His Last Bow by Arthur Conan Doyle | Sherlock Holmes #8 | Full Audiobook

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.

*Table of contents:*
00:00:00 Introduction
00:01:07 1.The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge
01:10:22 2.The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans
02:17:03 3.The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot
03:17:25 4.The Adventure of the Red Circle
04:02:05 5.The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax
04:49:10 6.The Adventure of the Dying Detective
05:24:49 7.His Last Bow: The War Service of Sherlock Holmes

*Created by:*
▶ Narrated by Arthur Lane
▶ Edited by Martin Gold
▶ Graphic by Jordan Harvey

Author: Arthur Conan Doyle https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFA6HwSbUABrNQ_y5WG21scMx6UkSyind
Series: Sherlock Holmes #8 https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFA6HwSbUABp8ZV5ntYR4FRT5SjqFdQ1R
Language: English
Genre: Detective, Crime, Mystery
Version: Unabridged, Complete/Full

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Tags: #audiobook #arthurconandoyle #sherlockholmes #sherlock #detective #crime #mystery #worldwar1

Gates of Imagination presents: “His Last Bow”  by Arthur Conan Doyle. Read by Arthur Lane. 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.  Chapter 1. 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 recognise 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 led 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, grey-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?” 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 I  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 led   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 tête-à-tête, 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 apologised 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 object 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.”

“I 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 brows 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   particularly 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 message 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 2. 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 gave 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,   an 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 débris 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-humouredly.

“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 prisoner 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-grey 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 they 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  grey 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, José. 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,  

Terrorised 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  realise 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 minimised  the incident before me, had really recognised  

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 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 had  

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. I 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 his 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 Cadogan West. Coming at once.” – Mycroft. “Cadogan 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 is 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! Cadogan   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 fiancée, 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-grey, 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 metier. 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 grey 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 fiancée  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? One 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-bearded 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 fiancée 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 disorganised. 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 he 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 simpler 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  fiancée. 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 from 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  Rothière, 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 curaçao. 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 legalise 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 led 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 discolorations 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 patiently 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 down 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 wits’  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 Hôtel 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 he 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 Devil’s Foot. In recording from time to time some of  the curious experiences and interesting   recollections which I associate with my long and  intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes,   I have continually been faced by difficulties  caused by his own aversion to publicity. To his  

Sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause was  always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at   the end of a successful case than to hand over  the actual exposure to some orthodox official,   and to listen with a mocking smile to the general  chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed  

This attitude upon the part of my friend and  certainly not any lack of interesting material   which has caused me of late years to lay very few  of my records before the public. My participation   in some of his adventures was always a privilege  which entailed discretion and reticence upon me.

It was, then, with considerable surprise that I  received a telegram from Holmes last Tuesday—he   has never been known to write where a telegram  would serve—in the following terms: “Why not tell   them of the Cornish horror—strangest case I have  handled.” I have no idea what backward sweep of  

Memory had brought the matter fresh to his mind,  or what freak had caused him to desire that I   should recount it; but I hasten, before another  cancelling telegram may arrive, to hunt out the   notes which give me the exact details of the  case and to lay the narrative before my readers.

It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that  Holmes’s iron constitution showed some symptoms   of giving way in the face of constant hard work  of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps,   by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March  of that year Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street,  

Whose dramatic introduction to Holmes I may some  day recount, gave positive injunctions that the   famous private agent lay aside all his cases and  surrender himself to complete rest if he wished   to avert an absolute breakdown. The state of his  health was not a matter in which he himself took  

The faintest interest, for his mental detachment  was absolute, but he was induced at last,   on the threat of being permanently disqualified  from work, to give himself a complete change   of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early  spring of that year we found ourselves together  

In a small cottage near Poldhu Bay, at the  further extremity of the Cornish peninsula. It was a singular spot, and one peculiarly well  suited to the grim humour of my patient. From the   windows of our little whitewashed house,  which stood high upon a grassy headland,  

We looked down upon the whole sinister  semi-circle of Mounts Bay, that old death   trap of sailing vessels, with its fringe of  black cliffs and surge-swept reefs on which   innumerable seamen have met their end. With a  northerly breeze it lies placid and sheltered,  

Inviting the storm-tossed craft to  tack into it for rest and protection. Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind,   the blistering gale from the south-west,  the dragging anchor, the lee shore,   and the last battle in the creaming breakers. The  wise mariner stands far out from that evil place.

On the land side our surroundings were as sombre  as on the sea. It was a country of rolling moors,   lonely and dun-coloured, with an occasional church  tower to mark the site of some old-world village.   In every direction upon these moors there were  traces of some vanished race which had passed  

Utterly away, and left as its sole record  strange monuments of stone, irregular mounds   which contained the burned ashes of the dead, and  curious earthworks which hinted at prehistoric   strife. The glamour and mystery of the place,  with its sinister atmosphere of forgotten nations,  

Appealed to the imagination of my friend, and  he spent much of his time in long walks and   solitary meditations upon the moor. The ancient  Cornish language had also arrested his attention,   and he had, I remember, conceived the  idea that it was akin to the Chaldean,  

And had been largely derived from the Phœnician  traders in tin. He had received a consignment   of books upon philology and was settling  down to develop this thesis when suddenly,   to my sorrow and to his unfeigned delight, we  found ourselves, even in that land of dreams,  

Plunged into a problem at our very doors which was  more intense, more engrossing, and infinitely more   mysterious than any of those which had driven  us from London. Our simple life and peaceful,   healthy routine were violently interrupted, and  we were precipitated into the midst of a series  

Of events which caused the utmost excitement not  only in Cornwall but throughout the whole west   of England. Many of my readers may retain some  recollection of what was called at the time “The   Cornish Horror,” though a most imperfect account  of the matter reached the London press. Now,  

After thirteen years, I will give the true details  of this inconceivable affair to the public.  I have said that scattered towers marked the  villages which dotted this part of Cornwall.   The nearest of these was the hamlet of Tredannick  Wollas, where the cottages of a couple of hundred  

Inhabitants clustered round an ancient, moss-grown  church. The vicar of the parish, Mr. Roundhay, was   something of an archæologist, and as such Holmes  had made his acquaintance. He was a middle-aged   man, portly and affable, with a considerable fund  of local lore. At his invitation we had taken tea  

At the vicarage and had come to know, also, Mr.  Mortimer Tregennis, an independent gentleman,   who increased the clergyman’s scanty resources by  taking rooms in his large, straggling house. The   vicar, being a bachelor, was glad to come to such  an arrangement, though he had little in common  

With his lodger, who was a thin, dark, spectacled  man, with a stoop which gave the impression of   actual, physical deformity. I remember that during  our short visit we found the vicar garrulous,   but his lodger strangely reticent, a sad-faced,  introspective man, sitting with averted eyes,  

Brooding apparently upon his own affairs. These were the two men who entered abruptly   into our little sitting-room on Tuesday, March  the 16th, shortly after our breakfast hour,   as we were smoking together, preparatory  to our daily excursion upon the moors. “Mr. Holmes,” said the vicar in an agitated voice,  

“the most extraordinary and tragic affair  has occurred during the night. It is the   most unheard-of business. We can only  regard it as a special Providence that   you should chance to be here at the time, for  in all England you are the one man we need.”

I glared at the intrusive vicar with no very  friendly eyes; but Holmes took his pipe from   his lips and sat up in his chair like an old hound  who hears the view-halloa. He waved his hand to   the sofa, and our palpitating visitor with his  agitated companion sat side by side upon it. Mr.  

Mortimer Tregennis was more self-contained  than the clergyman, but the twitching of   his thin hands and the brightness of his dark  eyes showed that they shared a common emotion. “Shall I speak or you?” he asked of the vicar. “Well, as you seem to have made  the discovery, whatever it may be,  

And the vicar to have had it second-hand, perhaps  you had better do the speaking,” said Holmes. I glanced at the hastily clad clergyman, with  the formally dressed lodger seated beside him,   and was amused at the surprise which Holmes’s  simple deduction had brought to their faces.

“Perhaps I had best say a few words first,” said  the vicar, “and then you can judge if you will   listen to the details from Mr. Tregennis,  or whether we should not hasten at once   to the scene of this mysterious affair. I may  explain, then, that our friend here spent last  

Evening in the company of his two brothers,  Owen and George, and of his sister Brenda,   at their house of Tredannick Wartha, which is  near the old stone cross upon the moor. He left   them shortly after ten o’clock, playing cards  round the dining-room table, in excellent health  

And spirits. This morning, being an early riser,  he walked in that direction before breakfast and   was overtaken by the carriage of Dr. Richards, who  explained that he had just been sent for on a most   urgent call to Tredannick Wartha. Mr. Mortimer  Tregennis naturally went with him. When he arrived  

At Tredannick Wartha he found an extraordinary  state of things. His two brothers and his sister   were seated round the table exactly as he had  left them, the cards still spread in front of   them and the candles burned down to their sockets.  The sister lay back stone-dead in her chair, while  

The two brothers sat on each side of her laughing,  shouting, and singing, the senses stricken clean   out of them. All three of them, the dead woman and  the two demented men, retained upon their faces an   expression of the utmost horror—a convulsion of  terror which was dreadful to look upon. There was  

No sign of the presence of anyone in the house,  except Mrs. Porter, the old cook and housekeeper,   who declared that she had slept deeply and heard  no sound during the night. Nothing had been stolen   or disarranged, and there is absolutely no  explanation of what the horror can be which  

Has frightened a woman to death and two strong  men out of their senses. There is the situation,   Mr. Holmes, in a nutshell, and if you can help us  to clear it up you will have done a great work.”

I had hoped that in some way I could coax my  companion back into the quiet which had been   the object of our journey; but one glance  at his intense face and contracted eyebrows   told me how vain was now the expectation.  He sat for some little time in silence,  

Absorbed in the strange drama  which had broken in upon our peace. “I will look into this matter,” he said at  last. “On the face of it, it would appear   to be a case of a very exceptional nature.  Have you been there yourself, Mr. Roundhay?” 

“No, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tregennis brought  back the account to the vicarage,   and I at once hurried over  with him to consult you.”  “How far is it to the house where  this singular tragedy occurred?” “About a mile inland.” “Then we shall walk over together.  But before we start I must ask you  

A few questions, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis.” The other had been silent all this time, but I  had observed that his more controlled excitement   was even greater than the obtrusive emotion of  the clergyman. He sat with a pale, drawn face,   his anxious gaze fixed upon Holmes, and his thin  hands clasped convulsively together. His pale  

Lips quivered as he listened to the dreadful  experience which had befallen his family,   and his dark eyes seemed to reflect  something of the horror of the scene. “Ask what you like, Mr. Holmes,” said he  eagerly. “It is a bad thing to speak of,   but I will answer you the truth.”

“Tell me about last night.” “Well, Mr. Holmes, I supped there, as the  vicar has said, and my elder brother George   proposed a game of whist afterwards.  We sat down about nine o’clock. It was   a quarter-past ten when I moved to go. I left  them all round the table, as merry as could be.”

“Who let you out?” “Mrs. Porter had gone to bed, so I let myself out.  I shut the hall door behind me. The window of the   room in which they sat was closed, but the blind  was not drawn down. There was no change in door  

Or window this morning, or any reason to think  that any stranger had been to the house. Yet there   they sat, driven clean mad with terror, and Brenda  lying dead of fright, with her head hanging over  

The arm of the chair. I’ll never get the sight  of that room out of my mind so long as I live.” “The facts, as you state them, are certainly  most remarkable,” said Holmes. “I take it that   you have no theory yourself which  can in any way account for them?”

“It’s devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!”  cried Mortimer Tregennis. “It is not of   this world. Something has come into  that room which has dashed the light   of reason from their minds. What  human contrivance could do that?” “I fear,” said Holmes, “that if the matter is  beyond humanity it is certainly beyond me. Yet  

We must exhaust all natural explanations  before we fall back upon such a theory as   this. As to yourself, Mr. Tregennis, I take it  you were divided in some way from your family,   since they lived together  and you had rooms apart?”

“That is so, Mr. Holmes, though the matter is past  and done with. We were a family of tin-miners at   Redruth, but we sold our venture to a company, and  so retired with enough to keep us. I won’t deny  

That there was some feeling about the division  of the money and it stood between us for a time,   but it was all forgiven and forgotten,  and we were the best of friends together.” “Looking back at the evening which you  spent together, does anything stand out  

In your memory as throwing any possible  light upon the tragedy? Think carefully,   Mr. Tregennis, for any clue which can help me.” “There is nothing at all, sir.” “Your people were in their usual spirits?” “Never better.” “Were they nervous people? Did they ever  show any apprehension of coming danger?” “Nothing of the kind.”

“You have nothing to add  then, which could assist me?” Mortimer Tregennis considered  earnestly for a moment. “There is one thing that occurs to  me,” said he at last. “As we sat at   the table my back was to the window, and my  brother George, he being my partner at cards,  

Was facing it. I saw him once look hard over  my shoulder, so I turned round and looked also.   The blind was up and the window shut, but I  could just make out the bushes on the lawn,  

And it seemed to me for a moment that I saw  something moving among them. I couldn’t even   say if it was man or animal, but I just thought  there was something there. When I asked him  

What he was looking at, he told me that he had  the same feeling. That is all that I can say.” “Did you not investigate?” “No; the matter passed as unimportant.” “You left them, then, without  any premonition of evil?” “None at all.”

“I am not clear how you came to hear  the news so early this morning.” “I am an early riser and generally take a walk  before breakfast. This morning I had hardly   started when the doctor in his carriage overtook  me. He told me that old Mrs. Porter had sent a boy  

Down with an urgent message. I sprang in beside  him and we drove on. When we got there we looked   into that dreadful room. The candles and the fire  must have burned out hours before, and they had   been sitting there in the dark until dawn had  broken. The doctor said Brenda must have been  

Dead at least six hours. There were no signs of  violence. She just lay across the arm of the chair   with that look on her face. George and Owen were  singing snatches of songs and gibbering like two  

Great apes. Oh, it was awful to see! I couldn’t  stand it, and the doctor was as white as a sheet.   Indeed, he fell into a chair in a sort of faint,  and we nearly had him on our hands as well.”  “Remarkable—most remarkable!” said Holmes,  rising and taking his hat. “I think, perhaps,  

We had better go down to Tredannick Wartha  without further delay. I confess that I   have seldom known a case which at first  sight presented a more singular problem.” Our proceedings of that first morning did little  to advance the investigation. It was marked,  

However, at the outset by an incident which  left the most sinister impression upon my   mind. The approach to the spot at which  the tragedy occurred is down a narrow,   winding, country lane. While we made our way  along it we heard the rattle of a carriage  

Coming towards us and stood aside to let it  pass. As it drove by us I caught a glimpse   through the closed window of a horribly  contorted, grinning face glaring out at   us. Those staring eyes and gnashing teeth  flashed past us like a dreadful vision.

“My brothers!” cried Mortimer Tregennis, white  to his lips. “They are taking them to Helston.” We looked with horror after the black  carriage, lumbering upon its way. Then   we turned our steps towards this ill-omened  house in which they had met their strange fate.

It was a large and bright dwelling, rather  a villa than a cottage, with a considerable   garden which was already, in that Cornish air,  well filled with spring flowers. Towards this   garden the window of the sitting-room fronted,  and from it, according to Mortimer Tregennis,  

Must have come that thing of evil which had  by sheer horror in a single instant blasted   their minds. Holmes walked slowly and thoughtfully  among the flower-plots and along the path before   we entered the porch. So absorbed was he in his  thoughts, I remember, that he stumbled over the  

Watering-pot, upset its contents, and deluged both  our feet and the garden path. Inside the house   we were met by the elderly Cornish housekeeper,  Mrs. Porter, who, with the aid of a young girl,   looked after the wants of the family. She readily  answered all Holmes’s questions. She had heard  

Nothing in the night. Her employers had all been  in excellent spirits lately, and she had never   known them more cheerful and prosperous. She  had fainted with horror upon entering the room   in the morning and seeing that dreadful company  round the table. She had, when she recovered,  

Thrown open the window to let the morning air  in, and had run down to the lane, whence she   sent a farm-lad for the doctor. The lady was  on her bed upstairs if we cared to see her.  

