the strange creature in the kitchen may account for it.
 The man was a primitive savage from the backwoods of San Pedro, and
 this was his fetish. When his companion and he had fled to some
 prearranged retreat--already occupied, no doubt by a confederate--the
 companion had persuaded him to leave so compromising an article of
 furniture. But the mulatto's heart was with it, and he was driven
 back to it next day, when, on reconnoitering through the window, he
 found policeman Walters in possession. He waited three days longer,
 and then his piety or his superstition drove him to try once more.
 Inspector Baynes, who, with his usual astuteness, had minimized the
 incident before me, had really recognized its importance and had left
 a trap into which the creature walked. Any other point, Watson?"

 "The torn bird, the pail of blood, the charred bones, all the mystery
 of that weird kitchen?"

 Holmes smiled as he turned up an entry in his note-book.

 "I spent a morning in the British Museum reading up on that and other
 points. Here is a quotation from Eckermann's Voodooism and the
 Negroid Religions:

 "'The true voodoo-worshipper attempts nothing of importance without
 certain sacrifices which are intended to propitiate his unclean gods.
 In extreme cases these rites take the form of human sacrifices
 followed by cannibalism. The more usual victims are a white cock,
 which is plucked in pieces alive, or a black goat, whose throat is
 cut and body burned.'

 "So you see our savage friend was very orthodox in his ritual. It is
 grotesque, Watson," Holmes added, as he slowly fastened his notebook,
 "but, as I have had occasion to remark, there is but one step from
 the grotesque to the horrible."






                   THE ADVENTURE OF THE CARDBOARD BOX

 In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable
 mental qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have endeavoured,
 as far as possible, to select those which presented the minimum of
 sensationalism, while offering a fair field for his talents. It is,
 however, unfortunately impossible entirely to separate the
 sensational from the criminal, and a chronicler is left in the
 dilemma that he must either sacrifice details which are essential to
 his statement and so give a false impression of the problem, or he
 must use matter which chance, and not choice, has provided him with.
 With this short preface I shall turn to my notes of what proved to be
 a strange, though a peculiarly terrible, chain of events.

 It was a blazing hot day in August. Baker Street was like an oven,
 and the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of the house
 across the road was painful to the eye. It was hard to believe that
 these were the same walls which loomed so gloomily through the fogs
 of winter. Our blinds were half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the
 sofa, reading and re-reading a letter which he had received by the
 morning post. For myself, my term of service in India had trained me
 to stand heat better than cold, and a thermometer at ninety was no
 hardship. But the morning paper was uninteresting. Parliament had
 risen. Everybody was out of town, and I yearned for the glades of the
 New Forest or the shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank account had
 caused me to postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither the
 country nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him. He
 loved to lie in the very center of five millions of people, with his
 filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to
 every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of
 nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only change was
 when he turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town to track down
 his brother of the country.

 Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation I had tossed
 side the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair I fell into a
 brown study. Suddenly my companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts:

 "You are right, Watson," said he. "It does seem a most preposterous
 way of settling a dispute."

 "Most preposterous!" I exclaimed, and then suddenly realizing how he
 had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair and
 stared at him in blank amazement.

 "What is this, Holmes?" I cried. "This is beyond anything which I
 could have imagined."

 He laughed heartily at my perplexity.

 "You remember," said he, "that some little time ago when I read you
 the passage in one of Poe's sketches in which a close reasoner
 follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were inclined to
 treat the matter as a mere tour-de-force of the author. On my
 remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing the same thing
 you expressed incredulity."

 "Oh, no!"

 "Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with
 your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter upon
 a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of
 reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof that I
 had been in rapport with you."

 But I was still far from satisfied. "In the example which you read to
 me," said I, "the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of
 the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a
 heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. But I have been
 seated quietly in my chair, and what clues can I have given you?"

 "You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as the
 means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are faithful
 servants."

 "Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my
 features?"

 "Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot yourself
 recall how your reverie commenced?"

 "No, I cannot."

 "Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was the
 action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute with
 a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your newly
 framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in your
 face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not lead
 very far. Your eyes flashed across to the unframed portrait of Henry
 Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books. Then you
 glanced up at the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious. You
 were thinking that if the portrait were framed it would just cover
 that bare space and correspond with Gordon's picture there."

 "You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.

 "So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts went
 back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were studying
 the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but
 you continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful. You were
 recalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I was well aware that
 you could not do this without thinking of the mission which he
 undertook on behalf of the North at the time of the Civil War, for I
 remember your expressing your passionate indignation at the way in
 which he was received by the more turbulent of our people. You felt
 so strongly about it that I knew you could not think of Beecher
 without thinking of that also. When a moment later I saw your eyes
 wander away from the picture, I suspected that your mind had now
 turned to the Civil War, and when I observed that your lips set, your
 eyes sparkled, and your hands clenched I was positive that you were
 indeed thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sides in
 that desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew sadder, you
 shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror and
 useless waste of life. Your hand stole towards your own old wound and
 a smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the ridiculous
 side of this method of settling international questions had forced
 itself upon your mind. At this point I agreed with you that it was
 preposterous and was glad to find that all my deductions had been
 correct."

 "Absolutely!" said I. "And now that you have explained it, I confess
 that I am as amazed as before."

 "It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should not
 have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some
 incredulity the other day. But I have in my hands here a little
 problem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than my
 small essay in thought reading. Have you observed in the paper a
 short paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet sent
 through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?"

 "No, I saw nothing."

 "Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me. Here
 it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good enough
 to read it aloud."

 I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the
 paragraph indicated. It was headed, "A Gruesome Packet."

 "Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been made
 the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly revolting
 practical joke unless some more sinister meaning should prove to be
 attached to the incident. At two o'clock yesterday afternoon a small
 packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in by the postman. A
 cardboard box was inside, which was filled with coarse salt. On
 emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to find two human ears,
 apparently quite freshly severed. The box had been sent by parcel
 post from Belfast upon the morning before. There is no indication as
 to the sender, and the matter is the more mysterious as Miss Cushing,
 who is a maiden lady of fifty, has led a most retired life, and has
 so few acquaintances or correspondents that it is a rare event for
 her to receive anything through the post. Some years ago, however,
 when she resided at Penge, she let apartments in her house to three
 young medical students, whom she was obliged to get rid of on account
 of their noisy and irregular habits. The police are of opinion that
 this outrage may have been perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by these
 youths, who owed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her by
 sending her these relics of the dissecting-rooms. Some probability is
 lent to the theory by the fact that one of these students came from
 the north of Ireland, and, to the best of Miss Cushing's belief, from
 Belfast. In the meantime, the matter is being actively investigated,
 Mr. Lestrade, one of the very smartest of our detective officers,
 being in charge of the case."

 "So much for the Daily Chronicle," said Holmes as I finished reading.
 "Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this morning, in
 which he says:

 "I think that this case is very much in your line. We have every hope
 of clearing the matter up, but we find a little difficulty in getting
 anything to work upon. We have, of course, wired to the Belfast
 post-office, but a large number of parcels were handed in upon that
 day, and they have no means of identifying this particular one, or of
 remembering the sender. The box is a half-pound box of honeydew
 tobacco and does not help us in any way. The medical student theory
 still appears to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a
 few hours to spare I should be very happy to see you out here. I
 shall be either at the house or in the police-station all day.

 "What say you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run down
 to Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?"

 "I was longing for something to do."

 "You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to order a
 cab. I'll be back in a moment when I have changed my dressing-gown
 and filled my cigar-case."

 A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat was
 far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent on a
 wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as ferret-like as
 ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of five minutes took
 us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.

 It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and prim,
 with whitened stone steps and little groups of aproned women
 gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and tapped at
 a door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss Cushing was
 sitting in the front room, into which we were ushered. She was a
 placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes, and grizzled hair
 curving down over her temples on each side. A worked antimacassar lay
 upon her lap and a basket of coloured silks stood upon a stool beside
 her.

 "They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things," said she as
 Lestrade entered. "I wish that you would take them away altogether."

 "So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my friend, Mr.
 Holmes, should have seen them in your presence."

 "Why in my presence, sir?"

 "In case he wished to ask any questions."

 "What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know
 nothing whatever about it?"

 "Quite so, madam," said Holmes in his soothing way. "I have no doubt
 that you have been annoyed more than enough already over this
 business."

 "Indeed I have, sir. I am a quiet woman and live a retired life. It
 is something new for me to see my name in the papers and to find the
 police in my house. I won't have those things in here, Mr. Lestrade.
 If you wish to see them you must go to the outhouse."

 It was a small shed in the narrow garden which ran behind the house.
 Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box, with a piece
 of brown paper and some string. There was a bench at the end of the
 path, and we all sat down while Homes examined one by one, the
 articles which Lestrade had handed to him.

 "The string is exceedingly interesting," he remarked, holding it up
 to the light and sniffing at it. "What do you make of this string,
 Lestrade?"

 "It has been tarred."

 "Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine. You have also, no doubt,
 remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with a scissors, as can
 be seen by the double fray on each side. This is of importance."

 "I cannot see the importance," said Lestrade.

 "The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact, and
 that this knot is of a peculiar character."

 "It is very neatly tied. I had already made a note of that effect,"
 said Lestrade complacently.

 "So much for the string, then," said Holmes, smiling, "now for the
 box wrapper. Brown paper, with a distinct smell of coffee. What, did
 you not observe it? I think there can be no doubt of it. Address
 printed in rather straggling characters: 'Miss S. Cushing, Cross
 Street, Croydon.' Done with a broad-pointed pen, probably a J, and
 with very inferior ink. The word 'Croydon' has been originally
 spelled with an 'i', which has been changed to 'y'. The parcel was
 directed, then, by a man--the printing is distinctly masculine--of
 limited education and unacquainted with the town of Croydon. So far,
 so good! The box is a yellow, half-pound honeydew box, with nothing
 distinctive save two thumb marks at the left bottom corner. It is
 filled with rough salt of the quality used for preserving hides and
 other of the coarser commercial purposes. And embedded in it are
 these very singular enclosures."

 He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board across his
 knee he examined them minutely, while Lestrade and I, bending forward
 on each side of him, glanced alternately at these dreadful relics and
 at the thoughtful, eager face of our companion. Finally he returned
 them to the box once more and sat for a while in deep meditation.

 "You have observed, of course," said he at last, "that the ears are
 not a pair."

 "Yes, I have noticed that. But if this were the practical joke of
 some students from the dissecting-rooms, it would be as easy for them
 to send two odd ears as a pair."

 "Precisely. But this is not a practical joke."

 "You are sure of it?"

 "The presumption is strongly against it. Bodies in the
 dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. These ears
 bear no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have been cut off
 with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a student had
 done it. Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would be the
 preservatives which would suggest themselves to the medical mind,
 certainly not rough salt. I repeat that there is no practical joke
 here, but that we are investigating a serious crime."

 A vague thrill ran through me as I listened to my companion's words
 and saw the stern gravity which had hardened his features. This
 brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange and
 inexplicable horror in the background. Lestrade, however, shook his
 head like a man who is only half convinced.

 "There are objections to the joke theory, no doubt," said he, "but
 there are much stronger reasons against the other. We know that this
 woman has led a most quiet and respectable life at Penge and here for
 the last twenty years. She has hardly been away from her home for a
 day during that time. Why on earth, then, should any criminal send
 her the proofs of his guilt, especially as, unless she is a most
 consummate actress, she understands quite as little of the matter as
 we do?"