It took four strong men to get the brothers into  the asylum carriage. She would not herself stay   in the house another day and was starting that  very afternoon to rejoin her family at St. Ives. We ascended the stairs and viewed the body. Miss  Brenda Tregennis had been a very beautiful girl,  

Though now verging upon middle age.  Her dark, clear-cut face was handsome,   even in death, but there still lingered upon  it something of that convulsion of horror which   had been her last human emotion. From her  bedroom we descended to the sitting-room,   where this strange tragedy had actually  occurred. The charred ashes of the overnight  

Fire lay in the grate. On the table were  the four guttered and burned-out candles,   with the cards scattered over its surface. The  chairs had been moved back against the walls,   but all else was as it had been the  night before. Holmes paced with light,  

Swift steps about the room; he sat in the various  chairs, drawing them up and reconstructing their   positions. He tested how much of the garden was  visible; he examined the floor, the ceiling,   and the fireplace; but never once did I see that  sudden brightening of his eyes and tightening of  

His lips which would have told me that he saw  some gleam of light in this utter darkness. “Why a fire?” he asked once. “Had they always  a fire in this small room on a spring evening?” Mortimer Tregennis explained that the  night was cold and damp. For that reason,  

After his arrival, the fire was lit. “What are  you going to do now, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. My friend smiled and laid his hand upon  my arm. “I think, Watson, that I shall   resume that course of tobacco-poisoning  which you have so often and so justly  

Condemned,” said he. “With your permission,  gentlemen, we will now return to our cottage,   for I am not aware that any new factor is  likely to come to our notice here. I will   turn the facts over in my mind, Mr. Tregennis,  and should anything occur to me I will certainly  

Communicate with you and the vicar. In the  meantime I wish you both good-morning.” It was not until long after we were back in  Poldhu Cottage that Holmes broke his complete and   absorbed silence. He sat coiled in his armchair,  his haggard and ascetic face hardly visible amid  

The blue swirl of his tobacco smoke, his black  brows drawn down, his forehead contracted,   his eyes vacant and far away. Finally he  laid down his pipe and sprang to his feet.  “It won’t do, Watson!” said he with a laugh. “Let  us walk along the cliffs together and search for  

Flint arrows. We are more likely to find them  than clues to this problem. To let the brain   work without sufficient material is like racing  an engine. It racks itself to pieces. The sea air,   sunshine, and patience, Watson—all else will come. “Now, let us calmly define our position, Watson,”  

He continued as we skirted the cliffs together.  “Let us get a firm grip of the very little which   we do know, so that when fresh facts arise we may  be ready to fit them into their places. I take it,  

In the first place, that neither of us is prepared  to admit diabolical intrusions into the affairs of   men. Let us begin by ruling that entirely out  of our minds. Very good. There remain three   persons who have been grievously stricken by  some conscious or unconscious human agency.  

That is firm ground. Now, when did this occur?  Evidently, assuming his narrative to be true,   it was immediately after Mr. Mortimer  Tregennis had left the room. That is a   very important point. The presumption is that  it was within a few minutes afterwards. The  

Cards still lay upon the table. It was already  past their usual hour for bed. Yet they had not   changed their position or pushed back their  chairs. I repeat, then, that the occurrence   was immediately after his departure, and  not later than eleven o’clock last night.

“Our next obvious step is to check, so far as we  can, the movements of Mortimer Tregennis after he   left the room. In this there is no difficulty,  and they seem to be above suspicion. Knowing my   methods as you do, you were, of course, conscious  of the somewhat clumsy water-pot expedient by  

Which I obtained a clearer impress of his foot  than might otherwise have been possible. The wet,   sandy path took it admirably. Last  night was also wet, you will remember,   and it was not difficult—having obtained a sample  print—to pick out his track among others and to  

Follow his movements. He appears to have walked  away swiftly in the direction of the vicarage. “If, then, Mortimer Tregennis disappeared from  the scene, and yet some outside person affected   the card-players, how can we reconstruct that  person, and how was such an impression of horror  

Conveyed? Mrs. Porter may be eliminated. She  is evidently harmless. Is there any evidence   that someone crept up to the garden window  and in some manner produced so terrific an   effect that he drove those who saw it out  of their senses? The only suggestion in  

This direction comes from Mortimer Tregennis  himself, who says that his brother spoke about   some movement in the garden. That is certainly  remarkable, as the night was rainy, cloudy,   and dark. Anyone who had the design to alarm  these people would be compelled to place his  

Very face against the glass before he could  be seen. There is a three-foot flower-border   outside this window, but no indication of a  footmark. It is difficult to imagine, then,   how an outsider could have made so terrible an  impression upon the company, nor have we found any  

Possible motive for so strange and elaborate an  attempt. You perceive our difficulties, Watson?” “They are only too clear,”  I answered with conviction. “And yet, with a little more material, we may  prove that they are not insurmountable,” said   Holmes. “I fancy that among your extensive  archives, Watson, you may find some which  

Were nearly as obscure. Meanwhile, we shall  put the case aside until more accurate data   are available, and devote the rest of our  morning to the pursuit of neolithic man.” I may have commented upon my friend’s power of  mental detachment, but never have I wondered at it  

More than upon that spring morning in Cornwall  when for two hours he discoursed upon celts,   arrowheads, and shards, as lightly as if no  sinister mystery were waiting for his solution. It   was not until we had returned in the afternoon to  our cottage that we found a visitor awaiting us,  

Who soon brought our minds back to the  matter in hand. Neither of us needed to   be told who that visitor was. The huge body,  the craggy and deeply seamed face with the   fierce eyes and hawk-like nose, the grizzled  hair which nearly brushed our cottage ceiling,  

The beard—golden at the fringes and white near  the lips, save for the nicotine stain from his   perpetual cigar—all these were as well known in  London as in Africa, and could only be associated   with the tremendous personality of Dr. Leon  Sterndale, the great lion-hunter and explorer. 

We had heard of his presence in the  district and had once or twice caught   sight of his tall figure upon the moorland  paths. He made no advances to us, however,   nor would we have dreamed of doing so to him,  as it was well known that it was his love of  

Seclusion which caused him to spend the greater  part of the intervals between his journeys in   a small bungalow buried in the lonely wood  of Beauchamp Arriance. Here, amid his books   and his maps, he lived an absolutely lonely  life, attending to his own simple wants and  

Paying little apparent heed to the affairs  of his neighbours. It was a surprise to me,   therefore, to hear him asking Holmes in an  eager voice whether he had made any advance   in his reconstruction of this mysterious episode.  “The county police are utterly at fault,” said he,  

“but perhaps your wider experience has suggested  some conceivable explanation. My only claim to   being taken into your confidence is that during  my many residences here I have come to know this   family of Tregennis very well—indeed, upon  my Cornish mother’s side I could call them  

Cousins—and their strange fate has naturally been  a great shock to me. I may tell you that I had got   as far as Plymouth upon my way to Africa, but the  news reached me this morning, and I came straight   back again to help in the inquiry.” Holmes raised his eyebrows.

“Did you lose your boat through it?” “I will take the next.” “Dear me! that is friendship indeed.” “I tell you they were relatives.” “Quite so—cousins of your mother.  Was your baggage aboard the ship?” “Some of it, but the main part at the hotel.”

“I see. But surely this event could not have  found its way into the Plymouth morning papers.” “No, sir; I had a telegram.” “Might I ask from whom?” A shadow passed over the  gaunt face of the explorer. “You are very inquisitive, Mr. Holmes.” “It is my business.”

With an effort Dr. Sterndale  recovered his ruffled composure. “I have no objection to telling you,” he  said. “It was Mr. Roundhay, the vicar,   who sent me the telegram which recalled me.” “Thank you,” said Holmes. “I may  say in answer to your original  

Question that I have not cleared my mind  entirely on the subject of this case,   but that I have every hope of reaching some  conclusion. It would be premature to say more.” “Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your  suspicions point in any particular direction?” “No, I can hardly answer that.”

“Then I have wasted my time and need  not prolong my visit.” The famous doctor   strode out of our cottage in considerable  ill-humour, and within five minutes Holmes   had followed him. I saw him no more until  the evening, when he returned with a slow  

Step and haggard face which assured me  that he had made no great progress with   his investigation. He glanced at a telegram  which awaited him and threw it into the grate. “From the Plymouth hotel, Watson,” he said.  “I learned the name of it from the vicar,  

And I wired to make certain that Dr. Leon  Sterndale’s account was true. It appears that   he did indeed spend last night there, and that he  has actually allowed some of his baggage to go on   to Africa, while he returned to be present at this  investigation. What do you make of that, Watson?”

“He is deeply interested.” “Deeply interested—yes. There is a thread  here which we had not yet grasped and which   might lead us through the tangle. Cheer up,  Watson, for I am very sure that our material   has not yet all come to hand. When it does we  may soon leave our difficulties behind us.”

Little did I think how soon the words of Holmes  would be realised, or how strange and sinister   would be that new development which opened up  an entirely fresh line of investigation. I was   shaving at my window in the morning when I  heard the rattle of hoofs and, looking up,  

Saw a dog-cart coming at a gallop down  the road. It pulled up at our door,   and our friend, the vicar, sprang  from it and rushed up our garden   path. Holmes was already dressed,  and we hastened down to meet him. Our visitor was so excited that  he could hardly articulate,  

But at last in gasps and bursts  his tragic story came out of him. “We are devil-ridden, Mr. Holmes! My poor parish  is devil-ridden!” he cried. “Satan himself is   loose in it! We are given over into his hands!” He  danced about in his agitation, a ludicrous object  

If it were not for his ashy face and startled  eyes. Finally he shot out his terrible news. “Mr. Mortimer Tregennis died during the night,   and with exactly the same symptoms  as the rest of his family.” Holmes sprang to his feet,  all energy in an instant. “Can you fit us both into your dog-cart?”

“Yes, I can.” “Then, Watson, we will postpone our breakfast.  Mr. Roundhay, we are entirely at your disposal.   Hurry—hurry, before things get disarranged.” The lodger occupied two rooms at the vicarage,   which were in an angle by themselves, the one  above the other. Below was a large sitting-room;  

Above, his bedroom. They looked out upon a  croquet lawn which came up to the windows.   We had arrived before the doctor or the police, so  that everything was absolutely undisturbed. Let me   describe exactly the scene as we saw it upon that  misty March morning. It has left an impression  

Which can never be effaced from my mind. The atmosphere of the room was of a horrible   and depressing stuffiness. The servant who  had first entered had thrown up the window,   or it would have been even more intolerable.  This might partly be due to the fact that a  

Lamp stood flaring and smoking on the centre  table. Beside it sat the dead man, leaning   back in his chair, his thin beard projecting,  his spectacles pushed up on to his forehead,   and his lean dark face turned towards the  window and twisted into the same distortion  

Of terror which had marked the features of his  dead sister. His limbs were convulsed and his   fingers contorted as though he had died in a  very paroxysm of fear. He was fully clothed,   though there were signs that his dressing had  been done in a hurry. We had already learned  

That his bed had been slept in, and that the  tragic end had come to him in the early morning. One realised the red-hot energy which underlay  Holmes’s phlegmatic exterior when one saw the   sudden change which came over him from the moment  that he entered the fatal apartment. In an instant  

He was tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face  set, his limbs quivering with eager activity. He   was out on the lawn, in through the window, round  the room, and up into the bedroom, for all the  

World like a dashing foxhound drawing a cover. In  the bedroom he made a rapid cast around and ended   by throwing open the window, which appeared  to give him some fresh cause for excitement,   for he leaned out of it with loud ejaculations  of interest and delight. Then he rushed down the  

Stair, out through the open window, threw himself  upon his face on the lawn, sprang up and into the   room once more, all with the energy of the hunter  who is at the very heels of his quarry. The lamp,   which was an ordinary standard, he examined with  minute care, making certain measurements upon its  

Bowl. He carefully scrutinised with his lens  the talc shield which covered the top of the   chimney and scraped off some ashes which adhered  to its upper surface, putting some of them into an   envelope, which he placed in his pocketbook.  Finally, just as the doctor and the official  

Police put in an appearance, he beckoned to the  vicar and we all three went out upon the lawn. “I am glad to say that my investigation has  not been entirely barren,” he remarked. “I   cannot remain to discuss the matter with the  police, but I should be exceedingly obliged,  

Mr. Roundhay, if you would give the inspector  my compliments and direct his attention to   the bedroom window and to the sitting-room lamp.  Each is suggestive, and together they are almost   conclusive. If the police would desire further  information I shall be happy to see any of them  

At the cottage. And now, Watson, I think that,  perhaps, we shall be better employed elsewhere.” It may be that the police resented the intrusion  of an amateur, or that they imagined themselves   to be upon some hopeful line of investigation; but  it is certain that we heard nothing from them for  

The next two days. During this time Holmes  spent some of his time smoking and dreaming   in the cottage; but a greater portion in  country walks which he undertook alone,   returning after many hours without remark as to  where he had been. One experiment served to show  

Me the line of his investigation. He had bought  a lamp which was the duplicate of the one which   had burned in the room of Mortimer Tregennis on  the morning of the tragedy. This he filled with   the same oil as that used at the vicarage,  and he carefully timed the period which it  

Would take to be exhausted. Another experiment  which he made was of a more unpleasant nature,   and one which I am not likely ever to forget. “You will remember, Watson,” he remarked one   afternoon, “that there is a single common point  of resemblance in the varying reports which have  

Reached us. This concerns the effect of the  atmosphere of the room in each case upon those   who had first entered it. You will recollect  that Mortimer Tregennis, in describing the   episode of his last visit to his brother’s  house, remarked that the doctor on entering  

The room fell into a chair? You had forgotten?  Well I can answer for it that it was so. Now,   you will remember also that Mrs. Porter, the  housekeeper, told us that she herself fainted   upon entering the room and had afterwards opened  the window. In the second case—that of Mortimer  

Tregennis himself—you cannot have forgotten the  horrible stuffiness of the room when we arrived,   though the servant had thrown open the  window. That servant, I found upon inquiry,   was so ill that she had gone to her bed. You  will admit, Watson, that these facts are very  

Suggestive. In each case there is evidence of a  poisonous atmosphere. In each case, also, there   is combustion going on in the room—in the one case  a fire, in the other a lamp. The fire was needed,   but the lamp was lit—as a comparison of the  oil consumed will show—long after it was broad  

Daylight. Why? Surely because there is some  connection between three things—the burning,   the stuffy atmosphere, and, finally, the  madness or death of those unfortunate people.   That is clear, is it not?” “It would appear so.” “At least we may accept it as a working  hypothesis. We will suppose, then,  

That something was burned in each case which  produced an atmosphere causing strange toxic   effects. Very good. In the first instance—that of  the Tregennis family—this substance was placed in   the fire. Now the window was shut, but the fire  would naturally carry fumes to some extent up the  

Chimney. Hence one would expect the effects of  the poison to be less than in the second case,   where there was less escape for the vapour.  The result seems to indicate that it was so,   since in the first case only the woman, who  had presumably the more sensitive organism,  

Was killed, the others exhibiting that  temporary or permanent lunacy which is   evidently the first effect of the drug. In the  second case the result was complete. The facts,   therefore, seem to bear out the theory  of a poison which worked by combustion. “With this train of reasoning in  my head I naturally looked about  

In Mortimer Tregennis’s room to find  some remains of this substance. The   obvious place to look was the talc shelf or  smoke-guard of the lamp. There, sure enough,   I perceived a number of flaky ashes, and  round the edges a fringe of brownish powder,  

Which had not yet been consumed. Half of this I  took, as you saw, and I placed it in an envelope.” “Why half, Holmes?” “It is not for me, my dear Watson, to stand in  the way of the official police force. I leave them  

All the evidence which I found. The poison still  remained upon the talc had they the wit to find   it. Now, Watson, we will light our lamp; we will,  however, take the precaution to open our window   to avoid the premature decease of two deserving  members of society, and you will seat yourself  

Near that open window in an armchair unless, like  a sensible man, you determine to have nothing to   do with the affair. Oh, you will see it out, will  you? I thought I knew my Watson. This chair I will  

Place opposite yours, so that we may be the same  distance from the poison and face to face. The   door we will leave ajar. Each is now in a position  to watch the other and to bring the experiment to  

An end should the symptoms seem alarming.  Is that all clear? Well, then, I take our   powder—or what remains of it—from the envelope,  and I lay it above the burning lamp. So! Now,   Watson, let us sit down and await developments.” They were not long in coming. I had hardly settled  

In my chair before I was conscious of a thick,  musky odour, subtle and nauseous. At the very   first whiff of it my brain and my imagination  were beyond all control. A thick, black cloud   swirled before my eyes, and my mind told me that  in this cloud, unseen as yet, but about to spring  

Out upon my appalled senses, lurked all that  was vaguely horrible, all that was monstrous   and inconceivably wicked in the universe. Vague  shapes swirled and swam amid the dark cloud-bank,   each a menace and a warning of something coming,  the advent of some unspeakable dweller upon the  

Threshold, whose very shadow would blast  my soul. A freezing horror took possession   of me. I felt that my hair was rising, that my  eyes were protruding, that my mouth was opened,   and my tongue like leather. The turmoil within my  brain was such that something must surely snap.  

I tried to scream and was vaguely aware of some  hoarse croak which was my own voice, but distant   and detached from myself. At the same moment, in  some effort of escape, I broke through that cloud   of despair and had a glimpse of Holmes’s face,  white, rigid, and drawn with horror—the very look  

Which I had seen upon the features of the dead. It  was that vision which gave me an instant of sanity   and of strength. I dashed from my chair, threw my  arms round Holmes, and together we lurched through  

The door, and an instant afterwards had thrown  ourselves down upon the grass plot and were lying   side by side, conscious only of the glorious  sunshine which was bursting its way through   the hellish cloud of terror which had girt us in.  Slowly it rose from our souls like the mists from  

A landscape until peace and reason had returned,  and we were sitting upon the grass, wiping our   clammy foreheads, and looking with apprehension  at each other to mark the last traces of that   terrific experience which we had undergone. “Upon my word, Watson!” said Holmes at last  

With an unsteady voice, “I owe you both my  thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable   experiment even for one’s self, and doubly  so for a friend. I am really very sorry.” “You know,” I answered with some emotion, for I  have never seen so much of Holmes’s heart before,  

“that it is my greatest joy  and privilege to help you.” He relapsed at once into the half-humorous,  half-cynical vein which was his habitual attitude   to those about him. “It would be superfluous to  drive us mad, my dear Watson,” said he. “A candid  

Observer would certainly declare that we were  so already before we embarked upon so wild an   experiment. I confess that I never imagined that  the effect could be so sudden and so severe.” He   dashed into the cottage, and, reappearing with  the burning lamp held at full arm’s length,  

He threw it among a bank of brambles. “We must  give the room a little time to clear. I take it,   Watson, that you have no longer a shadow of a  doubt as to how these tragedies were produced?” “None whatever.”

“But the cause remains as obscure as before.  Come into the arbour here and let us discuss   it together. That villainous stuff seems  still to linger round my throat. I think   we must admit that all the evidence points to  this man, Mortimer Tregennis, having been the  

Criminal in the first tragedy, though he was  the victim in the second one. We must remember,   in the first place, that there is some story of a  family quarrel, followed by a reconciliation. How   bitter that quarrel may have been, or how hollow  the reconciliation we cannot tell. When I think  

Of Mortimer Tregennis, with the foxy face and the  small shrewd, beady eyes behind the spectacles,   he is not a man whom I should judge to be of  a particularly forgiving disposition. Well,   in the next place, you will remember that  this idea of someone moving in the garden,  

Which took our attention for a moment from the  real cause of the tragedy, emanated from him.   He had a motive in misleading us. Finally, if he  did not throw the substance into the fire at the   moment of leaving the room, who did do so? The  affair happened immediately after his departure.  

Had anyone else come in, the family would  certainly have risen from the table. Besides,   in peaceful Cornwall, visitors did not arrive  after ten o’clock at night. We may take it,   then, that all the evidence points to  Mortimer Tregennis as the culprit.”

“Then his own death was suicide!” “Well, Watson, it is on the face of it a not   impossible supposition. The man who had the guilt  upon his soul of having brought such a fate upon   his own family might well be driven by remorse  to inflict it upon himself. There are, however,  

Some cogent reasons against it. Fortunately, there  is one man in England who knows all about it,   and I have made arrangements by which we  shall hear the facts this afternoon from   his own lips. Ah! he is a little before his  time. Perhaps you would kindly step this way,  

Dr. Leon Sterndale. We have been conducing  a chemical experiment indoors which has   left our little room hardly fit for the  reception of so distinguished a visitor.”  I had heard the click of the garden gate, and now  the majestic figure of the great African explorer  

Appeared upon the path. He turned in some surprise  towards the rustic arbour in which we sat. “You sent for me, Mr. Holmes. I  had your note about an hour ago,   and I have come, though I really do not  know why I should obey your summons.”

“Perhaps we can clear the point up before we  separate,” said Holmes. “Meanwhile, I am much   obliged to you for your courteous acquiescence.  You will excuse this informal reception in the   open air, but my friend Watson and I have nearly  furnished an additional chapter to what the  

Papers call the Cornish Horror, and we prefer  a clear atmosphere for the present. Perhaps,   since the matters which we have to discuss will  affect you personally in a very intimate fashion,   it is as well that we should talk  where there can be no eavesdropping.”

The explorer took his cigar from his  lips and gazed sternly at my companion. “I am at a loss to know, sir,” he said,  “what you can have to speak about which   affects me personally in a very intimate fashion.” “The killing of Mortimer Tregennis,” said Holmes.

For a moment I wished that I were armed.  Sterndale’s fierce face turned to a dusky red,   his eyes glared, and the knotted, passionate  veins started out in his forehead,   while he sprang forward with clenched hands  towards my companion. Then he stopped,   and with a violent effort he  resumed a cold, rigid calmness,  

Which was, perhaps, more suggestive of  danger than his hot-headed outburst. “I have lived so long among savages  and beyond the law,” said he,   “that I have got into the way of being  a law to myself. You would do well,  

Mr. Holmes, not to forget it, for I  have no desire to do you an injury.” “Nor have I any desire to do you an injury,  Dr. Sterndale. Surely the clearest proof of   it is that, knowing what I know, I have  sent for you and not for the police.”

Sterndale sat down with a gasp, overawed for,  perhaps, the first time in his adventurous   life. There was a calm assurance of power in  Holmes’s manner which could not be withstood.   Our visitor stammered for a moment, his great  hands opening and shutting in his agitation.

“What do you mean?” he asked at last. “If this is  bluff upon your part, Mr. Holmes, you have chosen   a bad man for your experiment. Let us have no  more beating about the bush. What do you mean?”

“I will tell you,” said Holmes, “and the reason  why I tell you is that I hope frankness may beget   frankness. What my next step may be will depend  entirely upon the nature of your own defence.” “My defence?” “Yes, sir.” “My defence against what?” “Against the charge of  killing Mortimer Tregennis.”

Sterndale mopped his forehead with his  handkerchief. “Upon my word, you are   getting on,” said he. “Do all your successes  depend upon this prodigious power of bluff?” “The bluff,” said Holmes sternly, “is  upon your side, Dr. Leon Sterndale,  

And not upon mine. As a proof I will tell you  some of the facts upon which my conclusions are   based. Of your return from Plymouth, allowing  much of your property to go on to Africa,   I will say nothing save that it first  informed me that you were one of the  

Factors which had to be taken into  account in reconstructing this drama—” “I came back—” “I have heard your reasons and regard them  as unconvincing and inadequate. We will pass   that. You came down here to ask me whom  I suspected. I refused to answer you. You  

Then went to the vicarage, waited outside it for  some time, and finally returned to your cottage.” “How do you know that?” “I followed you.” “I saw no one.” “That is what you may expect to see when I follow  you. You spent a restless night at your cottage,  

And you formed certain plans, which  in the early morning you proceeded to   put into execution. Leaving your  door just as day was breaking,   you filled your pocket with some reddish  gravel that was lying heaped beside your gate.” Sterndale gave a violent start  and looked at Holmes in amazement. 

“You then walked swiftly for the mile which  separated you from the vicarage. You were wearing,   I may remark, the same pair of ribbed tennis  shoes which are at the present moment upon   your feet. At the vicarage you passed  through the orchard and the side hedge,  

Coming out under the window of the  lodger Tregennis. It was now daylight,   but the household was not yet stirring. You  drew some of the gravel from your pocket,   and you threw it up at the window above you.” Sterndale sprang to his feet. “I believe that you are the  devil himself!” he cried.

Holmes smiled at the compliment.  “It took two, or possibly three,   handfuls before the lodger came to the window.  You beckoned him to come down. He dressed   hurriedly and descended to his sitting-room. You  entered by the window. There was an interview—a  

Short one—during which you walked up and down the  room. Then you passed out and closed the window,   standing on the lawn outside smoking a  cigar and watching what occurred. Finally,   after the death of Tregennis, you withdrew  as you had come. Now, Dr. Sterndale,  

How do you justify such conduct, and what were  the motives for your actions? If you prevaricate   or trifle with me, I give you my assurance that  the matter will pass out of my hands forever.” Our visitor’s face had turned ashen grey as he  listened to the words of his accuser. Now he sat  

For some time in thought with his face sunk in  his hands. Then with a sudden impulsive gesture   he plucked a photograph from his breast-pocket  and threw it on the rustic table before us. “That is why I have done it,” said he.

It showed the bust and face of a very  beautiful woman. Holmes stooped over it. “Brenda Tregennis,” said he. “Yes, Brenda Tregennis,” repeated our visitor.  “For years I have loved her. For years she has   loved me. There is the secret of that Cornish  seclusion which people have marvelled at. It  

Has brought me close to the one thing on earth  that was dear to me. I could not marry her,   for I have a wife who has left me for years and  yet whom, by the deplorable laws of England,   I could not divorce. For years Brenda  waited. For years I waited. And this  

Is what we have waited for.” A terrible sob  shook his great frame, and he clutched his   throat under his brindled beard. Then with  an effort he mastered himself and spoke on: “The vicar knew. He was in our  confidence. He would tell you  

That she was an angel upon earth. That was  why he telegraphed to me and I returned.   What was my baggage or Africa to me  when I learned that such a fate had   come upon my darling? There you have the  missing clue to my action, Mr. Holmes.” “Proceed,” said my friend.

Dr. Sterndale drew from his pocket a paper  packet and laid it upon the table. On the   outside was written “Radix pedis diaboli” with  a red poison label beneath it. He pushed it   towards me. “I understand that you are a doctor,  sir. Have you ever heard of this preparation?”

“Devil’s-foot root! No, I have never heard of it.” “It is no reflection upon your professional  knowledge,” said he, “for I believe that,   save for one sample in a laboratory at Buda,  there is no other specimen in Europe. It has   not yet found its way either into the  pharmacopœia or into the literature of  

Toxicology. The root is shaped like a foot,  half human, half goatlike; hence the fanciful   name given by a botanical missionary. It is  used as an ordeal poison by the medicine-men   in certain districts of West Africa and is  kept as a secret among them. This particular  

Specimen I obtained under very extraordinary  circumstances in the Ubangi country.” He   opened the paper as he spoke and disclosed  a heap of reddish-brown, snuff-like powder. “Well, sir?” asked Holmes sternly. “I am about to tell you, Mr. Holmes, all that  actually occurred, for you already know so much  

That it is clearly to my interest that you  should know all. I have already explained   the relationship in which I stood to the Tregennis  family. For the sake of the sister I was friendly   with the brothers. There was a family quarrel  about money which estranged this man Mortimer,  

But it was supposed to be made up, and I  afterwards met him as I did the others.   He was a sly, subtle, scheming man, and several  things arose which gave me a suspicion of him,   but I had no cause for any positive quarrel. “One day, only a couple of weeks ago,  

He came down to my cottage and I showed him some  of my African curiosities. Among other things   I exhibited this powder, and I told him of its  strange properties, how it stimulates those brain   centres which control the emotion of fear, and how  either madness or death is the fate of the unhappy  

Native who is subjected to the ordeal by the  priest of his tribe. I told him also how powerless   European science would be to detect it. How he  took it I cannot say, for I never left the room,  

But there is no doubt that it was then, while  I was opening cabinets and stooping to boxes,   that he managed to abstract some of the  devil’s-foot root. I well remember how he plied me   with questions as to the amount and the time that  was needed for its effect, but I little dreamed  

That he could have a personal reason for asking. “I thought no more of the matter until the vicar’s   telegram reached me at Plymouth. This villain  had thought that I would be at sea before the  

News could reach me, and that I should be lost  for years in Africa. But I returned at once. Of   course, I could not listen to the details without  feeling assured that my poison had been used. I   came round to see you on the chance that some  other explanation had suggested itself to you.  

But there could be none. I was convinced that  Mortimer Tregennis was the murderer; that for the   sake of money, and with the idea, perhaps, that  if the other members of his family were all insane   he would be the sole guardian of their joint  property, he had used the devil’s-foot powder upon  

Them, driven two of them out of their senses, and  killed his sister Brenda, the one human being whom   I have ever loved or who has ever loved me. There  was his crime; what was to be his punishment?

“Should I appeal to the law? Where were my proofs?  I knew that the facts were true, but could I help   to make a jury of countrymen believe so fantastic  a story? I might or I might not. But I could not  

Afford to fail. My soul cried out for revenge.  I have said to you once before, Mr. Holmes,   that I have spent much of my life outside  the law, and that I have come at last to be  

A law to myself. So it was even now. I determined  that the fate which he had given to others should   be shared by himself. Either that or I would do  justice upon him with my own hand. In all England  

There can be no man who sets less value upon  his own life than I do at the present moment. “Now I have told you all. You have yourself  supplied the rest. I did, as you say,   after a restless night, set off early from my  cottage. I foresaw the difficulty of arousing him,  

So I gathered some gravel from the pile which you  have mentioned, and I used it to throw up to his   window. He came down and admitted me through the  window of the sitting-room. I laid his offence  

Before him. I told him that I had come both as  judge and executioner. The wretch sank into a   chair, paralysed at the sight of my revolver. I  lit the lamp, put the powder above it, and stood  

Outside the window, ready to carry out my threat  to shoot him should he try to leave the room. In   five minutes he died. My God! how he died! But my  heart was flint, for he endured nothing which my  

Innocent darling had not felt before him. There  is my story, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps, if you loved a   woman, you would have done as much yourself. At  any rate, I am in your hands. You can take what  

Steps you like. As I have already said, there is  no man living who can fear death less than I do.” Holmes sat for some little time in silence. “What were your plans?” he asked at last. “I had intended to bury myself in central  Africa. My work there is but half finished.”

“Go and do the other half,” said Holmes. “I,  at least, am not prepared to prevent you.” Dr. Sterndale raised his  giant figure, bowed gravely,   and walked from the arbour. Holmes  lit his pipe and handed me his pouch.

“Some fumes which are not poisonous would be a  welcome change,” said he. “I think you must agree,   Watson, that it is not a case in which we are  called upon to interfere. Our investigation   has been independent, and our action shall  be so also. You would not denounce the man?”

“Certainly not,” I answered. “I have never loved, Watson, but   if I did and if the woman I loved had met such an  end, I might act even as our lawless lion-hunter   has done. Who knows? Well, Watson, I will not  offend your intelligence by explaining what  

Is obvious. The gravel upon the window-sill was,  of course, the starting-point of my research. It   was unlike anything in the vicarage garden. Only  when my attention had been drawn to Dr. Sterndale   and his cottage did I find its counterpart. The  lamp shining in broad daylight and the remains of  

Powder upon the shield were successive links in a  fairly obvious chain. And now, my dear Watson, I   think we may dismiss the matter from our mind and  go back with a clear conscience to the study of  

Those Chaldean roots which are surely to be traced  in the Cornish branch of the great Celtic speech.”  The Adventure of the Red Circle. Part 1. “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 strikes one is the obvious possibility  

That the person now in the rooms may be entirely  different from the one who engaged them.” “Why should you think so?” “Well, apart from this cigarette-end, was it  not suggestive that the only time the lodger   went out was immediately after his taking the  rooms? He came back—or someone came back—when  

All witnesses were out of the way. We have no  proof that the person who came back was the   person who went out. Then, again, the man who  took the rooms spoke English well. This other,   however, prints ‘match’ when it should  have been ‘matches.’ I can imagine that  

The word was taken out of a dictionary,  which would give the noun but not the   plural. The laconic style may be to conceal  the absence of knowledge of English. Yes,   Watson, there are good reasons to suspect that  there has been a 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 at  least were in it, and maybe three.” “And you connect this attack with your lodger?” “Well, we’ve lived there fifteen years and  no such happenings ever came before. I’ve  

Had enough of him. Money’s not 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 more 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 from 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 grey 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. So did I. That should mean T. AT—that’s   intelligible enough. Another T. Surely this is the  beginning of a second word. Now, then—TENTA. Dead   stop. That can’t be all, Watson? Attenta gives no  sense. Nor is it any better as three words: AT,  

TEN, TA, unless T. A. are a person’s initials.  There it goes again! What’s that? ATTE—why,   it is the same message over again. Curious,  Watson, very curious. Now he is off once more!   AT—why he is repeating it for the third time.  Attenta three times! How often will he repeat  

It? No, that seems to be the finish.  He has withdrawn from the window. What   do you make of it, Watson?” “A cipher message, Holmes.” My companion gave a sudden chuckle of  comprehension. “And not a very obscure cipher,   Watson,” said he. “Why, of course,  it is Italian! The A means that  

It is addressed to a woman. ‘Beware!  Beware! Beware!’ How’s that, Watson? “I believe you have hit it.” “Not a doubt of it. It is a very urgent  message, thrice repeated to make it more   so. But beware of what? Wait a bit,  he is coming to the window once more.”