 "That is the problem which we have to solve," Holmes answered, "and
 for my part I shall set about it by presuming that my reasoning is
 correct, and that a double murder has been committed. One of these
 ears is a woman's, small, finely formed, and pierced for an earring.
 The other is a man's, sun-burned, discoloured, and also pierced for
 an earring. These two people are presumably dead, or we should have
 heard their story before now. To-day is Friday. The packet was posted
 on Thursday morning. The tragedy, then, occurred on Wednesday or
 Tuesday, or earlier. If the two people were murdered, who but their
 murderer would have sent this sign of his work to Miss Cushing? We
 may take it that the sender of the packet is the man whom we want.
 But he must have some strong reason for sending Miss Cushing this
 packet. What reason then? It must have been to tell her that the deed
 was done; or to pain her, perhaps. But in that case she knows who it
 is. Does she know? I doubt it. If she knew, why should she call the
 police in? She might have buried the ears, and no one would have been
 the wiser. That is what she would have done if she had wished to
 shield the criminal. But if she does not wish to shield him she would
 give his name. There is a tangle here which needs straightening out."
 He had been talking in a high, quick voice, staring blankly up over
 the garden fence, but now he sprang briskly to his feet and walked
 towards the house.

 "I have a few questions to ask Miss Cushing," said he.

 "In that case I may leave you here," said Lestrade, "for I have
 another small business on hand. I think that I have nothing further
 to learn from Miss Cushing. You will find me at the police-station."

 "We shall look in on our way to the train," answered Holmes. A moment
 later he and I were back in the front room, where the impassive lady
 was still quietly working away at her antimacassar. She put it down
 on her lap as we entered and looked at us with her frank, searching
 blue eyes.

 "I am convinced, sir," she said, "that this matter is a mistake, and
 that the parcel was never meant for me at all. I have said this
 several times to the gentlemen from Scotland Yard, but he simply
 laughs at me. I have not an enemy in the world, as far as I know, so
 why should anyone play me such a trick?"

 "I am coming to be of the same opinion, Miss Cushing," said Holmes,
 taking a seat beside her. "I think that it is more than probable--"
 He paused, and I was surprised, on glancing round to see that he was
 staring with singular intentness at the lady's profile. Surprise and
 satisfaction were both for an instant to be read upon his eager face,
 though when she glanced round to find out the cause of his silence he
 had become as demure as ever. I stared hard myself at her flat,
 grizzled hair, her trim cap, her little gilt earrings, her placid
 features; but I could see nothing which could account for my
 companion's evident excitement.

 "There were one or two questions--"

 "Oh, I am weary of questions!" cried Miss Cushing impatiently.

 "You have two sisters, I believe."

 "How could you know that?"

 "I observed the very instant that I entered the room that you have a
 portrait group of three ladies upon the mantelpiece, one of whom is
 undoubtedly yourself, while the others are so exceedingly like you
 that there could be no doubt of the relationship."

 "Yes, you are quite right. Those are my sisters, Sarah and Mary."

 "And here at my elbow is another portrait, taken at Liverpool, of
 your younger sister, in the company of a man who appears to be a
 steward by his uniform. I observe that she was unmarried at the
 time."

 "You are very quick at observing."

 "That is my trade."

 "Well, you are quite right.  But she was married to Mr. Browner a few
 days afterwards. He was on the South American line when that was
 taken, but he was so fond of her that he couldn't abide to leave her
 for so long, and he got into the Liverpool and London boats."

 "Ah, the Conqueror, perhaps?"

 "No, the May Day, when last I heard. Jim came down here to see me
 once. That was before he broke the pledge; but afterwards he would
 always take drink when he was ashore, and a little drink would send
 him stark, staring mad. Ah! it was a bad day that ever he took a
 glass in his hand again. First he dropped me, then he quarrelled with
 Sarah, and now that Mary has stopped writing we don't know how things
 are going with them."

 It was evident that Miss Cushing had come upon a subject on which she
 felt very deeply. Like most people who lead a lonely life, she was
 shy at first, but ended by becoming extremely communicative. She told
 us many details about her brother-in-law the steward, and then
 wandering off on the subject of her former lodgers, the medical
 students, she gave us a long account of their delinquencies, with
 their names and those of their hospitals. Holmes listened attentively
 to everything, throwing in a question from time to time.

 "About your second sister, Sarah," said he. "I wonder, since you are
 both maiden ladies, that you do not keep house together."

 "Ah! you don't know Sarah's temper or you would wonder no more. I
 tried it when I came to Croydon, and we kept on until about two
 months ago, when we had to part. I don't want to say a word against
 my own sister, but she was always meddlesome and hard to please, was
 Sarah."

 "You say that she quarrelled with your Liverpool relations."

 "Yes, and they were the best of friends at one time. Why, she went up
 there to live in order to be near them. And now she has no word hard
 enough for Jim Browner. The last six months that she was here she
 would speak of nothing but his drinking and his ways. He had caught
 her meddling, I suspect, and given her a bit of his mind, and that
 was the start of it."

 "Thank you, Miss Cushing," said Holmes, rising and bowing. "Your
 sister Sarah lives, I think you said, at New Street, Wallington?
 Good-bye, and I am very sorry that you should have been troubled over
 a case with which, as you say, you have nothing whatever to do."

 There was a cab passing as we came out, and Holmes hailed it.

 "How far to Wallington?" he asked.

 "Only about a mile, sir."

 "Very good. Jump in, Watson. We must strike while the iron is hot.
 Simple as the case is, there have been one or two very instructive
 details in connection with it. Just pull up at a telegraph office as
 you pass, cabby."

 Holmes sent off a short wire and for the rest of the drive lay back
 in the cab, with his hat tilted over his nose to keep the sun from
 his face. Our drive pulled up at a house which was not unlike the one
 which we had just quitted. My companion ordered him to wait, and had
 his hand upon the knocker, when the door opened and a grave young
 gentleman in black, with a very shiny hat, appeared on the step.

 "Is Miss Cushing at home?" asked Holmes.

 "Miss Sarah Cushing is extremely ill," said he. "She has been
 suffering since yesterday from brain symptoms of great severity. As
 her medical adviser, I cannot possibly take the responsibility of
 allowing anyone to see her. I should recommend you to call again in
 ten days." He drew on his gloves, closed the door, and marched off
 down the street.

 "Well, if we can't we can't," said Holmes, cheerfully.

 "Perhaps she could not or would not have told you much."

 "I did not wish her to tell me anything. I only wanted to look at
 her. However, I think that I have got all that I want. Drive us to
 some decent hotel, cabby, where we may have some lunch, and
 afterwards we shall drop down upon friend Lestrade at the
 police-station."

 We had a pleasant little meal together, during which Holmes would
 talk about nothing but violins, narrating with great exultation how
 he had purchased his own Stradivarius, which was worth at least five
 hundred guineas, at a Jew broker's in Tottenham Court Road for
 fifty-five shillings. This led him to Paganini, and we sat for an
 hour over a bottle of claret while he told me anecdote after anecdote
 of that extraordinary man. The afternoon was far advanced and the hot
 glare had softened into a mellow glow before we found ourselves at
 the police-station. Lestrade was waiting for us at the door.

 "A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes," said he.

 "Ha! It is the answer!" He tore it open, glanced his eyes over it,
 and crumpled it into his pocket. "That's all right," said he.

 "Have you found out anything?"

 "I have found out everything!"

 "What!" Lestrade stared at him in amazement. "You are joking."

 "I was never more serious in my life. A shocking crime has been
 committed, and I think I have now laid bare every detail of it."

 "And the criminal?"

 Holmes scribbled a few words upon the back of one of his visiting
 cards and threw it over to Lestrade.

 "That is the name," he said. "You cannot effect an arrest until
 to-morrow night at the earliest. I should prefer that you do not
 mention my name at all in connection with the case, as I choose to be
 only associated with those crimes which present some difficulty in
 their solution. Come on, Watson." We strode off together to the
 station, leaving Lestrade still staring with a delighted face at the
 card which Holmes had thrown him.

 "The case," said Sherlock Holmes as we chatted over or cigars that
 night in our rooms at Baker Street, "is one where, as in the
 investigations which you have chronicled under the names of 'A Study
 in Scarlet' and of 'The Sign of Four,' we have been compelled to
 reason backward from effects to causes. I have written to Lestrade
 asking him to supply us with the details which are now wanting, and
 which he will only get after he had secured his man. That he may be
 safely trusted to do, for although he is absolutely devoid of reason,
 he is as tenacious as a bulldog when he once understands what he has
 to do, and indeed, it is just this tenacity which has brought him to
 the top at Scotland Yard."

 "Your case is not complete, then?" I asked.

 "It is fairly complete in essentials. We know who the author of the
 revolting business is, although one of the victims still escapes us.
 Of course, you have formed your own conclusions."

 "I presume that this Jim Browner, the steward of a Liverpool boat, is
 the man whom you suspect?"

 "Oh! it is more than a suspicion."

 "And yet I cannot see anything save very vague indications."

 "On the contrary, to my mind nothing could be more clear. Let me run
 over the principal steps. We approached the case, you remember, with
 an absolutely blank mind, which is always an advantage. We had formed
 no theories. We were simply there to observe and to draw inferences
 from our observations. What did we see first? A very placid and
 respectable lady, who seemed quite innocent of any secret, and a
 portrait which showed me that she had two younger sisters. It
 instantly flashed across my mind that the box might have been meant
 for one of these. I set the idea aside as one which could be
 disproved or confirmed at our leisure. Then we went to the garden, as
 you remember, and we saw the very singular contents of the little
 yellow box.

 "The string was of the quality which is used by sail-makers aboard
 ship, and at once a whiff of the sea was perceptible in our
 investigation. When I observed that the knot was one which is popular
 with sailors, that the parcel had been posted at a port, and that the
 male ear was pierced for an earring which is so much more common
 among sailors than landsmen, I was quite certain that all the actors
 in the tragedy were to be found among our seafaring classes.

 "When I came to examine the address of the packet I observed that it
 was to Miss S. Cushing. Now, the oldest sister would, of course, be
 Miss Cushing, and although her initial was 'S' it might belong to one
 of the others as well. In that case we should have to commence our
 investigation from a fresh basis altogether. I therefore went into
 the house with the intention of clearing up this point. I was about
 to assure Miss Cushing that I was convinced that a mistake had been
 made when you may remember that I came suddenly to a stop. The fact
 was that I had just seen something which filled me with surprise and
 at the same time narrowed the field of our inquiry immensely.

 "As a medical man, you are aware, Watson, that there is no part of
 the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as a rule
 quite distinctive and differs from all other ones. In last year's
 Anthropological Journal you will find two short monographs from my
 pen upon the subject. I had, therefore, examined the ears in the box
 with the eyes of an expert and had carefully noted their anatomical
 peculiarities. Imagine my surprise, then, when on looking at Miss
 Cushing I perceived that her ear corresponded exactly with the female
 ear which I had just inspected. The matter was entirely beyond
 coincidence. There was the same shortening of the pinna, the same
 broad curve of the upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner
 cartilage. In all essentials it was the same ear.

 "In the first place, her sister's name was Sarah, and her address had
 until recently been the same, so that it was quite obvious how the
 mistake had occurred and for whom the packet was meant. Then we heard
 of this steward, married to the third sister, and learned that he had
 at one time been so intimate with Miss Sarah that she had actually
 gone up to Liverpool to be near the Browners, but a quarrel had
 afterwards divided them. This quarrel had put a stop to all
 communications for some months, so that if Browner had occasion to
 address a packet to Miss Sarah, he would undoubtedly have done so to
 her old address.