Again we saw the dim silhouette  of a crouching man and the whisk   of the small flame across the window  as the signals were renewed. They came   more rapidly than before—so rapid  that it was hard to follow them. “PERICOLO—pericolo—eh, what’s that,  Watson? ‘Danger,’ isn’t it? Yes,  

By Jove, it’s a danger signal. There he  goes again! PERI. Halloa, what on earth—” The light had suddenly gone out, the  glimmering square of window had disappeared,   and the third floor formed a dark band round  the lofty building, with its tiers of shining  

Casements. That last warning cry had been  suddenly cut short. How, and by whom? The same   thought occurred on the instant to us both. Holmes  sprang up from where he crouched by the window. “This is serious, Watson,” he cried.  “There is some devilry going forward!  

Why should such a message stop in such  a way? I should put Scotland Yard in   touch with this business—and yet,  it is too pressing for us to leave.” “Shall I go for the police?” “We must define the situation a little more  clearly. It may bear some more innocent  

Interpretation. Come, Watson, let us go across  ourselves and see what we can make of it.”  Part 2. As we walked rapidly down Howe Street I glanced  back at the building which we had left. There,   dimly outlined at the top window, I could see the  shadow of a head, a woman’s head, gazing tensely,  

Rigidly, out into the night, waiting with  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 from the   flat while you were waiting downstairs,” said  he at last. “Did you observe them closely?” “Yes, I did.” “Was there a fellow about thirty,  black-bearded, dark, of middle size?” “Yes; he was the last to pass me.”

“That is your man, I fancy. I  can give you his description,   and we have a very excellent outline of his  footmark. That should be enough for you.” “Not much, Mr. Holmes, among  the millions of London.” “Perhaps not. That is why I thought it  best to summon this lady to your aid.”

We all turned round at the words.  There, framed in the doorway,   was a tall and beautiful woman—the mysterious  lodger of Bloomsbury. Slowly she advanced,   her face pale and drawn with a frightful  apprehension, her eyes fixed and staring,   her terrified gaze riveted upon  the dark figure on the floor.

“You have killed him!” she muttered.  “Oh, Dio mio, you have killed him!”   Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of  her breath, and she sprang into the air   with a cry of joy. Round and round the  room she danced, her hands clapping,  

Her dark eyes gleaming with delighted wonder,  and a thousand pretty Italian exclamations   pouring from her lips. It was terrible and  amazing to see such a woman so convulsed   with joy at such a sight. Suddenly she stopped  and gazed at us all with a questioning stare.

“But you! You are police, are you not? You  have killed Giuseppe Gorgiano. Is it not so?” “We are police, madam.” She looked round into the shadows of the room. “But where, then, is Gennaro?”  she asked. “He is my 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 ever be worthy of such a man?” “Well, Mrs. Lucca,” said the prosaic Gregson,  laying his hand upon the lady’s sleeve with   as little sentiment as if she were a Notting Hill  hooligan, “I am not very clear yet who you are or  

What you are; but you’ve said enough to make it  very clear that we shall want you at the Yard.” “One moment, Gregson,” said Holmes. “I rather  fancy that this lady may be as anxious to give   us information as we can be to get it. You  understand, madam, that your husband will be  

Arrested and tried for the death of the man  who lies before us? What you say may be used   in evidence. But if you think that he has acted  from motives which are not criminal, and which he  

Would wish to have known, then you cannot serve  him better than by telling us the whole story.” “Now that Gorgiano is dead we fear nothing,”  said the lady. “He was a devil and a monster,   and there can be no judge in the world who  would punish my husband for having killed him.”

“In that case,” said Holmes, “my  suggestion is that we lock this door,   leave things as we found them, go with this lady  to her room, and form our opinion after we have   heard what it is that she has to say to us.” Half an hour later we were seated, all four,  

In the small sitting-room of Signora Lucca,  listening to her remarkable 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  our visitor’s conversation. Gennaro said nothing,  

But I, who knew him so well, could read in his  face some emotion which I had never seen there   before. At first I thought that it was dislike.  And then, gradually, I understood that it was more   than dislike. It was fear—a deep, secret,  shrinking fear. That night—the night that  

I read his terror—I put my arms round him and I  implored him by his love for me and by all that   he held dear to hold nothing from me, and to  tell me why this huge man overshadowed him so.

“He told me, and my own heart grew cold as ice as  I listened. My poor Gennaro, in his wild and fiery   days, when all the world seemed against him and  his mind was driven half mad by the injustices of  

Life, had joined a Neapolitan society, the Red  Circle, which was allied to the old Carbonari.   The oaths and secrets of this brotherhood were  frightful, but once within its rule no escape   was possible. When we had fled to America Gennaro  thought that he had cast it all off forever. What  

Was his horror one evening to meet in the streets  the very man who had initiated him in Naples,   the giant Gorgiano, a man who had earned  the name of ‘Death’ in the south of Italy,  

For he was red to the elbow in murder! He had  come to New York to avoid the Italian police,   and he had already planted a branch of this  dreadful society in his new home. All this  

Gennaro told me and showed me a summons which he  had received that very day, a Red Circle drawn   upon the head of it telling him that a lodge  would be held upon a certain date, and that   his presence at it was required and ordered. “That was bad enough, but worse was to come.  

I had noticed for some time that when Gorgiano  came to us, as he constantly did, in the evening,   he spoke much to me; and even when his words  were to my husband those terrible, glaring,   wild-beast eyes of his were always turned upon  me. One night his secret came out. I had awakened  

What he called ‘love’ within him—the love of  a brute—a savage. Gennaro had not yet returned   when he came. He pushed his way in, seized me in  his mighty arms, hugged me in his bear’s embrace,   covered me with kisses, and implored me to come  away with him. I was struggling and screaming  

When Gennaro entered and attacked him. He  struck Gennaro senseless and fled from the   house which he was never more to enter. It  was a deadly enemy that we made that night.  “A few days later came the meeting. Gennaro  returned from it with a face which told me that  

Something dreadful had occurred. It was worse than  we could have imagined possible. The funds of the   society were raised by blackmailing rich Italians  and threatening them with violence should they   refuse the money. It seems that Castalotte, our  dear friend and benefactor, had been approached.  

He had refused to yield to threats, and he  had handed the notices to the police. It was   resolved now that such an example should be made  of 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 Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax.

“But why Turkish?” asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes,  gazing fixedly at my boots. I was reclining in a   cane-backed chair at the moment, and my protruded  feet had attracted his ever-active attention. “English,” I answered in some surprise. “I  got them at Latimer’s, in Oxford Street.” Holmes smiled with an  expression of weary patience.

“The bath!” he said; “the bath! Why  the relaxing and expensive Turkish   rather than the invigorating home-made article?” “Because for the last few days I have been  feeling rheumatic and old. A Turkish bath   is what we call an alterative in medicine—a  fresh starting-point, a cleanser of the system.

“By the way, Holmes,” I added, “I have  no doubt the connection between my boots   and a Turkish bath is a perfectly  self-evident one to a logical mind,   and yet I should be obliged to  you if you would indicate it.” “The train of reasoning is not very  obscure, Watson,” said Holmes with a  

Mischievous twinkle. “It belongs to the  same elementary class of deduction which   I should illustrate if I were to ask you who  shared your cab in your drive this morning.” “I don’t admit that a fresh illustration is  an explanation,” said I with some asperity.

“Bravo, Watson! A very dignified and  logical remonstrance. Let me see,   what were the points? Take the last one first—the  cab. You observe that you have some splashes on   the left sleeve and shoulder of your coat. Had you  sat in the centre of a hansom you would probably  

Have had no splashes, and if you had they would  certainly have been symmetrical. Therefore it is   clear that you sat at the side. Therefore it  is equally clear that you had a companion.” “That is very evident.” “Absurdly commonplace, is it not?” “But the boots and the bath?”

“Equally childish. You are in the habit of doing  up your boots in a certain way. I see them on this   occasion fastened with an elaborate double bow,  which is not your usual method of tying them. You  

Have, therefore, had them off. Who has tied them?  A bootmaker—or the boy at the bath. It is unlikely   that it is the bootmaker, since your boots are  nearly new. Well, what remains? The bath. Absurd,   is it not? But, for all that, the  Turkish bath has served a purpose.” “What is that?”

“You say that you have had it because you need a   change. Let me suggest that you  take one. How would Lausanne do,   my dear Watson—first-class tickets and  all expenses paid on a princely scale?” “Splendid! But why?” Holmes leaned back in his armchair  and took his notebook from his pocket.

“One of the most dangerous classes in the world,”  said he, “is the drifting and friendless woman.   She is the most harmless and often the most  useful of mortals, but she is the inevitable   inciter of crime in others. She is helpless. She  is migratory. She has sufficient means to take  

Her from country to country and from hotel to  hotel. She is lost, as often as not, in a maze   of obscure pensions and boardinghouses. She is  a stray chicken in a world of foxes. When she is  

Gobbled up she is hardly missed. I much fear that  some evil has come to the Lady Frances Carfax.” I was relieved at this sudden descent from the   general to the particular.  Holmes consulted his notes. “Lady Frances,” he continued, “is the sole  survivor of the direct family of the late  

Earl of Rufton. The estates went, as you  may remember, in the male line. She was   left with limited means, but with some very  remarkable old Spanish jewellery of silver   and curiously cut diamonds to which she was  fondly attached—too attached, for she refused  

To leave them with her banker and always carried  them about with her. A rather pathetic figure,   the Lady Frances, a beautiful woman,  still in fresh middle age, and yet,   by a strange change, the last derelict of what  only twenty years ago was a goodly fleet.” “What has happened to her, then?”

“Ah, what has happened to the Lady  Frances? Is she alive or dead? There   is our problem. She is a lady of precise  habits, and for four years it has been her   invariable custom to write every second  week to Miss Dobney, her old governess,  

Who has long retired and lives in Camberwell.  It is this Miss Dobney who has consulted me.   Nearly five weeks have passed without a word.  The last letter was from the Hôtel National at   Lausanne. Lady Frances seems to have left there  and given no address. The family are anxious,  

And as they are exceedingly wealthy no sum  will be spared if we can clear the matter up.” “Is Miss Dobney the only source of information?  Surely she had other correspondents?” “There is one correspondent who is a sure draw,  Watson. That is the bank. Single ladies must live,  

And their passbooks are compressed diaries.  She banks at Silvester’s. I have glanced   over her account. The last check but one  paid her bill at Lausanne, but it was a   large one and probably left her with cash in  hand. Only one check has been drawn since.”

“To whom, and where?” “To Miss Marie Devine. There is nothing to   show where the check was drawn. It was cashed at  the Crédit Lyonnais at Montpellier less than three   weeks ago. The sum was fifty pounds.” “And who is Miss Marie Devine?”

“That also I have been able to discover. Miss  Marie Devine was the maid of Lady Frances Carfax.   Why she should have paid her this check we  have not yet determined. I have no doubt,   however, that your researches  will soon clear the matter up.” “My researches!”

“Hence the health-giving expedition to Lausanne.  You know that I cannot possibly leave London   while old Abrahams is in such mortal terror of  his life. Besides, on general principles it is   best that I should not leave the country.  Scotland Yard feels lonely without me,  

And it causes an unhealthy excitement among  the criminal classes. Go, then, my dear Watson,   and if my humble counsel can ever be valued  at so extravagant a rate as two pence a word,   it waits your disposal night and day  at the end of the Continental wire.”

Two days later found me at the Hôtel National  at Lausanne, where I received every courtesy   at the hands of M. Moser, the well-known manager.  Lady Frances, as he informed me, had stayed there   for several weeks. She had been much liked by all  who met her. Her age was not more than forty. She  

Was still handsome and bore every sign of having  in her youth been a very lovely woman. M. Moser   knew nothing of any valuable jewellery, but it had  been remarked by the servants that the heavy trunk   in the lady’s bedroom was always scrupulously  locked. Marie Devine, the maid, was as popular  

As her mistress. She was actually engaged to  one of the head waiters in the hotel, and there   was no difficulty in getting her address. It  was 11, Rue de Trajan, Montpellier. All this   I jotted down and felt that Holmes himself could  not have been more adroit in collecting his facts.

Only one corner still remained in the shadow.  No light which I possessed could clear up the   cause for the lady’s sudden departure. She was  very happy at Lausanne. There was every reason   to believe that she intended to remain for the  season in her luxurious rooms overlooking the  

Lake. And yet she had left at a single day’s  notice, which involved her in the useless   payment of a week’s rent. Only Jules Vibart, the  lover of the maid, had any suggestion to offer.   He connected the sudden departure with the visit  to the hotel a day or two before of a tall, dark,  

Bearded man. “Un sauvage—un veritable sauvage!”  cried Jules Vibart. The man had rooms somewhere   in the town. He had been seen talking earnestly  to Madame on the promenade by the lake. Then he   had called. She had refused to see him. He was  English, but of his name there was no record.  

Madame had left the place immediately afterwards.  Jules Vibart, and, what was of more importance,   Jules Vibart’s sweetheart, thought that this  call and the departure were cause and effect.   Only one thing Jules would not discuss. That was  the reason why Marie had left her mistress. Of  

That he could or would say nothing. If I wished  to know, I must go to Montpellier and ask her. So ended the first chapter of my inquiry. The  second was devoted to the place which Lady   Frances Carfax had sought when she left Lausanne.  Concerning this there had been some secrecy,  

Which confirmed the idea that she had gone  with the intention of throwing someone off   her track. Otherwise why should not her luggage  have been openly labelled for Baden? Both she and   it reached the Rhenish spa by some circuitous  route. This much I gathered from the manager  

Of Cook’s local office. So to Baden I went,  after dispatching to Holmes an account of   all my proceedings and receiving in reply  a telegram of half-humorous commendation.  At Baden the track was not difficult to follow.  Lady Frances had stayed at the Englischer Hof  

For a fortnight. While there she had made the  acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger and his wife,   a missionary from South America. Like most  lonely ladies, Lady Frances found her comfort   and occupation in religion. Dr. Shlessinger’s  remarkable personality, his whole hearted  

Devotion, and the fact that he was recovering  from a disease contracted in the exercise of   his apostolic duties affected her deeply. She  had helped Mrs. Shlessinger in the nursing of   the convalescent saint. He spent his day, as the  manager described it to me, upon a lounge-chair on  

The veranda, with an attendant lady upon either  side of him. He was preparing a map of the Holy   Land, with special reference to the kingdom of the  Midianites, upon which he was writing a monograph.   Finally, having improved much in health, he and  his wife had returned to London, and Lady Frances  

Had started thither in their company. This was  just three weeks before, and the manager had heard   nothing since. As to the maid, Marie, she had  gone off some days beforehand in floods of tears,   after informing the other maids that she was  leaving service forever. Dr. Shlessinger had paid  

The bill of the whole party before his departure. “By the way,” said the landlord in conclusion,   “you are not the only friend of Lady  Frances Carfax who is inquiring after   her just now. Only a week or so ago we  had a man here upon the same errand.”

“Did he give a name?” I asked. “None; but he was an Englishman,  though of an unusual type.” “A savage?” said I, linking my facts after  the fashion of my illustrious friend. “Exactly. That describes him very well.  He is a bulky, bearded, sunburned fellow,  

Who looks as if he would be more at home in a  farmers’ inn than in a fashionable hotel. A hard,   fierce man, I should think, and one  whom I should be sorry to offend.” Already the mystery began to define itself,  as figures grow clearer with the lifting of  

A fog. Here was this good and pious lady  pursued from place to place by a sinister   and unrelenting figure. She feared him, or she  would not have fled from Lausanne. He had still   followed. Sooner or later he would overtake  her. Had he already overtaken her? Was that  

The secret of her continued silence? Could the  good people who were her companions not screen   her from his violence or his blackmail?  What horrible purpose, what deep design,   lay behind this long pursuit? There  was the problem which I had to solve.

To Holmes I wrote showing how rapidly and surely I  had got down to the roots of the matter. In reply   I had a telegram asking for a description of Dr.  Shlessinger’s left ear. Holmes’s ideas of humour   are strange and occasionally offensive, so I  took no notice of his ill-timed jest—indeed,  

I had already reached Montpellier in my pursuit  of the maid, Marie, before his message came. I had no difficulty in finding the ex-servant and  in learning all that she could tell me. She was a   devoted creature, who had only left her mistress  because she was sure that she was in good hands,  

And because her own approaching marriage made a  separation inevitable in any case. Her mistress   had, as she confessed with distress, shown some  irritability of temper towards her during their   stay in Baden, and had even questioned her once as  if she had suspicions of her honesty, and this had  

Made the parting easier than it would otherwise  have been. Lady Frances had given her fifty pounds   as a wedding-present. Like me, Marie viewed with  deep distrust the stranger who had driven her   mistress from Lausanne. With her own eyes she  had seen him seize the lady’s wrist with great  

Violence on the public promenade by the lake. He  was a fierce and terrible man. She believed that   it was out of dread of him that Lady Frances  had accepted the escort of the Shlessingers to   London. She had never spoken to Marie about it,  but many little signs had convinced the maid that  

Her mistress lived in a state of continual nervous  apprehension. So far she had got in her narrative,   when suddenly she sprang from her chair and  her face was convulsed with surprise and   fear. “See!” she cried. “The miscreant follows  still! There is the very man of whom I speak.”

Through the open sitting-room window I saw  a huge, swarthy man with a bristling black   beard walking slowly down the centre  of the street and staring eagerly at   the numbers of the houses. It was clear  that, like myself, he was on the track of  

The maid. Acting upon the impulse of the  moment, I rushed out and accosted him. “You are an Englishman,” I said. “What if I am?” he asked  with a most villainous scowl. “May I ask what your name is?” “No, you may not,” said he with decision.

The situation was awkward, but the  most direct way is often the best. “Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?” I asked. He stared at me with amazement. “What have you done with her? Why have you  pursued her? I insist upon an answer!” said I. 

The fellow gave a bellow of anger and sprang  upon me like a tiger. I have held my own in   many a struggle, but the man had a grip of  iron and the fury of a fiend. His hand was  

On my throat and my senses were nearly gone  before an unshaven French ouvrier in a blue   blouse darted out from a cabaret opposite, with  a cudgel in his hand, and struck my assailant a   sharp crack over the forearm, which made him  leave go his hold. He stood for an instant  

Fuming with rage and uncertain whether he should  not renew his attack. Then, with a snarl of anger,   he left me and entered the cottage from which I  had just come. I turned to thank my preserver,   who stood beside me in the roadway. “Well, Watson,” said he, “a very pretty hash  

You have made of it! I rather think you had better  come back with me to London by the night express.” An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual  garb and style, was seated in my private room at   the hotel. His explanation of his sudden and  opportune appearance was simplicity itself,  

For, finding that he could get away from London,   he determined to head me off at the  next obvious point of my travels. In   the disguise of a workingman he had sat  in the cabaret waiting for my appearance. “And a singularly consistent investigation  you have made, my dear Watson,” said he. “I  

Cannot at the moment recall any possible  blunder which you have omitted. The total   effect of your proceeding has been to give the  alarm everywhere and yet to discover nothing.” “Perhaps you would have done no  better,” I answered bitterly.

“There is no ‘perhaps’ about it. I have  done better. Here is the Hon. Philip Green,   who is a fellow-lodger with you in this hotel,   and we may find him the starting-point  for a more successful investigation.” A card had come up on a salver, and  it was followed by the same bearded  

Ruffian who had attacked me in the  street. He started when he saw me. “What is this, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “I had your   note and I have come. But what has  this man to do with the matter?” “This is my old friend and associate, Dr.  Watson, who is helping us in this affair.”

The stranger held out a huge, sunburned  hand, with a few words of apology. “I hope I didn’t harm you. When you accused me  of hurting her I lost my grip of myself. Indeed,   I’m not responsible in these days.  My nerves are like live wires. But  

This situation is beyond me. What  I want to know, in the first place,   Mr. Holmes, is, how in the world you  came to hear of my existence at all.” “I am in touch with Miss Dobney,  Lady Frances’s governess.” “Old Susan Dobney with the  mob cap! I remember her well.”

“And she remembers you. It was  in the days before—before you   found it better to go to South Africa.” “Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need hide  nothing from you. I swear to you, Mr. Holmes,  

That there never was in this world a man  who loved a woman with a more wholehearted   love than I had for Frances. I was a wild  youngster, I know—not worse than others of   my class. But her mind was pure as snow. She  could not bear a shadow of coarseness. So,  

When she came to hear of things that I had done,  she would have no more to say to me. And yet she   loved me—that is the wonder of it!—loved me well  enough to remain single all her sainted days just  

For my sake alone. When the years had passed  and I had made my money at Barberton I thought   perhaps I could seek her out and soften her. I had  heard that she was still unmarried, I found her  

At Lausanne and tried all I knew. She weakened,  I think, but her will was strong, and when next   I called she had left the town. I traced her to  Baden, and then after a time heard that her maid  

Was here. I’m a rough fellow, fresh from a rough  life, and when Dr. Watson spoke to me as he did   I lost hold of myself for a moment. But for God’s  sake tell me what has become of the Lady Frances.” “That is for us to find out,” said Sherlock Holmes  

With peculiar gravity. “What is  your London address, Mr. Green?” “The Langham Hotel will find me.” “Then may I recommend that you return there  and be on hand in case I should want you?   I have no desire to encourage false hopes,  but you may rest assured that all that can  

Be done will be done for the safety of Lady  Frances. I can say no more for the instant. I   will leave you this card so that you may  be able to keep in touch with us. Now,   Watson, if you will pack your bag  I will cable to Mrs. Hudson to make  

One of her best efforts for two hungry  travellers at half past seven tomorrow.” A telegram was awaiting us when  we reached our Baker Street rooms,   which Holmes read with an exclamation  of interest and threw across to me.   “Jagged or torn,” was the message,  and the place of origin, Baden.

“What is this?” I asked. “It is everything,” Holmes answered. “You  may remember my seemingly irrelevant question   as to this clerical gentleman’s  left ear. You did not answer it.” “I had left Baden and could not inquire.”  “Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate  to the manager of the Englischer Hof,  

Whose answer lies here.” “What does it show?” “It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing  with an exceptionally astute and dangerous man.   The Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, missionary from South  America, is none other than Holy Peters, one of  

The most unscrupulous rascals that Australia has  ever evolved—and for a young country it has turned   out some very finished types. His particular  specialty is the beguiling of lonely ladies by   playing upon their religious feelings, and his  so-called wife, an Englishwoman named Fraser,  

Is a worthy helpmate. The nature of his  tactics suggested his identity to me,   and this physical peculiarity—he was badly bitten  in a saloon-fight at Adelaide in ’89—confirmed my   suspicion. This poor lady is in the hands of a  most infernal couple, who will stick at nothing,  

Watson. That she is already dead is a very likely  supposition. If not, she is undoubtedly in some   sort of confinement and unable to write to Miss  Dobney or her other friends. It is always possible   that she never reached London, or that she has  passed through it, but the former is improbable,  

As, with their system of registration, it is  not easy for foreigners to play tricks with   the Continental police; and the latter is also  unlikely, as these rogues could not hope to find   any other place where it would be as easy to  keep a person under restraint. All my instincts  

Tell me that she is in London, but as we have  at present no possible means of telling where,   we can only take the obvious steps, eat our  dinner, and possess our souls in patience.   Later in the evening I will stroll down and have  a word with friend Lestrade at Scotland Yard.”

But neither the official police nor Holmes’s own  small but very efficient organisation sufficed to   clear away the mystery. Amid the crowded millions  of London the three persons we sought were as   completely obliterated as if they had never lived.  Advertisements were tried, and failed. Clues were  

Followed, and led to nothing. Every criminal  resort which Shlessinger might frequent was   drawn in vain. His old associates were watched,  but they kept clear of him. And then suddenly,   after a week of helpless suspense there came a  flash of light. A silver-and-brilliant pendant of  

Old Spanish design had been pawned at Bovington’s,  in Westminster Road. The pawner was a large,   clean-shaven man of clerical appearance.  His name and address were demonstrably   false. The ear had escaped notice, but the  description was surely that of Shlessinger.

Three times had our bearded friend from the  Langham called for news—the third time within   an hour of this fresh development. His  clothes were getting looser on his great   body. He seemed to be wilting away in  his anxiety. “If you will only give  

Me something to do!” was his constant  wail. At last Holmes could oblige him. “He has begun to pawn the  jewels. We should get him now.” “But does this mean that any harm  has befallen the Lady Frances?” Holmes shook his head very gravely.

“Supposing that they have held her  prisoner up to now, it is clear that   they cannot let her loose without their own  destruction. We must prepare for the worst.” “What can I do?” “These people do not know you by sight?” “No.”

“It is possible that he will go to some  other pawnbroker in the future. In that case,   we must begin again. On the other hand, he  has had a fair price and no questions asked,   so if he is in need of ready-money he will  probably come back to Bovington’s. I will  

Give you a note to them, and they will  let you wait in the shop. If the fellow   comes you will follow him home. But no  indiscretion, and, above all, no violence.   I put you on your honour that you will take  no step without my knowledge and consent.”

For two days the Hon. Philip  Green (he was, I may mention,   the son of the famous admiral of that name who  commanded the Sea of Azof fleet in the Crimean   War) brought us no news. On the evening of  the third he rushed into our sitting-room,  

Pale, trembling, with every muscle of his  powerful frame quivering with excitement. “We have him! We have him!” he cried. He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed   him with a few words and  thrust him into an armchair. “Come, now, give us the order of events,” said he.

“She came only an hour ago. It was the  wife, this time, but the pendant she   brought was the fellow of the other. She  is a tall, pale woman, with ferret eyes.” “That is the lady,” said Holmes. “She left the office and I followed  her. She walked up the Kennington Road,  

And I kept behind her. Presently she went into  a shop. Mr. Holmes, it was an undertaker’s.” My companion started. “Well?” he  asked in that vibrant voice which   told of the fiery soul behind the cold grey face. 

“She was talking to the woman behind the counter.  I entered as well. ‘It is late,’ I heard her say,   or words to that effect. The woman was excusing  herself. ‘It should be there before now,’ she   answered. ‘It took longer, being out of the  ordinary.’ They both stopped and looked at me,  

So I asked some questions and then left the shop.” “You did excellently well. What happened next?” “The woman came out, but I had hid myself in  a doorway. Her suspicions had been aroused,   I think, for she looked round her. Then  she called a cab and got in. I was lucky  

Enough to get another and so to follow her. She  got down at last at No. 36, Poultney Square,   Brixton. I drove past, left my cab at the  corner of the square, and watched the house.” “Did you see anyone?”

“The windows were all in darkness save one  on the lower floor. The blind was down,   and I could not see in. I was standing  there, wondering what I should do next,   when a covered van drove up with two men in it.  They descended, took something out of the van,  

And carried it up the steps to the hall  door. Mr. Holmes, it was a coffin.” “Ah!” “For an instant I was on the point of  rushing in. The door had been opened   to admit the men and their burden. It  was the woman who had opened it. But as  

I stood there she caught a glimpse of me,  and I think that she recognised me. I saw   her start, and she hastily closed the door. I  remembered my promise to you, and here I am.” “You have done excellent work,” said Holmes,  scribbling a few words upon a half-sheet of  

Paper. “We can do nothing legal without a  warrant, and you can serve the cause best   by taking this note down to the authorities and  getting one. There may be some difficulty, but I   should think that the sale of the jewellery should  be sufficient. Lestrade will see to all details.”

“But they may murder her in the  meanwhile. What could the coffin mean,   and for whom could it be but for her?” “We will do all that can be done, Mr.  Green. Not a moment will be lost. Leave   it in our hands. Now, Watson,” he  added as our client hurried away,  

“he will set the regular forces on the  move. We are, as usual, the irregulars,   and we must take our own line of action. The  situation strikes me as so desperate that the   most extreme measures are justified. Not a moment  is to be lost in getting to Poultney Square.

“Let us try to reconstruct the situation,”  said he as we drove swiftly past the Houses   of Parliament and over Westminster Bridge. “These  villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to London,   after first alienating her from her faithful  maid. If she has written any letters they have  

Been intercepted. Through some confederate they  have engaged a furnished house. Once inside it,   they have made her a prisoner, and they have  become possessed of the valuable jewellery   which has been their object from the first.  Already they have begun to sell part of it,  

Which seems safe enough to them, since they have  no reason to think that anyone is interested in   the lady’s fate. When she is released she will, of  course, denounce them. Therefore, she must not be   released. But they cannot keep her under lock and  key forever. So murder is their only solution.”

“That seems very clear.” “Now we will take another line of reasoning. When  you follow two separate chains of thought, Watson,   you will find some point of intersection which  should approximate to the truth. We will start   now, not from the lady but from the coffin  and argue backward. That incident proves,  

I fear, beyond all doubt that the lady is dead.  It points also to an orthodox burial with proper   accompaniment of medical certificate and official  sanction. Had the lady been obviously murdered,   they would have buried her in a hole in the back  garden. But here all is open and regular. What  

Does this mean? Surely that they have done her to  death in some way which has deceived the doctor   and simulated a natural end—poisoning, perhaps.  And yet how strange that they should ever let a   doctor approach her unless he were a confederate,  which is hardly a credible proposition.”

“Could they have forged a medical certificate?” “Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No,  I hardly see them doing that. Pull up,   cabby! This is evidently the undertaker’s,   for we have just passed the pawnbroker’s. Would  you go in, Watson? Your appearance inspires   confidence. Ask what hour the Poultney  Square funeral takes place to-morrow.”

The woman in the shop answered me  without hesitation that it was to   be at eight o’clock in the morning. “You see,  Watson, no mystery; everything above-board!   In some way the legal forms have undoubtedly  been complied with, and they think that they  

Have little to fear. Well, there’s nothing for it  now but a direct frontal attack. Are you armed?” “My stick!” “Well, well,   we shall be strong enough. ‘Thrice is he armed  who hath his quarrel just.’ We simply can’t  

Afford to wait for the police or to keep within  the four corners of the law. You can drive off,   cabby. Now, Watson, we’ll just take our luck  together, as we have occasionally in the past.” 

He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark  house in the centre of Poultney Square. It was   opened immediately, and the figure of a tall  woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall. “Well, what do you want?” she asked  sharply, peering at us through the darkness.

“I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger,” said Holmes. “There is no such person here,” she answered,   and tried to close the door, but  Holmes had jammed it with his foot. “Well, I want to see the man who lives here,  whatever he may call himself,” said Holmes firmly.

She hesitated. Then she  threw open the door. “Well,   come in!” said she. “My husband is not  afraid to face any man in the world.” She   closed the door behind us and showed us into  a sitting-room on the right side of the hall,  

Turning up the gas as she left us. “Mr. Peters  will be with you in an instant,” she said. Her words were literally true, for we had  hardly time to look around the dusty and   moth-eaten apartment in which we found ourselves  before the door opened and a big, clean-shaven  

Bald-headed man stepped lightly into the room.  He had a large red face, with pendulous cheeks,   and a general air of superficial benevolence  which was marred by a cruel, vicious mouth. “There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen,”  he said in an unctuous, make-everything-easy  

Voice. “I fancy that you have been misdirected.  Possibly if you tried farther down the street—” “That will do; we have no time to waste,” said  my companion firmly. “You are Henry Peters,   of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger,  

Of Baden and South America. I am as sure of  that as that my own name is Sherlock Holmes.” Peters, as I will now call him, started and  stared hard at his formidable pursuer. “I   guess your name does not frighten me,  Mr. Holmes,” said he coolly. “When a  

Man’s conscience is easy you can’t rattle  him. What is your business in my house?” “I want to know what you have  done with the Lady Frances Carfax,   whom you brought away with you from Baden.”

“I’d be very glad if you could tell me where that  lady may be,” Peters answered coolly. “I’ve a bill   against her for nearly a hundred pounds, and  nothing to show for it but a couple of trumpery   pendants that the dealer would hardly look at.  She attached herself to Mrs. Peters and me at  

Baden—it is a fact that I was using another name  at the time—and she stuck on to us until we came   to London. I paid her bill and her ticket. Once  in London, she gave us the slip, and, as I say,  

Left these out-of-date jewels to pay her bills.  You find her, Mr. Holmes, and I’m your debtor.” “I mean to find her,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I’m  going through this house till I do find her.” “Where is your warrant?”

Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket.  “This will have to serve till a better one comes.” “Why, you’re a common burglar.” “So you might describe me,”  said Holmes cheerfully. “My   companion is also a dangerous ruffian. And  together we are going through your house.” Our opponent opened the door.