 "And now the matter had begun to straighten itself out wonderfully.
 We had learned of the existence of this steward, an impulsive man, of
 strong passions--you remember that he threw up what must have been a
 very superior berth in order to be nearer to his wife--subject, too,
 to occasional fits of hard drinking. We had reason to believe that
 his wife had been murdered, and that a man--presumably a seafaring
 man--had been murdered at the same time. Jealousy, of course, at once
 suggests itself as the motive for the crime. And why should these
 proofs of the deed be sent to Miss Sarah Cushing? Probably because
 during her residence in Liverpool she had some hand in bringing about
 the events which led to the tragedy. You will observe that this line
 of boats call at Belfast, Dublin, and Waterford; so that, presuming
 that Browner had committed the deed and had embarked at once upon his
 steamer, the May Day, Belfast would be the first place at which he
 could post his terrible packet.

 "A second solution was at this stage obviously possible, and although
 I thought it exceedingly unlikely, I was determined to elucidate it
 before going further. An unsuccessful lover might have killed Mr. and
 Mrs. Browner, and the male ear might have belonged to the husband.
 There were many grave objections to this theory, but it was
 conceivable. I therefore sent off a telegram to my friend Algar, of
 the Liverpool force, and asked him to find out if Mrs. Browner were
 at home, and if Browner had departed in the May Day. Then we went on
 to Wallington to visit Miss Sarah.

 "I was curious, in the first place, to see how far the family ear had
 been reproduced in her. Then, of course, she might give us very
 important information, but I was not sanguine that she would. She
 must have heard of the business the day before, since all Croydon was
 ringing with it, and she alone could have understood for whom the
 packet was meant. If she had been willing to help justice she would
 probably have communicated with the police already. However, it was
 clearly our duty to see her, so we went. We found that the news of
 the arrival of the packet--for her illness dated from that time--had
 such an effect upon her as to bring on brain fever. It was clearer
 than ever that she understood its full significance, but equally
 clear that we should have to wait some time for any assistance from
 her.

 "However, we were really independent of her help. Our answers were
 waiting for us at the police-station, where I had directed Algar to
 send them. Nothing could be more conclusive. Mrs. Browner's house had
 been closed for more than three days, and the neighbours were of
 opinion that she had gone south to see her relatives. It had been
 ascertained at the shipping offices that Browner had left aboard of
 the May Day, and I calculate that she is due in the Thames tomorrow
 night. When he arrives he will be met by the obtuse but resolute
 Lestrade, and I have no doubt that we shall have all our details
 filled in."

 Sherlock Holmes was not disappointed in his expectations. Two days
 later he received a bulky envelope, which contained a short note from
 the detective, and a typewritten document, which covered several
 pages of foolscap.

 "Lestrade has got him all right," said Holmes, glancing up at me.
 "Perhaps it would interest you to hear what he says.

 "My dear Mr. Holmes:
 "In accordance with the scheme which we had formed in order to test
 our theories" ["the 'we' is rather fine, Watson, is it not?"] "I went
 down to the Albert Dock yesterday at 6 p.m., and boarded the S.S. May
 Day, belonging to the Liverpool, Dublin, and London Steam Packet
 Company. On inquiry, I found that there was a steward on board of the
 name of James Browner and that he had acted during the voyage in such
 an extraordinary manner that the captain had been compelled to
 relieve him of his duties. On descending to his berth, I found him
 seated upon a chest with his head sunk upon his hands, rocking
 himself to and fro. He is a big, powerful chap, clean-shaven, and
 very swarthy--something like Aldrige, who helped us in the bogus
 laundry affair. He jumped up when he heard my business, and I had my
 whistle to my lips to call a couple of river police, who were round
 the corner, but he seemed to have no heart in him, and he held out
 his hands quietly enough for the darbies. We brought him along to the
 cells, and his box as well, for we thought there might be something
 incriminating; but, bar a big sharp knife such as most sailors have,
 we got nothing for our trouble. However, we find that we shall want
 no more evidence, for on being brought before the inspector at the
 station he asked leave to make a statement, which was, of course,
 taken down, just as he made it, by our shorthand man. We had three
 copies typewritten, one of which I enclose. The affair proves, as I
 always thought it would, to be an extremely simple one, but I am
 obliged to you for assisting me in my investigation. With kind
 regards,
 "Yours very truly,
 "G. Lestrade.

 "Hum! The investigation really was a very simple one," remarked
 Holmes, "but I don't think it struck him in that light when he first
 called us in. However, let us see what Jim Browner has to say for
 himself. This is his statement as made before Inspector Montgomery at
 the Shadwell Police Station, and it has the advantage of being
 verbatim."

 "'Have I anything to say? Yes, I have a deal to say. I have to make a
 clean breast of it all. You can hang me, or you can leave me alone. I
 don't care a plug which you do. I tell you I've not shut an eye in
 sleep since I did it, and I don't believe I ever will again until I
 get past all waking. Sometimes it's his face, but most generally it's
 hers. I'm never without one or the other before me. He looks frowning
 and black-like, but she has a kind o' surprise upon her face. Ay, the
 white lamb, she might well be surprised when she read death on a face
 that had seldom looked anything but love upon her before.

 "'But it was Sarah's fault, and may the curse of a broken man put a
 blight on her and set the blood rotting in her veins! It's not that I
 want to clear myself. I know that I went back to drink, like the
 beast that I was. But she would have forgiven me; she would have
 stuck as close to me as a rope to a block if that woman had never
 darkened our door. For Sarah Cushing loved me--that's the root of the
 business--she loved me until all her love turned to poisonous hate
 when she knew that I thought more of my wife's footmark in the mud
 than I did of her whole body and soul.

 "'There were three sisters altogether. The old one was just a good
 woman, the second was a devil, and the third was an angel. Sarah was
 thirty-three, and Mary was twenty-nine when I married. We were just
 as happy as the day was long when we set up house together, and in
 all Liverpool there was no better woman than my Mary. And then we
 asked Sarah up for a week, and the week grew into a month, and one
 thing led to another, until she was just one of ourselves.

 "'I was blue ribbon at that time, and we were putting a little money
 by, and all was as bright as a new dollar. My God, whoever would have
 thought that it could have come to this? Whoever would have dreamed
 it?

 "'I used to be home for the week-ends very often, and sometimes if
 the ship were held back for cargo I would have a whole week at a
 time, and in this way I saw a deal of my sister-in-law, Sarah. She
 was a fine tall woman, black and quick and fierce, with a proud way
 of carrying her head, and a glint from her eye like a spark from a
 flint. But when little Mary was there I had never a thought of her,
 and that I swear as I hope for God's mercy.

 "'It had seemed to me sometimes that she liked to be alone with me,
 or to coax me out for a walk with her, but I had never thought
 anything of that. But one evening my eyes were opened. I had come up
 from the ship and found my wife out, but Sarah at home. "Where's
 Mary?" I asked. "Oh, she has gone to pay some accounts." I was
 impatient and paced up and down the room. "Can't you be happy for
 five minutes without Mary, Jim?" says she. "It's a bad compliment to
 me that you can't be contented with my society for so short a time."
 "That's all right, my lass," said I, putting out my hand towards her
 in a kindly way, but she had it in both hers in an instant, and they
 burned as if they were in a fever. I looked into her eyes and I read
 it all there. There was no need for her to speak, nor for me either.
 I frowned and drew my hand away. Then she stood by my side in silence
 for a bit, and then put up her hand and patted me on the shoulder.
 "Steady old Jim!" said she, and with a kind o' mocking laugh, she ran
 out of the room.

 "'Well, from that time Sarah hated me with her whole heart and soul,
 and she is a woman who can hate, too. I was a fool to let her go on
 biding with us--a besotted fool--but I never said a word to Mary, for
 I knew it would grieve her. Things went on much as before, but after
 a time I began to find that there was a bit of a change in Mary
 herself. She had always been so trusting and so innocent, but now she
 became queer and suspicious, wanting to know where I had been and
 what I had been doing, and whom my letters were from, and what I had
 in my pockets, and a thousand such follies. Day by day she grew
 queerer and more irritable, and we had ceaseless rows about nothing.
 I was fairly puzzled by it all. Sarah avoided me now, but she and
 Mary were just inseparable. I can see now how she was plotting and
 scheming and poisoning my wife's mind against me, but I was such a
 blind beetle that I could not understand it at the time. Then I broke
 my blue ribbon and began to drink again, but I think I should not
 have done it if Mary had been the same as ever. She had some reason
 to be disgusted with me now, and the gap between us began to be wider
 and wider. And then this Alec Fairbairn chipped in, and things became
 a thousand times blacker.

 "'It was to see Sarah that he came to my house first, but soon it was
 to see us, for he was a man with winning ways, and he made friends
 wherever he went. He was a dashing, swaggering chap, smart and
 curled, who had seen half the world and could talk of what he had
 seen. He was good company, I won't deny it, and he had wonderful
 polite ways with him for a sailor man, so that I think there must
 have been a time when he knew more of the poop than the forecastle.
 For a month he was in and out of my house, and never once did it
 cross my mind that harm might come of his soft, tricky ways. And then
 at last something made me suspect, and from that day my peace was
 gone forever.

 "'It was only a little thing, too. I had come into the parlour
 unexpected, and as I walked in at the door I saw a light of welcome
 on my wife's face. But as she saw who it was it faded again, and she
 turned away with a look of disappointment. That was enough for me.
 There was no one but Alec Fairbairn whose step she could have
 mistaken for mine. If I could have seen him then I should have killed
 him, for I have always been like a madman when my temper gets loose.
 Mary saw the devil's light in my eyes, and she ran forward with her
 hands on my sleeve. "Don't, Jim, don't!" says she. "Where's Sarah?" I
 asked. "In the kitchen," says she. "Sarah," says I as I went in,
 "this man Fairbairn is never to darken my door again." "Why not?"
 says she. "Because I order it." "Oh!" says she, "if my friends are
 not good enough for this house, then I am not good enough for it
 either." "You can do what you like," says I, "but if Fairbairn shows
 his face here again I'll send you one of his ears for a keepsake."
 She was frightened by my face, I think, for she never answered a
 word, and the same evening she left my house.

 "'Well, I don't know now whether it was pure devilry on the part of
 this woman, or whether she thought that she could turn me against my
 wife by encouraging her to misbehave. Anyway, she took a house just
 two streets off and let lodgings to sailors. Fairbairn used to stay
 there, and Mary would go round to have tea with her sister and him.
 How often she went I don't know, but I followed her one day, and as I
 broke in at the door Fairbairn got away over the back garden wall,
 like the cowardly skunk that he was. I swore to my wife that I would
 kill her if I found her in his company again, and I led her back with
 me, sobbing and trembling, and as white as a piece of paper. There
 was no trace of love between us any longer. I could see that she
 hated me and feared me, and when the thought of it drove me to drink,
 then she despised me as well.

 "'Well, Sarah found that she could not make a living in Liverpool, so
 she went back, as I understand, to live with her sister in Croydon,
 and things jogged on much the same as ever at home. And then came
 this week and all the misery and ruin.

 "'It was in this way. We had gone on the May Day for a round voyage
 of seven days, but a hogshead got loose and started one of our
 plates, so that we had to put back into port for twelve hours. I left
 the ship and came home, thinking what a surprise it would be for my
 wife, and hoping that maybe she would be glad to see me so soon. The
 thought was in my head as I turned into my own street, and at that
 moment a cab passed me, and there she was, sitting by the side of
 Fairbairn, the two chatting and laughing, with never a thought for me
 as I stood watching them from the footpath.