“Fetch a policeman, Annie!” said he. There was  a whisk of feminine skirts down the passage,   and the hall door was opened and shut. “Our time is limited, Watson,” said  Holmes. “If you try to stop us, Peters,   you will most certainly get hurt. Where is  that coffin which was brought into your house?”

“What do you want with the coffin?  It is in use. There is a body in it.” “I must see the body.” “Never with my consent.” “Then without it.” With a quick movement  Holmes pushed the fellow to one side and   passed into the hall. A door half  opened stood immediately before us.  

We entered. It was the dining-room. On  the table, under a half-lit chandelier,   the coffin was lying. Holmes turned up the gas  and raised the lid. Deep down in the recesses   of the coffin lay an emaciated figure. The glare  from the lights above beat down upon an aged and  

Withered face. By no possible process of cruelty,  starvation, or disease could this worn-out wreck   be the still beautiful Lady Frances. Holmes’s  face showed his amazement, and also his relief. “Thank God!” he muttered. “It’s someone else.” “Ah, you’ve blundered badly for once,   Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Peters,  who had followed us into the room.

“Who is the dead woman?” “Well, if you really must know,   she is an old nurse of my wife’s, Rose Spender  by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse   Infirmary. We brought her round here, called  in Dr. Horsom, of 13, Firbank Villas—mind you  

Take the address, Mr. Holmes—and had her carefully  tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day   she died—certificate says senile decay—but that’s  only the doctor’s opinion, and of course you know   better. We ordered her funeral to be carried out  by Stimson and Co., of the Kennington Road, who  

Will bury her at eight o’clock to-morrow morning.  Can you pick any hole in that, Mr. Holmes? You’ve   made a silly blunder, and you may as well own  up to it. I’d give something for a photograph   of your gaping, staring face when you pulled aside  that lid expecting to see the Lady Frances Carfax  

And only found a poor old woman of ninety.” Holmes’s expression was as impassive as ever   under the jeers of his antagonist, but his  clenched hands betrayed his acute annoyance. “I am going through your house,” said he. “Are you, though!” cried Peters as a woman’s  voice and heavy steps sounded in the passage.  

“We’ll soon see about that. This way,  officers, if you please. These men have   forced their way into my house, and I cannot  get rid of them. Help me to put them out.” A sergeant and a constable stood in the  doorway. Holmes drew his card from his case.

“This is my name and address.  This is my friend, Dr. Watson.” “Bless you, sir, we know you  very well,” said the sergeant,   “but you can’t stay here without a warrant.” “Of course not. I quite understand that.” “Arrest him!” cried Peters.

“We know where to lay our hands on  this gentleman if he is wanted,” said   the sergeant majestically, “but  you’ll have to go, Mr. Holmes.” “Yes, Watson, we shall have to go.” A minute later we were in the street  once more. Holmes was as cool as ever,  

But I was hot with anger and humiliation.  The sergeant had followed us. “Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that’s the law.” “Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise.” “I expect there was good reason for your  presence there. If there is anything I can do—”

“It’s a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she  is in that house. I expect a warrant presently.” “Then I’ll keep my eye on the parties,   Mr. Holmes. If anything comes  along, I will surely let you know.” It was only nine o’clock, and  we were off full cry upon the  

Trail at once. First we drove  to Brixton Workhouse Infirmary,   where we found that it was indeed the truth that  a charitable couple had called some days before,   that they had claimed an imbecile old woman as  a former servant, and that they had obtained  

Permission to take her away with them. No surprise  was expressed at the news that she had since died. The doctor was our next goal. He had been called  in, had found the woman dying of pure senility,  

Had actually seen her pass away, and had signed  the certificate in due form. “I assure you that   everything was perfectly normal and there  was no room for foul play in the matter,”   said he. Nothing in the house had struck him  as suspicious save that for people of their  

Class it was remarkable that they should have no  servant. So far and no further went the doctor. Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There  had been difficulties of procedure in regard to   the warrant. Some delay was inevitable. The  magistrate’s signature might not be obtained  

Until next morning. If Holmes would call about  nine he could go down with Lestrade and see   it acted upon. So ended the day, save that near  midnight our friend, the sergeant, called to say   that he had seen flickering lights here and there  in the windows of the great dark house, but that  

No one had left it and none had entered. We could  but pray for patience and wait for the morrow. Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation  and too restless for sleep. I left him smoking   hard, with his heavy, dark brows knotted  together, and his long, nervous fingers  

Tapping upon the arms of his chair, as he turned  over in his mind every possible solution of the   mystery. Several times in the course of the night  I heard him prowling about the house. Finally,   just after I had been called in the morning, he  rushed into my room. He was in his dressing-gown,  

But his pale, hollow-eyed face told me  that his night had been a sleepless one. “What time was the funeral? Eight,  was it not?” he asked eagerly. “Well,   it is 7:20 now. Good heavens, Watson, what has  become of any brains that God has given me? Quick,  

Man, quick! It’s life or death—a hundred  chances on death to one on life. I’ll never   forgive myself, never, if we are too late!” Five minutes had not passed before we were   flying in a hansom down Baker Street. But even so  it was twenty-five to eight as we passed Big Ben,  

And eight struck as we tore down the Brixton  Road. But others were late as well as we. Ten   minutes after the hour the hearse was still  standing at the door of the house, and even   as our foaming horse came to a halt the coffin,  supported by three men, appeared on the threshold.  

Holmes darted forward and barred their way. “Take it back!” he cried, laying his hand   on the breast of the foremost.  “Take it back this instant!” “What the devil do you mean? Once again  I ask you, where is your warrant?”  

Shouted the furious Peters, his big red face  glaring over the farther end of the coffin. “The warrant is on its way. The coffin  shall remain in the house until it comes.” The authority in Holmes’s voice had its effect  upon the bearers. Peters had suddenly vanished  

Into the house, and they obeyed these new  orders. “Quick, Watson, quick! Here is a   screw-driver!” he shouted as the coffin was  replaced upon the table. “Here’s one for you,   my man! A sovereign if the lid comes off in a  minute! Ask no questions—work away! That’s good!  

Another! And another! Now pull all together! It’s  giving! It’s giving! Ah, that does it at last.” With a united effort we tore off the  coffin-lid. As we did so there came from   the inside a stupefying and overpowering  smell of chloroform. A body lay within,  

Its head all wreathed in cotton-wool, which had  been soaked in the narcotic. Holmes plucked it   off and disclosed the statuesque face of a  handsome and spiritual woman of middle age.   In an instant he had passed his arm round the  figure and raised her to a sitting position.

“Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark  left? Surely we are not too late!” For half an hour it seemed that we were.  What with actual suffocation, and what   with the poisonous fumes of the chloroform,  the Lady Frances seemed to have passed the  

Last point of recall. And then, at last, with  artificial respiration, with injected ether,   and with every device that science could suggest,  some flutter of life, some quiver of the eyelids,   some dimming of a mirror, spoke of the slowly  returning life. A cab had driven up, and Holmes,  

Parting the blind, looked out at it. “Here is  Lestrade with his warrant,” said he. “He will   find that his birds have flown. And here,” he  added as a heavy step hurried along the passage,   “is someone who has a better right to nurse this  lady than we have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I  

Think that the sooner we can move the Lady Frances  the better. Meanwhile, the funeral may proceed,   and the poor old woman who still lies in that  coffin may go to her last resting-place alone.” “Should you care to add the case to your annals,  my dear Watson,” said Holmes that evening,  

“it can only be as an example of that  temporary eclipse to which even the   best-balanced mind may be exposed. Such  slips are common to all mortals, and the   greatest is he who can recognise and repair  them. To this modified credit I may, perhaps,  

Make some claim. My night was haunted by the  thought that somewhere a clue, a strange sentence,   a curious observation, had come under my notice  and had been too easily dismissed. Then, suddenly,   in the grey of the morning, the words came back  to me. It was the remark of the undertaker’s wife,  

As reported by Philip Green. She had said, ‘It  should be there before now. It took longer,   being out of the ordinary.’ It was the coffin of  which she spoke. It had been out of the ordinary.   That could only mean that it had been made to  some special measurement. But why? Why? Then  

In an instant I remembered the deep sides, and  the little wasted figure at the bottom. Why so   large a coffin for so small a body? To leave room  for another body. Both would be buried under the  

One certificate. It had all been so clear, if  only my own sight had not been dimmed. At eight   the Lady Frances would be buried. Our one chance  was to stop the coffin before it left the house. “It was a desperate chance that we might  find her alive, but it was a chance,  

As the result showed. These people had never, to  my knowledge, done a murder. They might shrink   from actual violence at the last. The could  bury her with no sign of how she met her end,   and even if she were exhumed there was a chance  for them. I hoped that such considerations might  

Prevail with them. You can reconstruct the scene  well enough. You saw the horrible den upstairs,   where the poor lady had been kept so long.  They rushed in and overpowered her with   their chloroform, carried her down, poured more  into the coffin to insure against her waking,  

And then screwed down the lid. A clever device,  Watson. It is new to me in the annals of crime.   If our ex-missionary friends escape the clutches  of Lestrade, I shall expect to hear of some   brilliant incidents in their future career.” The 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 I advanced, but he repulsed  me with a look of furious anger. “If you will stand there I will talk.  If you do not you must leave the room.”

I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary  qualities of Holmes that I have always   deferred to his wishes, even when I least  understood them. But now all my professional   instincts were aroused. Let him be my master  elsewhere, I at least was his in a sick room. 

“Holmes,” said I, “you are not  yourself. A sick man is but a child,   and so I will treat you. Whether you  like it or not, I will examine your   symptoms and treat you for them.” He looked at me with venomous eyes. “If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not,  

Let me at least have someone in  whom I have confidence,” said he. “Then you have none in me?” “In your friendship, certainly. But  facts are facts, Watson, and, after all,   you are only a general practitioner with  very limited experience and mediocre  

Qualifications. It is painful to have to say  these things, but you leave me no choice.” I was bitterly hurt. “Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes.  It shows me very clearly the state of your  

Own nerves. But if you have no confidence in me  I would not intrude my services. Let me bring   Sir Jasper Meek or Penrose Fisher, or any of the  best men in London. But someone you must have,  

And that is final. If you think that I am going  to stand here and see you die without either   helping you myself or bringing anyone else to  help you, then you have mistaken your man.” “You mean well, Watson,” said the  sick man with something between a  

Sob and a groan. “Shall I demonstrate  your own ignorance? What do you know,   pray, of Tapanuli fever? What do you  know of the black Formosa corruption?” “I have never heard of either.” “There are many problems of disease,  many strange pathological possibilities,  

In the East, Watson.” He paused after each  sentence to collect his failing strength. “I   have learned so much during some recent  researches which have a medico-criminal   aspect. It was in the course of them that I  contracted this complaint. You can do nothing.”

“Possibly not. But I happen to know  that Dr. Ainstree, the greatest living   authority upon tropical disease, is now  in London. All remonstrance is useless,   Holmes, I am going this instant to fetch  him.” I turned resolutely to the door.

Never have I had such a shock! In an instant, with  a tiger-spring, the dying man had intercepted me.   I heard the sharp snap of a twisted key. The  next moment he had staggered back to his bed,   exhausted and panting after his  one tremendous outflame of energy.

“You won’t take the key from me by force,  Watson, I’ve got you, my friend. Here you are,   and here you will stay until I will otherwise.  But I’ll humour you.” (All this in little gasps,   with terrible struggles for breath between.)  “You’ve only my own good at heart. Of course  

I know that very well. You shall have your way,  but give me time to get my strength. Not now,   Watson, not now. It’s four  o’clock. At six you can go.” “This is insanity, Holmes.” “Only two hours, Watson. I promise you  will go at six. Are you content to wait?”

“I seem to have no choice.” “None in the world, Watson. Thank you, I  need no help in arranging the clothes. You   will please keep your distance. Now, Watson,  there is one other condition that I would make.   You will seek help, not from the man you  mention, but from the one that I choose.”

“By all means.” “The first three sensible words that you  have uttered since you entered this room,   Watson. You will find some books over there. I am  somewhat exhausted; I wonder how a battery feels   when it pours electricity into a non-conductor?  At six, Watson, we resume our conversation.”

But it was destined to be resumed long before  that hour, and in circumstances which gave me   a shock hardly second to that caused by his spring  to the door. I had stood for some minutes looking   at the silent figure in the bed. His face was  almost covered by the clothes and he appeared  

To be asleep. Then, unable to settle down  to reading, I walked slowly round the room,   examining the pictures of celebrated criminals  with which every wall was adorned. Finally,   in my aimless perambulation, I came to the  mantelpiece. A litter of pipes, tobacco-pouches,   syringes, penknives, revolver-cartridges,  and other débris was scattered over it.  

In the midst of these was a small black and  white ivory box with a sliding lid. It was a   neat little thing, and I had stretched out  my hand to examine it more closely, when—— It was a dreadful cry that he gave—a yell which  might have been heard down the street. My skin  

Went cold and my hair bristled at that  horrible scream. As I turned I caught a   glimpse of a convulsed face and frantic eyes. I  stood paralysed, with the little box in my hand. “Put it down! Down, this instant, Watson—this  instant, I say!” His head sank back upon the  

Pillow and he gave a deep sigh of relief as I  replaced the box upon the mantelpiece. “I hate   to have my things touched, Watson. You know that  I hate it. You fidget me beyond endurance. You,  

A doctor—you are enough to drive a patient into an  asylum. Sit down, man, and let me have my rest!”  The incident left a most unpleasant  impression upon my mind. The violent   and causeless excitement, followed by this  brutality of speech, so far removed from his  

Usual suavity, showed me how deep was the  disorganisation of his mind. Of all ruins,   that of a noble mind is the most deplorable.  I sat in silent dejection until the stipulated   time had passed. He seemed to have  been watching the clock as well as I,  

For it was hardly six before he began to talk  with the same feverish animation as before.  “Now, Watson,” said he. “Have  you any change in your pocket?” “Yes.” “Any silver?” “A good deal.” “How many half-crowns?” “I have five.” “Ah, too few! Too few! How very  unfortunate, Watson! However,  

Such as they are you can put them in your  watchpocket. And all the rest of your money   in your left trouser pocket. Thank you. It  will balance you so much better like that.” This was raving insanity. He shuddered, and  again made a sound between a cough and a sob.

“You will now light the gas, Watson, but you will  be very careful that not for one instant shall it   be more than half on. I implore you to be careful,  Watson. Thank you, that is excellent. No, you need  

Not draw the blind. Now you will have the kindness  to place some letters and papers upon this table   within my reach. Thank you. Now some of that  litter from the mantelpiece. Excellent, Watson!   There is a sugar-tongs there. Kindly raise that  small ivory box with its assistance. Place it here  

Among the papers. Good! You can now go and fetch  Mr. Culverton Smith, of 13, Lower Burke Street.” To tell the truth, my desire to fetch a  doctor had somewhat weakened, for poor   Holmes was so obviously delirious that it  seemed dangerous to leave him. However,  

He was as eager now to consult the person  named as he had been obstinate in refusing. “I never heard the name,” said I. “Possibly not, my good Watson. It may surprise  you to know that the man upon earth who is best  

Versed in this disease is not a medical man, but  a planter. Mr. Culverton Smith is a well-known   resident of Sumatra, now visiting London. An  outbreak of the disease upon his plantation,   which was distant from medical aid, caused him to  study it himself, with some rather far-reaching  

Consequences. He is a very methodical person,  and I did not desire you to start before six,   because I was well aware that you would not  find him in his study. If you could persuade   him to come here and give us the benefit  of his unique experience of this disease,  

The investigation of which has been his dearest  hobby, I cannot doubt that he could help me.” I gave Holmes’s remarks as a consecutive whole  and will not attempt to indicate how they were   interrupted by gaspings for breath and those  clutchings of his hands which indicated the  

Pain from which he was suffering. His appearance  had changed for the worse during the few hours   that I had been with him. Those hectic spots were  more pronounced, the eyes shone more brightly out   of darker hollows, and a cold sweat glimmered  upon his brow. He still retained, however,  

The jaunty gallantry of his speech. To the  last gasp he would always be the master. “You will tell him exactly how you have left me,”  said he. “You will convey the very impression   which is in your own mind—a dying man—a dying  and delirious man. Indeed, I cannot think why  

The whole bed of the ocean is not one solid mass  of oysters, so prolific the creatures seem. Ah,   I am wandering! Strange how the brain controls  the brain! What was I saying, Watson?” “My directions for Mr. Culverton Smith.”

“Ah, yes, I remember. My life depends upon  it. Plead with him, Watson. There is no good   feeling between us. His nephew, Watson—I had  suspicions of foul play and I allowed him to   see it. The boy died horribly. He has a  grudge against me. You will soften him,  

Watson. Beg him, pray him, get him here  by any means. He can save me—only he!” “I will bring him in a cab, if  I have to carry him down to it.” “You will do nothing of the sort. You will  persuade him to come. And then you will  

Return in front of him. Make any excuse  so as not to come with him. Don’t forget,   Watson. You won’t fail me. You never did fail me.  No doubt there are natural enemies which limit the   increase of the creatures. You and I, Watson,  we have done our part. Shall the world, then,  

Be overrun by oysters? No, no; horrible!  You’ll convey all that is in your mind.” I left him full of the image of this  magnificent intellect babbling like a   foolish child. He had handed me the key,  and with a happy thought I took it with  

Me lest he should lock himself in. Mrs.  Hudson was waiting, trembling and weeping,   in the passage. Behind me as I passed from the  flat I heard Holmes’s high, thin voice in some   delirious chant. Below, as I stood whistling  for a cab, a man came on me through the fog.

“How is Mr. Holmes, sir?” he asked. It was an old acquaintance, Inspector Morton,  of Scotland Yard, dressed in unofficial tweeds. “He is very ill,” I answered. He looked at me in a most singular   fashion. Had it not been too fiendish, I  could have imagined that the gleam of the  

Fanlight showed exultation in his face. “I heard some rumour of it,” said he. The cab had driven up, and I left him. Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine  houses lying in the vague borderland between  

Notting Hill and Kensington. The particular one at  which my cabman pulled up had an air of smug and   demure respectability in its old-fashioned  iron railings, its massive folding-door,   and its shining brasswork. All was  in keeping with a solemn butler who   appeared framed in the pink radiance of  a tinted electrical light behind him.

“Yes, Mr. Culverton Smith is in. Dr. Watson!  Very good, sir, I will take up your card.” My humble name and title did not appear to  impress Mr. Culverton Smith. Through the   half-open door I heard a high,  petulant, penetrating voice. “Who is this person? What does he want? Dear me,  

Staples, how often have I said that I am  not to be disturbed in my hours of study?” There came a gentle flow of soothing  explanation from the butler. “Well, I won’t see him, Staples. I can’t  have my work interrupted like this. I am  

Not at home. Say so. Tell him to come in  the morning if he really must see me.” Again the gentle murmur. “Well, well, give him that message. He can come in   the morning, or he can stay away.  My work must not be hindered.”

I thought of Holmes tossing upon his bed  of sickness and counting the minutes,   perhaps, until I could bring help  to him. It was not a time to stand   upon ceremony. His life depended upon  my promptness. Before the apologetic   butler had delivered his message I had  pushed past him and was in the room.

With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a  reclining chair beside the fire. I saw a great   yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy, with  heavy, double-chin, and two sullen, menacing   grey eyes which glared at me from under tufted  and sandy brows. A high bald head had a small  

Velvet smoking-cap poised coquettishly upon one  side of its pink curve. The skull was of enormous   capacity, and yet as I looked down I saw to my  amazement that the figure of the man was small and   frail, twisted in the shoulders and back like one  who has suffered from rickets in his childhood.

“What’s this?” he cried in a high,  screaming voice. “What is the meaning   of this intrusion? Didn’t I send you word  that I would see you to-morrow morning?” “I am sorry,” said I, “but the matter  cannot be delayed. Mr. Sherlock Holmes—” The mention of my friend’s name had an  extraordinary effect upon the little  

Man. The look of anger passed in an instant from  his face. His features became tense and alert. “Have you come from Holmes?” he asked. “I have just left him.” “What about Holmes? How is he?” “He is desperately ill. That is why I have come.”

The man motioned me to a chair, and turned to  resume his own. As he did so I caught a glimpse   of his face in the mirror over the mantelpiece.  I could have sworn that it was set in a malicious  

And abominable smile. Yet I persuaded myself that  it must have been some nervous contraction which   I had surprised, for he turned to me an instant  later with genuine concern upon his features. “I am sorry to hear this,” said he. “I only know  Mr. Holmes through some business dealings which we  

Have had, but I have every respect for his talents  and his character. He is an amateur of crime,   as I am of disease. For him the villain, for me  the microbe. There are my prisons,” he continued,   pointing to a row of bottles and jars  which stood upon a side table. “Among those  

Gelatine cultivations some of the very worst  offenders in the world are now doing time.” “It was on account of your special knowledge  that Mr. Holmes desired to see you. He has a   high opinion of you and thought that you were  the one man in London who could help him.”

The little man started, and the  jaunty smoking-cap slid to the floor. “Why?” he asked. “Why should Mr. Homes  think that I could help him in his trouble?” “Because of your knowledge of Eastern diseases.” “But why should he think that this disease  which he has contracted is Eastern?” “Because, in some professional inquiry,  

He has been working among Chinese  sailors down in the docks.” Mr. Culverton Smith smiled pleasantly  and picked up his smoking-cap. “Oh, that’s it—is it?” said he.  “I trust the matter is not so   grave as you suppose. How long has he been ill?” “About three days.” “Is he delirious?” “Occasionally.”

“Tut, tut! This sounds serious.  It would be inhuman not to answer   his call. I very much resent  any interruption to my work,   Dr. Watson, but this case is certainly  exceptional. I will come with you at once.” I remembered Holmes’s injunction. “I have another appointment,” said I.

“Very good. I will go alone. I have a note  of Mr. Holmes’s address. You can rely upon   my being there within half an hour at most.” It was with a sinking heart that I reentered   Holmes’s bedroom. For all that I knew the  worst might have happened in my absence. To  

My enormous relief, he had improved greatly in the  interval. His appearance was as ghastly as ever,   but all trace of delirium had left him and he  spoke in a feeble voice, it is true, but with even   more than his usual crispness and lucidity. “Well, did you see him, Watson?” “Yes; he is coming.”

“Admirable, Watson! Admirable!  You are the best of messengers.” “He wished to return with me.” “That would never do, Watson. That would be  obviously impossible. Did he ask what ailed me?” “I told him about the Chinese in the East End.” “Exactly! Well, Watson, you have done all that  

A good friend could. You can  now disappear from the scene.” “I must wait and hear his opinion, Holmes.” “Of course you must. But I have reasons  to suppose that this opinion would be   very much more frank and valuable if  he imagines that we are alone. There  

Is just room behind the head of my bed, Watson.” “My dear Holmes!” “I fear there is no alternative, Watson. The  room does not lend itself to concealment,   which is as well, as it is the less likely  to arouse suspicion. But just there, Watson,  

I fancy that it could be done.” Suddenly  he sat up with a rigid intentness upon his   haggard face. “There are the wheels, Watson.  Quick, man, if you love me! And don’t budge,   whatever happens—whatever happens, do you  hear? Don’t speak! Don’t move! Just listen  

With all your ears.” Then in an instant his sudden  access of strength departed, and his masterful,   purposeful talk droned away into the low,  vague murmurings of a semi-delirious man. From the hiding-place into which I had been  so swiftly hustled I heard the footfalls upon  

The stair, with the opening and the closing  of the bedroom door. Then, to my surprise,   there came a long silence, broken only  by the heavy breathings and gaspings   of the sick man. I could imagine that  our visitor was standing by the bedside  

And looking down at the sufferer. At  last that strange hush was broken. “Holmes!” he cried. “Holmes!” in the insistent  tone of one who awakens a sleeper. “Can’t you   hear me, Holmes?” There was a rustling, as if he  had shaken the sick man roughly by the shoulder.

“Is that you, Mr. Smith?” Holmes whispered.  “I hardly dared hope that you would come.” The other laughed. “I should imagine not,” he said. “And yet,   you see, I am here. Coals of  fire, Holmes—coals of fire!” “It is very good of you—very noble of  you. I appreciate your special knowledge.” Our visitor sniggered.

“You do. You are, fortunately,   the only man in London who does. Do  you know what is the matter with you?” “The same,” said Holmes. “Ah! You recognise the symptoms?” “Only too well.” “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, Holmes. I  shouldn’t be surprised if it were the same.  

A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor  was a dead man on the fourth day—a strong,   hearty young fellow. It was certainly, as  you said, very surprising that he should   have contracted an out-of-the-way Asiatic  disease in the heart of London—a disease,  

Too, of which I had made such a very special  study. Singular coincidence, Holmes. Very smart   of you to notice it, but rather uncharitable  to suggest that it was cause and effect.” “I knew that you did it.” “Oh, you did, did you?  Well, you couldn’t prove it,  

Anyhow. But what do you think of yourself  spreading reports about me like that,   and then crawling to me for help the moment you  are in trouble? What sort of a game is that—eh?” I heard the rasping, laboured breathing of  the sick man. “Give me the water!” he gasped.

“You’re precious near your end,  my friend, but I don’t want you to   go till I have had a word with you.  That’s why I give you water. There,   don’t slop it about! That’s right.  Can you understand what I say?” Holmes groaned.

“Do what you can for me. Let bygones be  bygones,” he whispered. “I’ll put the   words out of my head—I swear I will.  Only cure me, and I’ll forget it.” “Forget what?” “Well, about Victor Savage’s death. You as good   as admitted just now that you  had done it. I’ll forget it.”

“You can forget it or remember it, just as  you like. I don’t see you in the witnessbox.   Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes,  I assure you. It matters nothing to me that   you should know how my nephew died. It’s  not him we are talking about. It’s you.” “Yes, yes.”

“The fellow who came for me—I’ve forgotten his   name—said that you contracted it down  in the East End among the sailors.” “I could only account for it so.” “You are proud of your brains, Holmes,  are you not? Think yourself smart,  

Don’t you? You came across someone who was  smarter this time. Now cast your mind back,   Holmes. Can you think of no other  way you could have got this thing?” “I can’t think. My mind is gone.  For heaven’s sake help me!” “Yes, I will help you. I’ll help  you to understand just where you  

Are and how you got there. I’d  like you to know before you die.”  “Give me something to ease my pain.” “Painful, is it? Yes, the coolies used   to do some squealing towards the  end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy.” “Yes, yes; it is cramp.”

“Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow.  Listen now! Can you remember any unusual   incident in your life just about  the time your symptoms began?” “No, no; nothing.” “Think again.” “I’m too ill to think.” “Well, then, I’ll help you.  Did anything come by post?” “By post?” “A box by chance?” “I’m fainting—I’m gone!”

“Listen, Holmes!” There was a sound as if  he was shaking the dying man, and it was   all that I could do to hold myself quiet in my  hiding-place. “You must hear me. You shall hear   me. Do you remember a box—an ivory box? It came  on Wednesday. You opened it—do you remember?”

“Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a  sharp spring inside it. Some joke—” “It was no joke, as you will find to your cost.  You fool, you would have it and you have got it.   Who asked you to cross my path? If you had  left me alone I would not have hurt you.”

“I remember,” Holmes gasped. “The spring!  It drew blood. This box—this on the table.” “The very one, by George! And it may as well  leave the room in my pocket. There goes your   last shred of evidence. But you have the truth  now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge  

That I killed you. You knew too much of the  fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent you to   share it. You are very near your end, Holmes.  I will sit here and I will watch you die.” Holmes’s voice had sunk to  an almost inaudible whisper.

“What is that?” said Smith. “Turn up the gas?  Ah, the shadows begin to fall, do they? Yes,   I will turn it up, that I may see you  the better.” He crossed the room and the   light suddenly brightened. “Is there any other  little service that I can do you, my friend?”

“A match and a cigarette.” I nearly called out in my joy and my amazement. He  was speaking in his natural voice—a little weak,   perhaps, but the very voice I  knew. There was a long pause,   and I felt that Culverton Smith was standing in  silent amazement looking down at his companion.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I heard  him say at last in a dry, rasping tone. “The best way of successfully acting a part  is to be it,” said Holmes. “I give you my   word that for three days I have tasted neither  food nor drink until you were good enough to  

Pour me out that glass of water. But it is  the tobacco which I find most irksome. Ah,   here are some cigarettes.” I heard  the striking of a match. “That is   very much better. Halloa! halloa!  Do I hear the step of a friend?” There were footfalls outside, the door  opened, and Inspector Morton appeared.

“All is in order and this  is your man,” said Holmes. The officer gave the usual cautions. “I arrest you on the charge of the murder  of one Victor Savage,” he concluded. “And you might add of the attempted murder of  one Sherlock Holmes,” remarked my friend with  

A chuckle. “To save an invalid trouble,  Inspector, Mr. Culverton Smith was good   enough to give our signal by turning up the  gas. By the way, the prisoner has a small box   in the right-hand pocket of his coat which  it would be as well to remove. Thank you. I  

Would handle it gingerly if I were you. Put it  down here. It may play its part in the trial.” There was a sudden rush and a scuffle, followed  by the clash of iron and a cry of pain. “You’ll only get yourself hurt,”  said the inspector. “Stand still,  

Will you?” There was the click  of the closing handcuffs. “A nice trap!” cried the high, snarling voice.  “It will bring you into the dock, Holmes,   not me. He asked me to come here to cure him. I  was sorry for him and I came. Now he will pretend,  

No doubt, that I have said anything which  he may invent which will corroborate his   insane suspicions. You can lie as you like,  Holmes. My word is always as good as yours.” “Good heavens!” cried Holmes. “I had  totally forgotten him. My dear Watson,  

I owe you a thousand apologies. To think that I  should have overlooked you! I need not introduce   you to Mr. Culverton Smith, since I understand  that you met somewhat earlier in the evening. Have  

You the cab below? I will follow you when I am  dressed, for I may be of some use at the station. “I never needed it more,” said Holmes as he  refreshed himself with a glass of claret and   some biscuits in the intervals of his toilet.  “However, as you know, my habits are irregular,  

And such a feat means less to me than to most men.  It was very essential that I should impress Mrs.   Hudson with the reality of my condition, since she  was to convey it to you, and you in turn to him.  

You won’t be offended, Watson? You will realise  that among your many talents dissimulation finds   no place, and that if you had shared my secret  you would never have been able to impress Smith   with the urgent necessity of his presence, which  was the vital point of the whole scheme. Knowing  

His vindictive nature, I was perfectly certain  that he would come to look upon his handiwork.”  “But your appearance, Holmes—your ghastly face?” “Three days of absolute fast does not improve   one’s beauty, Watson. For the rest, there is  nothing which a sponge may not cure. With vaseline  

Upon one’s forehead, belladonna in one’s eyes,  rouge over the cheek-bones, and crusts of beeswax   round one’s lips, a very satisfying effect can be  produced. Malingering is a subject upon which I   have sometimes thought of writing a monograph.  A little occasional talk about half-crowns,  

Oysters, or any other extraneous subject  produces a pleasing effect of delirium.” “But why would you not let me near you,  since there was in truth no infection?” “Can you ask, my dear Watson? Do you imagine that  I have no respect for your medical talents? Could  

I fancy that your astute judgment would pass a  dying man who, however weak, had no rise of pulse   or temperature? At four yards, I could deceive  you. If I failed to do so, who would bring my  

Smith within my grasp? No, Watson, I would not  touch that box. You can just see if you look   at it sideways where the sharp spring like a  viper’s tooth emerges as you open it. I dare   say it was by some such device that poor Savage,  who stood between this monster and a reversion,  

Was done to death. My correspondence, however, is,  as you know, a varied one, and I am somewhat upon   my guard against any packages which reach me.  It was clear to me, however, that by pretending   that he had really succeeded in his design I  might surprise a confession. That pretence I  

Have carried out with the thoroughness of the  true artist. Thank you, Watson, you must help   me on with my coat. When we have finished at the  police-station I think that something nutritious   at Simpson’s would not be out of place.” His Last Bow: The War Service of Sherlock Holmes.

It was nine o’clock at night upon the second of  August—the most terrible August in the history   of the world. One might have thought already that  God’s curse hung heavy over a degenerate world,   for there was an awesome hush and a feeling of  vague expectancy in the sultry and stagnant air.  

The sun had long set, but one blood-red gash like  an open wound lay low in the distant west. Above,   the stars were shining brightly, and below, the  lights of the shipping glimmered in the bay. The   two famous Germans stood beside the stone  parapet of the garden walk, with the long,  

Low, heavily gabled house behind them, and  they looked down upon the broad sweep of   the beach at the foot of the great chalk cliff  in which Von Bork, like some wandering eagle,   had perched himself four years before.  They stood with their heads close together,  

Talking in low, confidential tones. From  below the two glowing ends of their cigars   might have been the smouldering eyes of some  malignant fiend looking down in the darkness. A remarkable man this Von Bork—a man who could  hardly be matched among all the devoted agents  

Of the Kaiser. It was his talents which had  first recommended him for the English mission,   the most important mission of all, but  since he had taken it over those talents   had become more and more manifest to the  half-dozen people in the world who were  

Really in touch with the truth. One  of these was his present companion,   Baron Von Herling, the chief secretary of  the legation, whose huge 100-horse-power   Benz car was blocking the country lane as  it waited to waft its owner back to London.