 "'I tell you, and I give you my word for it, that from that moment I
 was not my own master, and it is all like a dim dream when I look
 back on it. I had been drinking hard of late, and the two things
 together fairly turned my brain. There's something throbbing in my
 head now, like a docker's hammer, but that morning I seemed to have
 all Niagara whizzing and buzzing in my ears.

 "'Well, I took to my heels, and I ran after the cab. I had a heavy
 oak stick in my hand, and I tell you I saw red from the first; but as
 I ran I got cunning, too, and hung back a little to see them without
 being seen. They pulled up soon at the railway station. There was a
 good crowd round the booking-office, so I got quite close to them
 without being seen. They took tickets for New Brighton. So did I, but
 I got in three carriages behind them. When we reached it they walked
 along the Parade, and I was never more than a hundred yards from
 them. At last I saw them hire a boat and start for a row, for it was
 a very hot day, and they thought, no doubt, that it would be cooler
 on the water.

 "'It was just as if they had been given into my hands. There was a
 bit of a haze, and you could not see more than a few hundred yards. I
 hired a boat for myself, and I pulled after them. I could see the
 blur of their craft, but they were going nearly as fast as I, and
 they must have been a long mile from the shore before I caught them
 up. The haze was like a curtain all round us, and there were we three
 in the middle of it. My God, shall I ever forget their faces when
 they saw who was in the boat that was closing in upon them? She
 screamed out. He swore like a madman and jabbed at me with an oar,
 for he must have seen death in my eyes. I got past it and got one in
 with my stick that crushed his head like an egg. I would have spared
 her, perhaps, for all my madness, but she threw her arms round him,
 crying out to him, and calling him "Alec." I struck again, and she
 lay stretched beside him. I was like a wild beast then that had
 tasted blood. If Sarah had been there, by the Lord, she should have
 joined them. I pulled out my knife, and--well, there! I've said
 enough. It gave me a kind of savage joy when I thought how Sarah
 would feel when she had such signs as these of what her meddling had
 brought about. Then I tied the bodies into the boat, stove a plank,
 and stood by until they had sunk. I knew very well that the owner
 would think that they had lost their bearings in the haze, and had
 drifted off out to sea. I cleaned myself up, got back to land, and
 joined my ship without a soul having a suspicion of what had passed.
 That night I made up the packet for Sarah Cushing, and next day I
 sent it from Belfast.

 "'There you have the whole truth of it. You can hang me, or do what
 you like with me, but you cannot punish me as I have been punished
 already. I cannot shut my eyes but I see those two faces staring at
 me--staring at me as they stared when my boat broke through the haze.
 I killed them quick, but they are killing me slow; and if I have
 another night of it I shall be either mad or dead before morning. You
 won't put me alone into a cell, sir?  For pity's sake don't, and may
 you be treated in your day of agony as you treat me now.'

 "What is the meaning of it, Watson?" said Holmes solemnly as he laid
 down the paper. "What object is served by this circle of misery and
 violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our universe is
 ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There is the
 great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from
 an answer as ever."






                     THE ADVENTURE OF THE RED CIRCLE





                            Table of contents
    Part One
    Part Two















      CHAPTER I
      Part One


 "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 had 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
 the 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 Homes, 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
 burnt 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 strike 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 form 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
 substitution 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 happenings! 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 on 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 communications. Meanwhile, 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 reconnaissance 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 his sofa, while I came straight round to tell you what had
 happened."

 "Most interesting," said Holmes. "Did he observe the appearance 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 a 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 everything. 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 ore pretentious 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 appeared 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 form the chair. An
 instant later it was hurriedly replaced, and I caught a glimpse of a
 dark, beautiful, 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 effectively 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 thought 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 advanced 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 whisper, 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. Do did In. 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 form 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."





      CHAPTER II
      Part Two


 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 breathless 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' meetings. 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 this 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 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 intelligence,
 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 American
 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 passing 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 form 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 husband, 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 every 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 narrative
 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 employment, 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 Brooklyn, 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 or 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 them 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 for 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 this 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 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, gentleman, 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 ADVENTURE OF THE BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS

 In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow fog
 settled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I doubt
 whether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker Street to see
 the loom of the opposite houses. The first day Holmes had spent in
 cross-indexing his huge book of references. The second and third had
 been patiently occupied upon a subject which he hand recently made
 his hobby--the music of the Middle Ages. But when, for the fourth
 time, after pushing back our chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy,
 heavy brown swirl still drifting past us and condensing in oily drops
 upon the window-panes, my comrade's impatient and active nature could
 endure this drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our
 sitting-room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails,
 tapping the furniture, and chafing against inaction.

 "Nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?" he said.

 In was aware that by anything of interest, Holmes meant anything of
 criminal interest. There was the news of a revolution, of a possible
 war, and of an impending change of government; but these did not come
 within the horizon of my companion. I could see nothing recorded in
 the shape of crime which was not commonplace and futile. Holmes
 groaned and resumed hs restless meanderings.

 "The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow," said he in the
 querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him. "Look out
 this window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen, and
 then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The thief or the murderer
 could roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen
 until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim."

 "There have," said I, "been numerous petty thefts."

 Holmes snorted his contempt.

 "This great and sombre stage is set for something more worthy than
 that," said he. "It is fortunate for this community that I am not a
 criminal."

 "It is, indeed!" said I heartily.

 "Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fifty men who
 have good reason for taking my life, how long could I survive against
 my own pursuit? A summons, a bogus appointment, and all would be
 over. It is well they don't have days of fog in the Latin
 countries--the countries of assassination. By Jove! here comes
 something at last to break our dead monotony."

 It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open and burst out
 laughing.

 "Well, well! What next?" said he. "Brother Mycroft is coming round."

 "Why not?" I asked.

 "Why not? It is as if you met a tram-car coming down a country lane.
 Mycroft has his rails and he runs on them. His Pall Mall lodgings,
 the Diogenes Club, Whitehall--that is his cycle. Once, and only once,
 he has been here. What upheaval can possibly have derailed him?"

 "Does he not explain?"

 Holmes handed me his brother's telegram.

 Must see you over Cadogen West. Coming at once.
 Mycroft.

 "Cadogen West? I have heard the name."

 "It recalls nothing to my mind. But that Mycroft should break out in
 this erratic fashion! A planet might as well leave its orbit. By the
 way, do you know what Mycroft is?"

 I had some vague recollection of an explanation at the time of the
 Adventure of the Greek Interpreter.

 "You told me that he had some small office under the British
 government."

 Holmes chuckled.

 "I did not know you quite so well in those days. One has to be
 discreet when one talks of high matters of state. You are right in
 thinking that he under the British government. You would also be
 right in a sense if you said that occasionally he is the British
 government."

 "My dear Holmes!"

 "I thought I might surprise you. Mycroft draws four hundred and fifty
 pounds a year, remains a subordinate, has no ambitions of any kind,
 will receive neither honour nor title, but remains the most
 indispensable man in the country."

 "But how?"

 "Well, his position is unique. He has made it for himself. There has
 never been anything like it before, nor will be again. He has the
 tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity for
 storing facts, of any man living. The same great powers which I have
 turned to the detection of crime he has used for this particular
 business. The conclusions of every department are passed to him, and
 he is the central exchange, the clearinghouse, which makes out the
 balance. All other men are specialists, but his specialism is
 omniscience. We will suppose that a minister needs information as to
 a point which involves the Navy, India, Canada and the bimetallic
 question; he could get his separate advices from various departments
 upon each, but only Mycroft can focus them all, and say offhand how
 each factor would affect the other. They began by using him as a
 short-cut, a convenience; now he has made himself an essential. In
 that great brain of his everything is pigeon-holed and can be handed
 out in an instant. Again and again his word has decided the national
 policy. He lives in it. He thinks of nothing else save when, as an
 intellectual exercise, he unbends if I call upon him and ask him to
 advise me on one of my little problems. But Jupiter is descending
 to-day. What on earth can it mean? Who is Cadogan West, and what is
 he to Mycroft?"

 "I have it," I cried, and plunged among the litter of papers upon the
 sofa. "Yes, yes, here he is, sure enough! Cadogen West was the young
 man who was found dead on the Underground on Tuesday morning."

 Holmes sat up at attention, his pipe halfway to his lips.

 "This must be serious, Watson. A death which has caused my brother to
 alter his habits can be no ordinary one. What in the world can he
 have to do with it? The case was featureless as I remember it. The
 young man had apparently fallen out of the train and killed himself.
 He had not been robbed, and there was no particular reason to suspect
 violence. Is that not so?"

 "There has been an inquest," said I, "and a good many fresh facts
 have come out. Looked at more closely, I should certainly say that it
 was a curious case."

 "Judging by its effect upon my brother, I should think it must be a
 most extraordinary one." He snuggled down in his armchair. "Now,
 Watson, let us have the facts."

 "The man's name was Arthur Cadogan West. He was twenty-seven years of
 age, unmarried, and a clerk at Woolwich Arsenal."

 "Government employ. Behold the link with Brother Mycroft!"

 "He left Woolwich suddenly on Monday night. Was last seen by his
 fiancee, Miss Violet Westbury, whom he left abruptly in the fog about
 7.30 that evening. There was no quarrel between them and she can give
 no motive for his action. The next thing heard of him was when his
 dead body was discovered by a plate-layer named Mason, just outside
 Aldgate Station on the Underground system in London."

 "When?"

 "The body was found at six on Tuesday morning. It was lying wide of
 the metals upon the left hand of the track as one goes eastward, at a
 point close to the station, where the line emerges from the tunnel in
 which it runs. The head was badly crushed--an injury which might well
 have been caused by a fall from the train. The body could only have
 come on the line in that way. Had it been carried down from any
 neighbouring street, it must have passed the station barriers, where
 a collector is always standing. This point seems absolutely certain."

 "Very good. The case is definite enough. The man, dead or alive,
 either fell or was precipitated from a train. So much is clear to me.
 Continue."

 "The trains which traverse the lines of rail beside which the body
 was found are those which run from west to east, some being purely
 Metropolitan, and some from Willesden and outlying junctions. It can
 be stated for certain that this young man, when he met his death, was
 travelling in this direction at some late hour of the night, but at
 what point he entered the train it is impossible to state."

 "His ticket, of course, would show that."

 "There was no ticket in his pockets."

 "No ticket! Dear me, Watson, this is really very singular. According
 to my experience it is not possible to reach the platform of a
 Metropolitan train without exhibiting one's ticket. Presumably, then,
 the young man had one. Was it taken from him in order to conceal the
 station from which he came? It is possible. Or did he drop it in the
 carriage? That is also possible. But the point is of curious
 interest. I understand that there was no sign of robbery?"

 "Apparently not. There is a list here of his possessions. His purse
 contained two pounds fifteen. He had also a check-book on the
 Woolwich branch of the Capital and Counties Bank. Through this his
 identity was established. There were also two dress-circle tickets
 for the Woolwich Theatre, dated for that very evening. Also a small
 packet of technical papers."

 Holmes gave an exclamation of satisfaction.

 "There we have it at last, Watson! British government--Woolwich.
 Arsenal--technical papers--Brother Mycroft, the chain is complete.
 But here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to speak for himself."

 A moment later the tall and portly form of Mycroft Holmes was ushered
 into the room. Heavily built and massive, there was a suggestion of
 uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame
 there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its
 steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in its
 play of expression, that after the first glance one forgot the gross
 body and remembered only the dominant mind.

 At his heels came our old friend Lestrade, of Scotland Yard--thin and
 austere. The gravity of both their faces foretold some weighty quest.
 The detective shook hands without a word. Mycroft Holmes struggled
 out of his overcoat and subsided into an armchair.

 "A most annoying business, Sherlock," said he. "I extremely dislike
 altering my habits, but the powers that be would take no denial. In
 the present state of Siam it is most awkward that I should be away
 from the office. But it is a real crisis. I have never seen the Prime
 Minister so upset. As to the Admiralty--it is buzzing like an
 overturned bee-hive. Have you read up the case?"

 "We have just done so. What were the technical papers?"

 "Ah, there's the point! Fortunately, it has not come out. The press
 would be furious if it did. The papers which this wretched youth had
 in his pocket were the plans of the Bruce-Partington submarine."

 Mycroft Holmes spoke with a solemnity which showed his sense of the
 importance of the subject. His brother and I sat expectant.

 "Surely you have heard of it? I thought everyone had heard of it."

 "Only as a name."

 "Its importance can hardly be exaggerated. It has been the most
 jealously guarded of all government secrets. You may take it from me
 that naval warfare becomes impossible within the radius of a
 Bruce-Partington's operation. Two years ago a very large sum was
 smuggled through the Estimates and was expended in acquiring a
 monopoly of the invention. Every effort has been made to keep the
 secret. The plans, which are exceedingly intricate, comprising some
 thirty separate patents, each essential to the working of the whole,
 are kept in an elaborate safe in a confidential office adjoining the
 arsenal, with burglar-proof doors and windows. Under no conceivable
 circumstances were the plans to be taken from the office. If the
 chief constructor of the Navy desired to consult them, even he was
 forced to go to the Woolwich office for the purpose. And yet here we
 find them in the pocket of a dead junior clerk in the heart of
 London. From an official point of view it's simply awful."

 "But you have recovered them?"

 "No, Sherlock, no! That's the pinch. We have not. Ten papers were
 taken from Woolwich. There were seven in the pocket of Cadogan West.
 The three most essential are gone--stolen, vanished. You must drop
 everything, Sherlock. Never mind your usual petty puzzles of the
 police-court. It's a vital international problem that you have to
 solve. Why did Cadogan West take the papers, where are the missing
 ones, how did he die, how came his body where it was found, how can
 the evil be set right? Find an answer to all these questions, and you
 will have done good service for your country."

 "Why do you not solve it yourself, Mycroft? You can see as far as I."

 "Possibly, Sherlock. But it is a question of getting details. Give me
 your details, and from an armchair I will return you an excellent
 expert opinion. But to run here and run there, to cross-question
 railway guards, and lie on my face with a lens to my eye--it is not
 my mÃ©tier. No, you are the one man who can clear the matter up. If
 you have a fancy to see your name in the next honours list--"

 My friend smiled and shook his head.

 "I play the game for the game's own sake," said he. "But the problem
 certainly presents some points of interest, and I shall be very
 pleased to look into it. Some more facts, please."

 "I have jotted down the more essential ones upon this sheet of paper,
 together with a few addresses which you will find of service. The
 actual official guardian of the papers is the famous government
 expert, Sir James Walter, whose decorations and sub-titles fill two
 lines of a book of reference. He has grown gray in the service, is a
 gentleman, a favoured guest in the most exalted houses, and, above
 all, a man whose patriotism is beyond suspicion. He is one of two who
 have a key of the safe. I may add that the papers were undoubtedly in
 the office during working hours on Monday, and that Sir James left
 for London about three o'clock taking his key with him. He was at the
 house of Admiral Sinclair at Barclay Square during the whole of the
 evening when this incident occurred."

 "Has the fact been verified?"

 "Yes; his brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, has testified to his
 departure from Woolwich, and Admiral Sinclair to his arrival in
 London; so Sir James is no longer a direct factor in the problem."

 "Who was the other man with a key?"

 "The senior clerk and draughtsman, Mr. Sidney Johnson. He is a man of
 forty, married, with five children. He is a silent, morose man, but
 he has, on the whole, an excellent record in the public service. He
 is unpopular with his colleagues, but a hard worker. According to his
 own account, corroborated only by the word of his wife, he was at
 home the whole of Monday evening after office hours, and his key has
 never left the watch-chain upon which it hangs."

 "Tell us about Cadogan West."

 "He has been ten years in the service and has done good work. He has
 the reputation of being hot-headed and imperious, but a straight,
 honest man. We have nothing against him. He was next Sidney Johnson
 in the office. His duties brought him into daily, personal contact
 with the plans. No one else had the handling of them."

 "Who locked up the plans that night?"

 "Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk."

 "Well, it is surely perfectly clear who took them away. They are
 actually found upon the person of this junior clerk, Cadogan West.
 That seems final, does it not?"

 "It does, Sherlock, and yet it leaves so much unexplained. In the
 first place, why did he take them?"

 "I presume they were of value?"

 "He could have got several thousands for them very easily."

 "Can you suggest any possible motive for taking the papers to London
 except to sell them?"

 "No, I cannot."

 "Then we must take that as our working hypothesis. Young West took
 the papers. Now this could only be done by having a false key--"

 "Several false keys. He had to open the building and the room."

 "He had, then, several false keys. He took the papers to London to
 sell the secret, intending, no doubt, to have the plans themselves
 back in the safe next morning before they were missed. While in
 London on this treasonable mission he met his end."

 "How?"

 "We will suppose that he was travelling back to Woolwich when he was
 killed and thrown out of the compartment."

 "Aldgate, where the body was found, is considerably past the station
 London Bridge, which would be his route to Woolwich."

 "Many circumstances could be imagined under which he would pass
 London Bridge. There was someone in the carriage, for example, with
 whom he was having an absorbing interview. This interview led to a
 violent scene in which he lost his life. Possibly he tried to leave
 the carriage, fell out on the line, and so met his end. The other
 closed the door. There was a thick fog, and nothing could be seen."

 "No better explanation can be given with our present knowledge; and
 yet consider, Sherlock, how much you leave untouched. We will
 suppose, for argument's sake, that young Cadogan West had determined
 to convey these papers to London. He would naturally have made an
 appointment with the foreign agent and kept his evening clear.
 Instead of that he took two tickets for the theatre, escorted his
 fiancee halfway there, and then suddenly disappeared."

 "A blind," said Lestrade, who had sat listening with some impatience
 to the conversation.

 "A very singular one. That is objection No. 1. Objection No. 2: We
 will suppose that he reaches London and sees the foreign agent. He
 must bring back the papers before morning or the loss will be
 discovered. He took away ten. Only seven were in his pocket. What had
 become of the other three? He certainly would not leave them of his
 own free will. Then, again, where is the price of his treason? Once
 would have expected to find a large sum of money in his pocket."

 "It seems to me perfectly clear," said Lestrade. "I have no doubt at
 all as to what occurred. He took the papers to sell them. He saw the
 agent. They could not agree as to price. He started home again, but
 the agent went with him. In the train the agent murdered him, took
 the more essential papers, and threw his body from the carriage. That
 would account for everything, would it not?"

 "Why had he no ticket?"

 "The ticket would have shown which station was nearest the agent's
 house. Therefore he took it from the murdered man's pocket."

 "Good, Lestrade, very good," said Holmes. "Your theory holds
 together. But if this is true, then the case is at an end. On the one
 hand, the traitor is dead. On the other, the plans of the
 Bruce-Partington submarine are presumably already on the Continent.
 What is there for us to do?"

 "To act, Sherlock--to act!" cried Mycroft, springing to his feet.
 "All my instincts are against this explanation. Use your powers! Go
 to the scene of the crime! See the people concerned! Leave no stone
 unturned! In all your career you have never had so great a chance of
 serving your country."

 "Well, well!" said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "Come, Watson!
 And you, Lestrade, could you favour us with your company for an hour
 or two? We will begin our investigation by a visit to Aldgate
 Station. Good-bye, Mycroft. I shall let you have a report before
 evening, but I warn you in advance that you have little to expect."

 An hour later Holmes, Lestrade and I stood upon the Underground
 railroad at the point where it emerges from the tunnel immediately
 before Aldgate Station. A courteous red-faced old gentleman
 represented the railway company.

 "This is where the young man's body lay," said he, indicating a spot
 about three feet from the metals. "It could not have fallen from
 above, for these, as you see, are all blank walls. Therefore, it
 could only have come from a train, and that train, so far as we can
 trace it, must have passed about midnight on Monday."

 "Have the carriages been examined for any sign of violence?"

 "There are no such signs, and no ticket has been found."

 "No record of a door being found open?"

 "None."

 "We have had some fresh evidence this morning," said Lestrade. "A
 passenger who passed Aldgate in an ordinary Metropolitan train about
 11.40 on Monday night declares that he heard a heavy thud, as of a
 body striking the line, just before the train reached the station.
 There was dense fog, however, and nothing could be seen. He made no
 report of it at the time. Why, whatever is the matter with Mr.
 Holmes?"

 My friend was standing with an expression of strained intensity upon
 his face, staring at the railway metals where they curved out of the
 tunnel. Aldgate is a junction, and there was a network of points. On
 these his eager, questioning eyes were fixed, and I saw on his keen,
 alert face that tightening of the lips, that quiver of the nostrils,
 and concentration of the heavy, tufted brows which I knew so well.

 "Points," he muttered; "the points."

 "What of it? What do you mean?"

 "I suppose there are no great number of points on a system such as
 this?"

 "No; they are very few."

 "And a curve, too. Points, and a curve. By Jove! if it were only so."

 "What is it, Mr. Holmes? Have you a clue?"

 "An idea--an indication, no more. But the case certainly grows in
 interest. Unique, perfectly unique, and yet why not? I do not see any
 indications of bleeding on the line."

 "There were hardly any."

 "But I understand that there was a considerable wound."

 "The bone was crushed, but there was no great external injury."

 "And yet one would have expected some bleeding. Would it be possible
 for me to inspect the train which contained the passenger who heard
 the thud of a fall in the fog?"

 "I fear not, Mr. Holmes. The train has been broken up before now, and
 the carriages redistributed."

 "I can assure you, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, "that every carriage
 has been carefully examined. I saw to it myself."

 It was one of my friend's most obvious weaknesses that he was
 impatient with less alert intelligences than his own.

 "Very likely," said he, turning away. "As it happens, it was not the
 carriages which I desired to examine. Watson, we have done all we can
 here. We need not trouble you any further, Mr. Lestrade. I think our
 investigations must now carry us to Woolwich."

 At London Bridge, Holmes wrote a telegram to his brother, which he
 handed to me before dispatching it. It ran thus:

 See some light in the darkness, but it may possibly flicker out.
 Meanwhile, please send by messenger, to await return at Baker Street,
 a complete list of all foreign spies or international agents known to
 be in England, with full address.
 Sherlock.

 "That should be helpful, Watson," he remarked as we took our seats in
 the Woolwich train.  "We certainly owe Brother Mycroft a debt for
 having introduced us to what promises to be a really very remarkable
 case."

 His eager face still wore that expression of intense and high-strung
 energy, which showed me that some novel and suggestive circumstance
 had opened up a stimulating line of thought. See the foxhound with
 hanging ears and drooping tail as it lolls about the kennels, and
 compare it with the same hound as, with gleaming eyes and straining
 muscles, it runs upon a breast-high scent--such was the change in
 Holmes since the morning. He was a different man from the limp and
 lounging figure in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown who had prowled
 so restlessly only a few hours before round the fog-girt room.

 "There is material here. There is scope," said he. "I am dull indeed
 not to have understood its possibilities."

 "Even now they are dark to me."

 "The end is dark to me also, but I have hold of one idea which may
 lead us far. The man met his death elsewhere, and his body was on the
 roof of a carriage."

 "On the roof!"

 "Remarkable, is it not? But consider the facts. Is it a coincidence
 that it is found at the very point where the train pitches and sways
 as it comes round on the points? Is not that the place where an
 object upon the roof might be expected to fall off? The points would
 affect no object inside the train. Either the body fell from the
 roof, or a very curious coincidence has occurred. But now consider
 the question of the blood. Of course, there was no bleeding on the
 line if the body had bled elsewhere. Each fact is suggestive in
 itself. Together they have a cumulative force."

 "And the ticket, too!" I cried.

 "Exactly.  We could not explain the absence of a ticket. This would
 explain it. Everything fits together."

 "But suppose it were so, we are still as far as ever from unravelling
 the mystery of his death. Indeed, it becomes not simpler but
 stranger."

 "Perhaps," said Holmes, thoughtfully, "perhaps." He relapsed into a
 silent reverie, which lasted until the slow train drew up at last in
 Woolwich Station. There he called a cab and drew Mycroft's paper from
 his pocket.

 "We have quite a little round of afternoon calls to make," said he.
 "I think that Sir James Walter claims our first attention."

 The house of the famous official was a fine villa with green lawns
 stretching down to the Thames. As we reached it the fog was lifting,
 and a thin, watery sunshine was breaking through. A butler answered
 our ring.

 "Sir James, sir!" said he with solemn face. "Sir James died this
 morning."

 "Good heavens!" cried Holmes in amazement. "How did he die?"

 "Perhaps you would care to step in, sir, and see his brother, Colonel
 Valentine?"

 "Yes, we had best do so."

 We were ushered into a dim-lit drawing-room, where an instant later
 we were joined by a very tall, handsome, light-beared man of fifty,
 the younger brother of the dead scientist. His wild eyes, stained
 cheeks, and unkempt hair all spoke of the sudden blow which had
 fallen upon the household. He was hardly articulate as he spoke of
 it.

 "It was this horrible scandal," said he. "My brother, Sir James, was
 a man of very sensitive honour, and he could not survive such an
 affair. It broke his heart. He was always so proud of the efficiency
 of his department, and this was a crushing blow."

 "We had hoped that he might have given us some indications which
 would have helped us to clear the matter up."

 "I assure you that it was all a mystery to him as it is to you and to
 all of us. He had already put all his knowledge at the disposal of
 the police. Naturally he had no doubt that Cadogan West was guilty.
 But all the rest was inconceivable."

 "You cannot throw any new light upon the affair?"

 "I know nothing myself save what I have read or heard. I have no
 desire to be discourteous, but you can understand, Mr. Holmes, that
 we are much disturbed at present, and I must ask you to hasten this
 interview to an end."

 "This is indeed an unexpected development," said my friend when we
 had regained the cab. "I wonder if the death was natural, or whether
 the poor old fellow killed himself! If the latter, may it be taken as
 some sign of self-reproach for duty neglected? We must leave that
 question to the future. Now we shall turn to the Cadogan Wests."

 A small but well-kept house in the outskirts of the town sheltered
 the bereaved mother. The old lady was too dazed with grief to be of
 any use to us, but at her side was a white-faced young lady, who
 introduced herself as Miss Violet Westbury, the fiancee of the dead
 man, and the last to see him upon that fatal night.

 "I cannot explain it, Mr. Holmes," she said. "I have not shut an eye
 since the tragedy, thinking, thinking, thinking, night and day, what
 the true meaning of it can be. Arthur was the most single-minded,
 chivalrous, patriotic man upon earth. He would have cut his right
 hand off before he would sell a State secret confided to his keeping.
 It is absurd, impossible, preposterous to anyone who knew him."

 "But the facts, Miss Westbury?"

 "Yes, yes; I admit I cannot explain them."

 "Was he in any want of money?"

 "No; his needs were very simple and his salary ample. He had saved a
 few hundreds, and we were to marry at the New Year."

 "No signs of any mental excitement? Come, Miss Westbury, be
 absolutely frank with us."

 The quick eye of my companion had noted some change in her manner.
 She coloured and hesitated.

 "Yes," she said at last, "I had a feeling that there was something on
 his mind."

 "For long?"

 "Only for the last week or so. He was thoughtful and worried. Once I
 pressed him about it. He admitted that there was something, and that
 it was concerned with his official life. 'It is too serious for me to
 speak about, even to you,' said he. I could get nothing more."

 Holmes looked grave.

 "Go on, Miss Westbury. Even if it seems to tell against him, go on.
 We cannot say what it may lead to."

 "Indeed, I have nothing more to tell. Once or twice it seemed to me
 that he was on the point of telling me something. He spoke one
 evening of the importance of the secret, and I have some recollection
 that he said that no doubt foreign spies would pay a great deal to
 have it."

 My friend's face grew graver still.

 "Anything else?"

 "He said that we were slack about such matters--that it would be easy
 for a traitor to get the plans."

 "Was it only recently that he made such remarks?"

 "Yes, quite recently."

 "Now tell us of that last evening."

 "We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick that a cab was
 useless. We walked, and our way took us close to the office. Suddenly
 he darted away into the fog."

 "Without a word?"

 "He gave an exclamation; that was all. I waited but he never
 returned. Then I walked home. Next morning, after the office opened,
 they came to inquire. About twelve o'clock we heard the terrible
 news. Oh, Mr. Holmes, if you could only, only save his honour! It was
 so much to him."

 Holmes shook his head sadly.

 "Come, Watson," said he, "our ways lie elsewhere. Our next station
 must be the office from which the papers were taken.

 "It was black enough before against this young man, but our inquiries
 make it blacker," he remarked as the cab lumbered off. "His coming
 marriage gives a motive for the crime. He naturally wanted money. The
 idea was in his head, since he spoke about it. He nearly made the
 girl an accomplice in the treason by telling her his plans. It is all
 very bad."

 "But surely, Holmes, character goes for something? Then, again, why
 should he leave the girl in the street and dart away to commit a
 felony?"

 "Exactly! There are certainly objections. But it is a formidable case
 which they have to meet."

 Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk, met us at the office and
 received us with that respect which my companion's card always
 commanded. He was a thin, gruff, bespectacled man of middle age, his
 cheeks haggard, and his hands twitching from the nervous strain to
 which he had been subjected.

 "It is bad, Mr. Holmes, very bad! Have you heard of the death of the
 chief?"

 "We have just come from his house."

 "The place is disorganized. The chief dead, Cadogan West dead, our
 papers stolen. And yet, when we closed our door on Monday evening, we
 were as efficient an office as any in the government service. Good
 God, it's dreadful to think of! That West, of all men, should have
 done such a thing!"

 "You are sure of his guilt, then?"

 "I can see no other way out of it. And yet I would have trusted him
 as I trust myself."

 "At what hour was the office closed on Monday?"

 "At five."

 "Did you close it?"

 "I am always the last man out."

 "Where were the plans?"

 "In that safe. I put them there myself."

 "Is there no watchman to the building?"

 "There is, but he has other departments to look after as well. He is
 an old soldier and a most trustworthy man. He saw nothing that
 evening. Of course the fog was very thick."

 "Suppose that Cadogan West wished to make his way into the building
 after hours; he would need three keys, would he not, before the could
 reach the papers?"

 "Yes, he would. The key of the outer door, the key of the office, and
 the key of the safe."

 "Only Sir James Walter and you had those keys?"

 "I had no keys of the doors--only of the safe."

 "Was Sir James a man who was orderly in his habits?"

 "Yes, I think he was. I know that so far as those three keys are
 concerned he kept them on the same ring. I have often seen them
 there."

 "And that ring went with him to London?"

 "He said so."

 "And your key never left your possession?"

 "Never."

 "Then West, if he is the culprit, must have had a duplicate. And yet
 none was found upon his body. One other point: if a clerk in this
 office desired to sell the plans, would it not be simply to copy the
 plans for himself than to take the originals, as was actually done?"

 "It would take considerable technical knowledge to copy the plans in
 an effective way."

 "But I suppose either Sir James, or you, or West has that technical
 knowledge?"

 "No doubt we had, but I beg you won't try to drag me into the matter,
 Mr. Holmes. What is the use of our speculating in this way when the
 original plans were actually found on West?"

 "Well, it is certainly singular that he should run the risk of taking
 originals if he could safely have taken copies, which would have
 equally served his turn."

 "Singular, no doubt--and yet he did so."

 "Every inquiry in this case reveals something inexplicable. Now there
 are three papers still missing. They are, as I understand, the vital
 ones."

 "Yes, that is so."

 "Do you mean to say that anyone holding these three papers, and
 without the seven others, could construct a Bruce-Partington
 submarine?"

 "I reported to that effect to the Admiralty. But to-day I have been
 over the drawings again, and I am not so sure of it. The double
 valves with the automatic self-adjusting slots are drawn in one of
 the papers which have been returned. Until the foreigners had
 invented that for themselves they could not make the boat. Of course
 they might soon get over the difficulty."

 "But the three missing drawings are the most important?"

 "Undoubtedly."

 "I think, with your permission, I will now take a stroll round the
 premises. I do not recall any other question which I desired to ask."

 He examined the lock of the safe, the door of the room, and finally
 the iron shutters of the window. It was only when we were on the lawn
 outside that his interest was strongly excited. There was a laurel
 bush outside the window, and several of the branches bore signs of
 having been twisted or snapped. He examined them carefully with his
 lens, and then some dim and vague marks upon the earth beneath.
 Finally he asked the chief clerk to close the iron shutters, and he
 pointed out to me that they hardly met in the centre, and that it
 would be possible for anyone outside to see what was going on within
 the room.

 "The indications are ruined by three days' delay. They may mean
 something or nothing. Well, Watson, I do not think that Woolwich can
 help us further. It is a small crop which we have gathered. Let us
 see if we can do better in London."

 Yet we added one more sheaf to our harvest before we left Woolwich
 Station. The clerk in the ticket office was able to say with
 confidence that he saw Cadogan West--whom he knew well by sight--upon
 the Monday night, and that he went to London by the 8.15 to London
 Bridge. He was alone and took a single third-class ticket. The clerk
 was struck at the time by his excited and nervous manner. So shaky
 was he that he could hardly pick up his change, and the clerk had
 helped him with it. A reference to the timetable showed that the 8.15
 was the first train which it was possible for West to take after he
 had left the lady about 7.30.

 "Let us reconstruct, Watson," said Holmes after half an hour of
 silence. "I am not aware that in all our joint researches we have
 ever had a case which was more difficult to get at. Every fresh
 advance which we make only reveals a fresh ridge beyond. And yet we
 have surely made some appreciable progress.

 "The effect of our inquiries at Woolwich has in the main been against
 young Cadogan West; but the indications at the window would lend
 themselves to a more favourable hypothesis. Let us suppose, for
 example, that he had been approached by some foreign agent. It might
 have been done under such pledges as would have prevented him from
 speaking of it, and yet would have affected his thoughts in the
 direction indicated by his remarks to his fiancee. Very good. We will
 now suppose that as he went to the theatre with the young lady he
 suddenly, in the fog, caught a glimpse of this same agent going in
 the direction of the office. He was an impetuous man, quick in his
 decisions. Everything gave way to his duty. He followed the man,
 reached the window, saw the abstraction of the documents, and pursued
 the thief. In this way we get over the objection that no one would
 take originals when he could make copies. This outsider had to take
 originals. So far it holds together."

 "What is the next step?"

 "Then we come into difficulties. One would imagine that under such
 circumstances the first act of young Cadogan West would be to seize
 the villain and raise the alarm. Why did he not do so? Could it have
 been an official superior who took the papers? That would explain
 West's conduct. Or could the chief have given West the slip in the
 fog, and West started at once to London to head him off from his own
 rooms, presuming that he knew where the rooms were? The call must
 have been very pressing, since he left his girl standing in the fog
 and made no effort to communicate with her. Our scent runs cold here,
 and there is a vast gap between either hypothesis and the laying of
 West's body, with seven papers in his pocket, on the roof of a
 Metropolitan train. My instinct now is to work form the other end. If
 Mycroft has given us the list of addresses we may be able to pick our
 man and follow two tracks instead of one."

 Surely enough, a note awaited us at Baker Street. A government
 messenger had brought it post-haste. Holmes glanced at it and threw
 it over to me.

 There are numerous small fry, but few who would handle so big an
 affair. The only men worth considering are Adolph Mayer, of 13 Great
 George Street, Westminster; Louis La Rothiere, of Campden Mansions,
 Notting Hill; and Hugo Oberstein, 13 Caulfield Gardens, Kensington.
 The latter was known to be in town on Monday and is now reported as
 having left. Glad to hear you have seen some light. The Cabinet
 awaits your final report with the utmost anxiety. Urgent
 representations have arrived from the very highest quarter. The whole
 force of the State is at your back if you should need it.
 Mycroft.

 "I'm afraid," said Holmes, smiling, "that all the queen's horses and
 all the queen's men cannot avail in this matter." He had spread out
 his big map of London and leaned eagerly over it. "Well, well," said
 he presently with an exclamation of satisfaction, "things are turning
 a little in our direction at last. Why, Watson, I do honestly believe
 that we are going to pull it off, after all." He slapped me on the
 shoulder with a sudden burst of hilarity. "I am going out now. It is
 only a reconnaissance. I will do nothing serious without my trusted
 comrade and biographer at my elbow. Do you stay here, and the odds
 are that you will see me again in an hour or two. If time hangs heavy
 get foolscap and a pen, and begin your narrative of how we saved the
 State."

 I felt some reflection of his elation in my own mind, for I knew well
 that he would not depart so far from his usual austerity of demeanour
 unless there was good cause for exultation. All the long November
 evening I waited, filled with impatience for his return. At last,
 shortly after nine o'clock, there arrived a messenger with a note:

 Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington.
 Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark
 lantern, a chisel, and a revolver.
 S.H.

 It was a nice equipment for a respectable citizen to carry through
 the dim, fog-draped streets. I stowed them all discreetly away in my
 overcoat and drove straight to the address given. There sat my friend
 at a little round table near the door of the garish Italian
 restaurant.

 "Have you had something to eat? Then join me in a coffee and curacao.
 Try one of the proprietor's cigars. They are less poisonous than one
 would expect. Have you the tools?"

 "They are here, in my overcoat."

 "Excellent. Let me give you a short sketch of what I have done, with
 some indication of what we are about to do. Now it must be evident to
 you, Watson, that this young man's body was placed on the roof of the
 train. That was clear from the instant that I determined the fact
 that it was from the roof, and not from a carriage, that he had
 fallen."

 "Could it not have been dropped from a bridge?"

 "I should say it was impossible. If you examine the roofs you will
 find that they are slightly rounded, and there is no railing round
 them. Therefore, we can say for certain that young Cadogan West was
 placed on it."

 "How could he be placed there?"

 "That was the question which we had to answer. There is only one
 possible way. You are aware that the Underground runs clear of
 tunnels at some points in the West End. I had a vague memory that as
 I have travelled by it I have occasionally seen windows just above my
 head. Now, suppose that a train halted under such a window, would
 there be any difficulty in laying a body upon the roof?"

 "It seems most improbable."

 "We must fall back upon the old axiom that when all other
 contingencies fail, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the
 truth. Here all other contingencies have failed. When I found that
 the leading international agent, who had just left London, lived in a
 row of houses which abutted upon the Underground, I was so pleased
 that you were a little astonished at my sudden frivolity."

 "Oh, that was it, was it?"

 "Yes, that was it. Mr. Hugo Oberstein, of 13 Caulfield Gardens, had
 become my objective. I began my operations at Gloucester Road
 Station, where a very helpful official walked with me along the track
 and allowed me to satisfy myself not only that the back-stair windows
 of Caulfield Gardens open on the line but the even more essential
 fact that, owing to the intersection of one of the larger railways,
 the Underground trains are frequently held motionless for some
 minutes at that very spot."

 "Splendid, Holmes! You have got it!"

 "So far--so far, Watson. We advance, but the goal is afar. Well,
 having seen the back of Caulfield Gardens, I visited the front and
 satisfied myself that the bird was indeed flown. It is a considerable
 house, unfurnished, so far as I could judge, in the upper rooms.
 Oberstein lived there with a single valet, who was probably a
 confederate entirely in his confidence. We must bear in mind that
 Oberstein has gone to the Continent to dispose of his booty, but not
 with any idea of flight; for he had no reason to fear a warrant, and
 the idea of an amateur domiciliary visit would certainly never occur
 to him. Yet that is precisely what we are about to make."

 "Could we not get a warrant and legalize it?"

 "Hardly on the evidence."

 "What can we hope to do?"

 "We cannot tell what correspondence may be there."

 "I don't like it, Holmes."

 "My dear fellow, you shall keep watch in the street. I'll do the
 criminal part. It's not a time to stick at trifles. Think of
 Mycroft's note, of the Admiralty, the Cabinet, the exalted person who
 waits for news. We are bound to go."

 My answer was to rise from the table.

 "You are right, Holmes. We are bound to go."

 He sprang up and shook me by the hand.

 "I knew you would not shrink at the last," said he, and for a moment
 I saw something in his eyes which was nearer to tenderness than I had
 ever seen. The next instant he was his masterful, practical self once
 more.

 "It is nearly half a mile, but there is no hurry. Let us walk," said
 he. "Don't drop the instruments, I beg. Your arrest as a suspicious
 character would be a most unfortunate complication."

 Caulfield Gardens was one of those lines of flat-faced pillared, and
 porticoed houses which are so prominent a product of the middle
 Victorian epoch in the West End of London. Next door there appeared
 to be a children's party, for the merry buzz of young voices and the
 clatter of a piano resounded through the night. The fog still hung
 about and screened us with its friendly shade. Holmes had lit his
 lantern and flashed it upon the massive door.

 "This is a serious proposition," said he. "It is certainly bolted as
 well as locked. We would do better in the area. There is an excellent
 archway down yonder in case a too zealous policeman should intrude.
 Give me a hand, Watson, and I'll do the same for you."

 A minute later we were both in the area. Hardly had we reached the
 dark shadows before the step of the policeman was heard in the fog
 above. As its soft rhythm died away, Holmes set to work upon the
 lower door. I saw him stoop and strain until with a sharp crash it
 flew open. We sprang through into the dark passage, closing the area
 door behind us. Holmes let the way up the curving, uncarpeted stair.
 His little fan of yellow light shone upon a low window.

 "Here we are, Watson--this must be the one." He threw it open, and as
 he did so there was a low, harsh murmur, growing steadily into a loud
 roar as a train dashed past us in the darkness. Holmes swept his
 light along the window-sill. It was thickly coated with soot from the
 passing engines, but the black surface was blurred and rubbed in
 places.

 "You can see where they rested the body. Halloa, Watson! what is
 this? There can be no doubt that it is a blood mark." He was pointing
 to faint discolourations along the woodwork of the window. "Here it
 is on the stone of the stair also. The demonstration is complete. Let
 us stay here until a train stops."

 We had not long to wait. The very next train roared from the tunnel
 as before, but slowed in the open, and then, with a creaking of
 brakes, pulled up immediately beneath us. It was not four feet from
 the window-ledge to the roof of the carriages. Holmes softly closed
 the window.

 "So far we are justified," said he. "What do you think of it,
 Watson?"

 "A masterpiece. You have never risen to a greater height."

 "I cannot agree with you there. From the moment that I conceived the
 idea of the body being upon the roof, which surely was not a very
 abstruse one, all the rest was inevitable. If it were not for the
 grave interests involved the affair up to this point would be
 insignificant. Our difficulties are still before us. But perhaps we
 may find something here which may help us."

 We had ascended the kitchen stair and entered the suite of rooms upon
 the first floor. One was a dining-room, severely furnished and
 containing nothing of interest. A second was a bedroom, which also
 drew blank. The remaining room appeared more promising, and my
 companion settled down to a systematic examination. It was littered
 with books and papers, and was evidently used as a study. Swiftly and
 methodically Holmes turned over the contents of drawer after drawer
 and cupboard after cupboard, but no gleam of success came to brighten
 his austere face. At the end of an hour he was no further than when
 he started.

 "The cunning dog has covered his tracks," said he. "He has left
 nothing to incriminate him. His dangerous correspondence has been
 destroyed or removed. This is our last chance."

 It was a small tin cash-box which stood upon the writing-desk. Holmes
 pried it open with his chisel. Several rolls of paper were within,
 covered with figures and calculations, without any note to show to
 what they referred. The recurring words, "water pressure" and
 "pressure to the square inch" suggested some possible relation to a
 submarine. Holmes tossed them all impatiently aside. There only
 remained an envelope with some small newspaper slips inside it. He
 shook them out on the table, and at once I saw by his eager face that
 his hopes had been raised.

 "What's this, Watson? Eh? What's this? Record of a series of messages
 in the advertisements of a paper. Daily Telegraph agony column by the
 print and paper. Right-hand top corner of a page. No dates--but
 messages arrange themselves. This must be the first:

 "Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Write fully to address given
 on card.
 Pierrot.

 "Next comes:

 "Too complex for description. Must have full report, Stuff awaits you
 when goods delivered.
 Pierrot.

 "Then comes:

 "Matter presses. Must withdraw offer unless contract completed. Make
 appointment by letter. Will confirm by advertisement.
 Pierrot.

 "Finally:

 "Monday night after nine. Two taps. Only ourselves. Do not be so
 suspicious. Payment in hard cash when goods delivered.
 Pierrot.

 "A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only get at the man at
 the other end!" He sat lost in thought, tapping his fingers on the
 table. Finally he sprang to his feet.

 "Well, perhaps it won't be so difficult, after all. There is nothing
 more to be done here, Watson. I think we might drive round to the
 offices of the Daily Telegraph, and so bring a good day's work to a
 conclusion."

 Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade had come round by appointment after
 breakfast next day and Sherlock Holmes had recounted to them our
 proceedings of the day before. The professional shook his head over
 our confessed burglary.

 "We can't do these things in the force, Mr. Holmes," said he. "No
 wonder you get results that are beyond us. But some of these days
 you'll go too far, and you'll find yourself and your friend in
 trouble."

 "For England, home and beauty--eh, Watson? Martyrs on the altar of
 our country. But what do you think of it, Mycroft?"

 "Excellent, Sherlock! Admirable! But what use will you make of it?"

 Holmes picked up the Daily Telegraph which lay upon the table.

 "Have you seen Pierrot's advertisement to-day?"

 "What? Another one?"

 "Yes, here it is:

 "To-night. Same hour. Same place. Two taps. Most vitally important.
 Your own safety at stake.
 Pierrot.

 "By George!" cried Lestrade. "If he answers that we've got him!"

 "That was my idea when I put it in. I think if you could both make it
 convenient to come with us about eight o'clock to Caulfield Gardens
 we might possibly get a little nearer to a solution."

 One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was his
 power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all his
 thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced himself that
 he could no longer work to advantage. I remember that during the
 whole of that memorable day he lost himself in a monograph which he
 had undertaken upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus. For my own part
 I had none of this power of detachment, and the day, in consequence,
 appeared to be interminable. The great national importance of the
 issue, the suspense in high quarters, the direct nature of the
 experiment which we were trying--all combined to work upon my nerve.
 It was a relief to me when at last, after a light dinner, we set out
 upon our expedition. Lestrade and Mycroft met us by appointment at
 the outside of Gloucester Road Station. The area door of Oberstein's
 house had been left open the night before, and it was necessary for
 me, as Mycroft Holmes absolutely and indignantly declined to climb
 the railings, to pass in and open the hall door. By nine o'clock we
 were all seated in the study, waiting patently for our man.

 An hour passed and yet another. When eleven struck, the measured beat
 of the great church clock seemed to sound the dirge of our hopes.
 Lestrade and Mycroft were fidgeting in their seats and looking twice
 a minute at their watches. Holmes sat silent and composed, his
 eyelids half shut, but every sense on the alert. He raised his head
 with a sudden jerk.

 "He is coming," said he.

 There had been a furtive step past the door. Now it returned. We
 heard a shuffling sound outside, and then two sharp taps with the
 knocker. Holmes rose, motioning us to remain seated. The gas in the
 hall was a mere point of light. He opened the outer door, and then as
 a dark figure slipped past him he closed and fastened it. "This way!"
 we heard him say, and a moment later our man stood before us. Holmes
 had followed him closely, and as the man turned with a cry of
 surprise and alarm he caught him by the collar and threw him back
 into the room. Before our prisoner had recovered his balance the door
 was shut and Holmes standing with his back against it. The man glared
 round him, staggered, and fell senseless upon the floor. With the
 shock, his broad-brimmed hat flew from his head, his cravat slipped
 sown from his lips, and there were the long light beard and the soft,
 handsome delicate features of Colonel Valentine Walter.

 Holmes gave a whistle of surprise.

 "You can write me down an ass this time, Watson," said he. "This was
 not the bird that I was looking for."

 "Who is he?" asked Mycroft eagerly.

 "The younger brother of the late Sir James Walter, the head of the
 Submarine Department. Yes, yes; I see the fall of the cards. He is
 coming to. I think that you had best leave his examination to me."

 We had carried the prostrate body to the sofa. Now our prisoner sat
 up, looked round him with a horror-stricken face, and passed his hand
 over his forehead, like one who cannot believe his own senses.

 "What is this?" he asked. "I came here to visit Mr. Oberstein."

 "Everything is known, Colonel Walter," said Holmes. "How an English
 gentleman could behave in such a manner is beyond my comprehension.
 But your whole correspondence and relations with Oberstein are within
 our knowledge. So also are the circumstances connected with the death
 of young Cadogan West. Let me advise you to gain at least the small
 credit for repentance and confession, since there are still some
 details which we can only learn from your lips."

 The man groaned and sank his face in his hands. We waited, but he was
 silent.

 "I can assure you," said Holmes, "that every essential is already
 known. We know that you were pressed for money; that you took an
 impress of the keys which your brother held; and that you entered
 into a correspondence with Oberstein, who answered your letters
 through the advertisement columns of the Daily Telegraph. We are
 aware that you went down to the office in the fog on Monday night,
 but that you were seen and followed by young Cadogan West, who had
 probably some previous reason to suspect you. He saw your theft, but
 could not give the alarm, as it was just possible that you were
 taking the papers to your brother in London. Leaving all his private
 concerns, like the good citizen that he was, he followed you closely
 in the fog and kept at your heels until you reached this very house.
 There he intervened, and then it was, Colonel Walter, that to treason
 you added the more terrible crime of murder."

 "I did not! I did not! Before God I swear that I did not!" cried our
 wretched prisoner.

 "Tell us, then, how Cadogan West met his end before you laid him upon
 the roof of a railway carriage."

 "I will. I swear to you that I will. I did the rest. I confess it. It
 was just as you say. A Stock Exchange debt had to be paid. I needed
 the money badly. Oberstein offered me five thousand. It was to save
 myself from ruin. But as to murder, I am as innocent as you."

 "What happened, then?"

 "He had his suspicions before, and he followed me as you describe. I
 never knew it until I was at the very door. It was thick fog, and one
 could not see three yards. I had given two taps and Oberstein had
 come to the door. The young man rushed up and demanded to know what
 we were about to do with the papers. Oberstein had a short
 life-preserver. He always carried it with him. As West forced his way
 after us into the house Oberstein struck him on the head. The blow
 was a fatal one. He was dead within five minutes. There he lay in the
 hall, and we were at our wit's end what to do. Then Oberstein had
 this idea about the trains which halted under his back window. But
 first he examined the papers which I had brought. He said that three
 of them were essential, and that he must keep them. 'You cannot keep
 them,' said I. 'There will be a dreadful row at Woolwich if they are
 not returned.' 'I must keep them,' said he, 'for they are so
 technical that it is impossible in the time to make copies.' 'Then
 they must all go back together to-night,' said I. He thought for a
 little, and then he cried out that he had it. 'Three I will keep,'
 said he. 'The others we will stuff into the pocket of this young man.
 When he is found the whole business will assuredly be put to his
 account.' I could see no other way out of it, so we did as he
 suggested. We waited half an hour at the window before a train
 stopped. It was so thick that nothing could be seen, and we had no
 difficulty in lowering West's body on to the train. That was the end
 of the matter so far as I was concerned."

 "And your brother?"

 "He said nothing, but he had caught me once with his keys, and I
 think that he suspected. I read in his eyes that he suspected. As you
 know, he never held up his head again."

 There was silence in the room. It was broken by Mycroft Holmes.

 "Can you not make reparation? It would ease your conscience, and
 possibly your punishment."

 "What reparation can I make?"

 "Where is Oberstein with the papers?"

 "I do not know."

 "Did he give you no address?"

 "He said that letters to the HÃ´tel du Louvre, Paris, would eventually
 reach him."

 "Then reparation is still within your power," said Sherlock Holmes.

 "I will do anything I can. I owe this fellow no particular good-will.
 He has been my ruin and my downfall."

 "Here are paper and pen. Sit at this desk and write to my dictation.
 Direct the envelope to the address given. That is right. Now the
 letter:

 "Dear Sir:
 "With regard to our transaction, you will no doubt have observed by
 now that one essential detail is missing. I have a tracing which will
 make it complete. This has involved me in extra trouble, however, and
 I must ask you for a further advance of five hundred pounds. I will
 not trust it to the post, nor will I take anything but gold or notes.
 I would come to you abroad, but it would excite remark if I left the
 country at present. Therefore I shall expect to meet you in the
 smoking-room of the Charing Cross Hotel at noon on Saturday. Remember
 that only English notes, or gold, will be taken.

 "That will do very well. I shall be very much surprised if it does
 not fetch our man."

 And it did! It is a matter of history--that secret history of a
 nation which is often so much more intimate and interesting than its
 public chronicles--that Oberstein, eager to complete the coup of his
 lifetime, came to the lure and was safely engulfed for fifteen years
 in a British prison. In his trunk were found the invaluable
 Bruce-Partington plans, which he had put up for auction in all the
 naval centres of Europe.

 Colonel Walter died in prison towards the end of the second year of
 his sentence. As to Holmes, he returned refreshed to his monograph
 upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus, which has since been printed
 for private circulation, and is said by experts to be the last word
 upon the subject. Some weeks afterwards I learned incidentally that
 my friend spent a day at Windsor, whence be returned with a
 remarkably fine emerald tie-pin. When I asked him if he had bought
 it, he answered that it was a present from a certain gracious lady in
 whose interests he had once been fortunate enough to carry out a
 small commission. He said no more; but I fancy that I could guess at
 that lady's august name, and I have little doubt that the emerald pin
 will forever recall to my friend's memory the adventure of the
 Bruce-Partington plans.






                  THE ADVENTURE OF THE DYING DETECTIVE

 Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering
 woman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours by
 throngs of singular and often undesirable characters but her
 remarkable lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life
 which must have sorely tried her patience. His incredible untidiness,
 his addiction to music at strange hours, his occasional revolver
 practice within doors, his weird and often malodorous scientific
 experiments, and the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung
 around him made him the very worst tenant in London. On the other
 hand, his payments were princely. I have no doubt that the house
 might have been purchased at the price which Holmes paid for his
 rooms during the years that I was with him.

 The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to
 interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem.
 She was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and
 courtesy in his dealings with women. He disliked and distrusted the
 sex, but he was always a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine was
 her regard for him, I listened earnestly to her story when she came
 to my rooms in the second year of my married life and told me of the
 sad condition to which my poor friend was reduced.

 "He's dying, Dr. Watson," said she. "For three days he has been
 sinking, and I doubt if he will last the day. He would not let me get
 a doctor. This morning when I saw his bones sticking out of his face
 and his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no more of it.
 'With your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctor
 this very hour,' said I. 'Let it be Watson, then,' said he. I
 wouldn't waste an hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not see him
 alive."

 I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need not
 say that I rushed for my coat and my hat. As we drove back I asked
 for the details.

 "There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working at a case
 down at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river, and he has brought
 this illness back with him. He took to his bed on Wednesday afternoon
 and has never moved since. For these three days neither food nor
 drink has passed his lips."

 "Good God! Why did you not call in a doctor?"

 "He wouldn't have it, sir. You know how masterful he is. I didn't
 dare to disobey him. But he's not long for this world, as you'll see
 for yourself the moment that you set eyes on him."

 He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a foggy
 November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt,
 wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a chill to my
 heart. His eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a hectic flush
 upon either cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips; the thin hands
 upon the coverlet twitched incessantly, his voice was croaking and
 spasmodic. He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight of
 me brought a gleam of recognition to his eyes.

 "Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days," said he in a
 feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner.

 "My dear fellow!" I cried, approaching him.

 "Stand back! Stand right back!" said he with the sharp imperiousness
 which I had associated only with moments of crisis. "If you approach
 me, Watson, I shall order you out of the house."

 "But why?"

 "Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?"

 Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more masterful than ever. It was
 pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion.

 "I only wished to help," I explained.

 "Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are told."

 "Certainly, Holmes."

 He relaxed the austerity of his manner.

 "You are not angry?" he asked, gasping for breath.

 Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him lying in such a
 plight before me?

 "It's for your own sake, Watson," he croaked.

 "For my sake?"

 "I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie disease from
 Sumatra--a thing that the Dutch know more about than we, though they
 have made little of it up to date. One thing only is certain. It is
 infallibly deadly, and it is horribly contagious."

 He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching and
 jerking as he motioned me away.

 "Contagious by touch, Watson--that's it, by touch. Keep your distance
 and all is well."

 "Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration
 weighs with me of an instant? It would not affect me in the case of a
 stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to so
 old a friend?"

 Again