“So far as I can judge the trend of events,  you will probably be back in Berlin within   the week,” the secretary was saying. “When you  get there, my dear Von Bork, I think you will   be surprised at the welcome you will receive.  I happen to know what is thought in the highest  

Quarters of your work in this country.” He was a  huge man, the secretary, deep, broad, and tall,   with a slow, heavy fashion of speech which had  been his main asset in his political career. Von Bork laughed. “They are not very hard to deceive,”  he remarked. “A more docile,  

Simple folk could not be imagined.” “I don’t know about that,” said the other  thoughtfully. “They have strange limits and   one must learn to observe them. It is that surface  simplicity of theirs which makes a trap for the   stranger. One’s first impression is that they  are entirely soft. Then one comes suddenly upon  

Something very hard, and you know that you have  reached the limit and must adapt yourself to the   fact. They have, for example, their insular  conventions which simply must be observed.” “Meaning ‘good form’ and that sort of thing?”  Von Bork sighed as one who had suffered much.

“Meaning British prejudice in all its queer  manifestations. As an example I may quote one   of my own worst blunders—I can afford to talk of  my blunders, for you know my work well enough to   be aware of my successes. It was on my first  arrival. I was invited to a week-end gathering  

At the country house of a cabinet minister.  The conversation was amazingly indiscreet.” Von Bork nodded. “I’ve been there,” said he dryly. “Exactly. Well, I naturally sent a résumé of  the information to Berlin. Unfortunately our   good chancellor is a little heavy-handed in these  matters, and he transmitted a remark which showed  

That he was aware of what had been said. This, of  course, took the trail straight up to me. You’ve   no idea the harm that it did me. There was nothing  soft about our British hosts on that occasion,  

I can assure you. I was two years living it  down. Now you, with this sporting pose of yours—” “No, no, don’t call it a pose.  A pose is an artificial thing.   This is quite natural. I am a  born sportsman. I enjoy it.”

“Well, that makes it the more effective. You yacht  against them, you hunt with them, you play polo,   you match them in every game, your four-in-hand  takes the prize at Olympia. I have even heard   that you go the length of boxing with the young  officers. What is the result? Nobody takes you  

Seriously. You are a ‘good old sport’ ‘quite a  decent fellow for a German,’ a hard-drinking,   night-club, knock-about-town, devil-may-care  young fellow. And all the time this quiet   country house of yours is the centre of  half the mischief in England, and the  

Sporting squire the most astute secret-service  man in Europe. Genius, my dear Von Bork—genius!” “You flatter me, Baron. But certainly I may  claim my four years in this country have not   been unproductive. I’ve never shown you my little  store. Would you mind stepping in for a moment?” 

The door of the study opened straight on to  the terrace. Von Bork pushed it back, and,   leading the way, he clicked the switch of  the electric light. He then closed the door   behind the bulky form which followed him  and carefully adjusted the heavy curtain  

Over the latticed window. Only when all these  precautions had been taken and tested did he   turn his sunburned aquiline face to his guest. “Some of my papers have gone,” said he. “When my   wife and the household left yesterday for Flushing  they took the less important with them. I must,  

Of course, claim the protection  of the embassy for the others.” “Your name has already been filed as one of the  personal suite. There will be no difficulties   for you or your baggage. Of course, it is just  possible that we may not have to go. England may  

Leave France to her fate. We are sure that  there is no binding treaty between them.” “And Belgium?” “Yes, and Belgium, too.” Von Bork shook his head. “I don’t  see how that could be. There is a   definite treaty there. She could never  recover from such a humiliation.”

“She would at least have peace for the moment.” “But her honour?” “Tut, my dear sir, we live in a utilitarian age.  Honour is a mediæval conception. Besides England   is not ready. It is an inconceivable thing,  but even our special war tax of fifty million,  

Which one would think made our purpose as clear  as if we had advertised it on the front page of   the Times, has not roused these people from their  slumbers. Here and there one hears a question. It  

Is my business to find an answer. Here and there  also there is an irritation. It is my business to   soothe it. But I can assure you that so far as  the essentials go—the storage of munitions, the   preparation for submarine attack, the arrangements  for making high explosives—nothing is prepared.  

How, then, can England come in, especially when  we have stirred her up such a devil’s brew of   Irish civil war, window-breaking Furies, and  God knows what to keep her thoughts at home.” “She must think of her future.”

“Ah, that is another matter. I fancy that in the  future we have our own very definite plans about   England, and that your information will be very  vital to us. It is to-day or to-morrow with Mr.  

John Bull. If he prefers to-day we are perfectly  ready. If it is to-morrow we shall be more ready   still. I should think they would be wiser to fight  with allies than without them, but that is their  

Own affair. This week is their week of destiny.  But you were speaking of your papers.” He sat in   the armchair with the light shining upon his broad  bald head, while he puffed sedately at his cigar. The large oak-panelled, book-lined room had a  curtain hung in the further corner. When this was  

Drawn it disclosed a large, brass-bound safe. Von  Bork detached a small key from his watch chain,   and after some considerable manipulation  of the lock he swung open the heavy door. “Look!” said he, standing  clear, with a wave of his hand. The light shone vividly into the opened safe,  

And the secretary of the embassy gazed  with an absorbed interest at the rows   of stuffed pigeon-holes with which it was  furnished. Each pigeon-hole had its label,   and his eyes as he glanced along them  read a long series of such titles as   “Fords,” “Harbour-defences,” “Aeroplanes,”  “Ireland,” “Egypt,” “Portsmouth forts,” “The  

Channel,” “Rosythe,” and a score of others. Each  compartment was bristling with papers and plans. “Colossal!” said the secretary. Putting down  his cigar he softly clapped his fat hands. “And all in four years, Baron. Not  such a bad show for the hard-drinking,  

Hard-riding country squire. But the gem of my  collection is coming and there is the setting   all ready for it.” He pointed to a space  over which “Naval Signals” was printed. “But you have a good dossier there already.”

“Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty  in some way got the alarm and every code has   been changed. It was a blow, Baron—the  worst setback in my whole campaign. But   thanks to my check-book and the good  Altamont all will be well to-night.”

The Baron looked at his watch and gave a  guttural exclamation of disappointment. “Well, I really can wait no longer. You  can imagine that things are moving at   present in Carlton Terrace and that  we have all to be at our posts. I had  

Hoped to be able to bring news of your  great coup. Did Altamont name no hour?” Von Bork pushed over a telegram. Will come without fail to-night and  bring new sparking plugs. — Altamont. “Sparking plugs, eh?”

“You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep  a full garage. In our code everything likely to   come up is named after some spare part. If  he talks of a radiator it is a battleship,   of an oil pump a cruiser, and so on.  Sparking plugs are naval signals.”

“From Portsmouth at midday,” said the secretary,   examining the superscription. “By  the way, what do you give him?” “Five hundred pounds for this particular  job. Of course he has a salary as well.”  “The greedy rogue. They are useful, these  traitors, but I grudge them their blood money.” 

“I grudge Altamont nothing. He is a  wonderful worker. If I pay him well,   at least he delivers the goods,  to use his own phrase. Besides he   is not a traitor. I assure you that our most  pan-Germanic Junker is a sucking dove in his   feelings towards England as compared  with a real bitter Irish-American.”

“Oh, an Irish-American?” “If you heard him talk you would not  doubt it. Sometimes I assure you I can   hardly understand him. He seems to have  declared war on the King’s English as   well as on the English king. Must you  really go? He may be here any moment.”

“No. I’m sorry, but I have already overstayed  my time. We shall expect you early to-morrow,   and when you get that signal book through the  little door on the Duke of York’s steps you   can put a triumphant Finis to your record  in England. What! Tokay!” He indicated a  

Heavily sealed dust-covered bottle which  stood with two high glasses upon a salver. “May I offer you a glass before your journey?” “No, thanks. But it looks like revelry.” “Altamont has a nice taste in wines, and he took a  fancy to my Tokay. He is a touchy fellow and needs  

Humouring in small things. I have to study him,  I assure you.” They had strolled out on to the   terrace again, and along it to the further end  where at a touch from the Baron’s chauffeur the   great car shivered and chuckled. “Those are the  lights of Harwich, I suppose,” said the secretary,  

Pulling on his dust coat. “How still and  peaceful it all seems. There may be other   lights within the week, and the English coast a  less tranquil place! The heavens, too, may not   be quite so peaceful if all that the good Zepplin  promises us comes true. By the way, who is that?”

Only one window showed a light behind them;  in it there stood a lamp, and beside it,   seated at a table, was a dear old ruddy-faced  woman in a country cap. She was bending over her   knitting and stopping occasionally to stroke  a large black cat upon a stool beside her.

“That is Martha, the only servant I have left.” The secretary chuckled. “She might almost personify Britannia,” said he,  “with her complete self-absorption and general air   of comfortable somnolence. Well, au revoir,  Von Bork!” With a final wave of his hand he  

Sprang into the car, and a moment later the two  golden cones from the headlights shot through the   darkness. The secretary lay back in the cushions  of the luxurious limousine, with his thoughts so   full of the impending European tragedy that  he hardly observed that as his car swung  

Round the village street it nearly passed over  a little Ford coming in the opposite direction. Von Bork walked slowly back to the study when  the last gleams of the motor lamps had faded   into the distance. As he passed he observed  that his old housekeeper had put out her lamp  

And retired. It was a new experience to him, the  silence and darkness of his widespread house,   for his family and household had been a large one.  It was a relief to him, however, to think that  

They were all in safety and that, but for that  one old woman who had lingered in the kitchen,   he had the whole place to himself. There was a  good deal of tidying up to do inside his study  

And he set himself to do it until his keen,  handsome face was flushed with the heat of the   burning papers. A leather valise stood beside his  table, and into this he began to pack very neatly   and systematically the precious contents of his  safe. He had hardly got started with the work,  

However, when his quick ears caught the sounds of  a distant car. Instantly he gave an exclamation   of satisfaction, strapped up the valise, shut  the safe, locked it, and hurried out on to the  

Terrace. He was just in time to see the lights  of a small car come to a halt at the gate. A   passenger sprang out of it and advanced swiftly  towards him, while the chauffeur, a heavily built,   elderly man with a grey moustache, settled down  like one who resigns himself to a long vigil.

“Well?” asked Von Bork eagerly,  running forward to meet his visitor. For answer the man waved a small brown-paper  parcel triumphantly above his head. “You can give me the glad hand to-night, mister,”  he cried. “I’m bringing home the bacon at last.” “The signals?”

“Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of  them, semaphore, lamp code, Marconi—a copy, mind   you, not the original. That was too dangerous.  But it’s the real goods, and you can lay to that.”   He slapped the German upon the shoulder with a  rough familiarity from which the other winced.

“Come in,” he said. “I’m all alone in the house.  I was only waiting for this. Of course a copy is   better than the original. If an original  were missing they would change the whole   thing. You think it’s all safe about the copy?” The Irish-American had entered the study and  

Stretched his long limbs from the armchair. He  was a tall, gaunt man of sixty, with clear-cut   features and a small goatee beard which gave  him a general resemblance to the caricatures   of Uncle Sam. A half-smoked, sodden cigar hung  from the corner of his mouth, and as he sat down  

He struck a match and relit it. “Making ready for  a move?” he remarked as he looked round him. “Say,   mister,” he added, as his eyes fell upon the  safe from which the curtain was now removed,   “you don’t tell me you keep your papers in that?” “Why not?”

“Gosh, in a wide-open contraption like that!  And they reckon you to be some spy. Why,   a Yankee crook would be into that with a  can-opener. If I’d known that any letter   of mine was goin’ to lie loose in a thing like  that I’d have been a mug to write to you at all.”

“It would puzzle any crook to force that safe,”   Von Bork answered. “You won’t  cut that metal with any tool.” “But the lock?” “No, it’s a double combination  lock. You know what that is?” “Search me,” said the American. “Well, you need a word as well  as a set of figures before you  

Can get the lock to work.” He rose and  showed a double-radiating disc round   the keyhole. “This outer one is for the  letters, the inner one for the figures.” “Well, well, that’s fine.” “So it’s not quite as simple as you thought.  It was four years ago that I had it made,  

And what do you think I chose  for the word and figures?” “It’s beyond me.” “Well, I chose August for the word, and  1914 for the figures, and here we are.” The American’s face showed  his surprise and admiration. “My, but that was smart! You  had it down to a fine thing.”

“Yes, a few of us even then could  have guessed the date. Here it is,   and I’m shutting down to-morrow morning.” “Well, I guess you’ll have to fix me up  also. I’m not staying in this goldarned   country all on my lonesome. In a week or  less, from what I see, John Bull will be  

On his hind legs and fair ramping. I’d  rather watch him from over the water.” “But you’re an American citizen?” “Well, so was Jack James an American citizen,   but he’s doing time in Portland all the same.  It cuts no ice with a British copper to tell  

Him you’re an American citizen. ‘It’s British  law and order over here,’ says he. By the way,   mister, talking of Jack James, it seems to  me you don’t do much to cover your men.” “What do you mean?” Von Bork asked sharply.

“Well, you are their employer, ain’t you?  It’s up to you to see that they don’t fall   down. But they do fall down, and when did  you ever pick them up? There’s James—” “It was James’s own fault. You know that  yourself. He was too self-willed for the job.”

“James was a bonehead—I give you  that. Then there was Hollis.” “The man was mad.” “Well, he went a bit woozy towards  the end. It’s enough to make a man   bug-house when he has to play a part from  morning to night with a hundred guys all  

Ready to set the coppers wise to  him. But now there is Steiner—” Von Bork started violently, and his  ruddy face turned a shade paler. “What about Steiner?” “Well, they’ve got him, that’s all. They raided  his store last night, and he and his papers are  

All in Portsmouth jail. You’ll go off and he,  poor devil, will have to stand the racket,   and lucky if he gets off with his life. That’s why  I want to get over the water as soon as you do.”

Von Bork was a strong, self-contained man, but  it was easy to see that the news had shaken him. “How could they have got on to Steiner?”  he muttered. “That’s the worst blow yet.” “Well, you nearly had a worse one, for  I believe they are not far off me.” “You don’t mean that!”

“Sure thing. My landlady down  Fratton way had some inquiries,   and when I heard of it I guessed it was time for  me to hustle. But what I want to know, mister,   is how the coppers know these things? Steiner  is the fifth man you’ve lost since I signed on  

With you, and I know the name of the sixth if  I don’t get a move on. How do you explain it,   and ain’t you ashamed to see  your men go down like this?” Von Bork flushed crimson. “How dare you speak in such a way!”

“If I didn’t dare things, mister,  I wouldn’t be in your service. But   I’ll tell you straight what is in my mind.  I’ve heard that with you German politicians   when an agent has done his work you  are not sorry to see him put away.” Von Bork sprang to his feet.

“Do you dare to suggest that I  have given away my own agents!” “I don’t stand for that, mister, but  there’s a stool pigeon or a cross somewhere,   and it’s up to you to find out  where it is. Anyhow I am taking  

No more chances. It’s me for little  Holland, and the sooner the better.” Von Bork had mastered his anger. “We have been allies too long to   quarrel now at the very hour of victory,” he  said. “You’ve done splendid work and taken risks,  

And I can’t forget it. By all means go to Holland,  and you can get a boat from Rotterdam to New York.   No other line will be safe a week from now.  I’ll take that book and pack it with the rest.” 

The American held the small parcel in his  hand, but made no motion to give it up. “What about the dough?” he asked. “The what?” “The boodle. The reward. The £500. The  gunner turned damned nasty at the last,  

And I had to square him with an extra hundred  dollars or it would have been nitsky for you and   me. ‘Nothin’ doin’!’ says he, and he meant it,  too, but the last hundred did it. It’s cost me  

Two hundred pound from first to last, so it isn’t  likely I’d give it up without gettin’ my wad.” Von Bork smiled with some bitterness.  “You don’t seem to have a very high   opinion of my honour,” said he, “you want  the money before you give up the book.”

“Well, mister, it is a business proposition.” “All right. Have your way.” He sat down at the  table and scribbled a check, which he tore from   the book, but he refrained from handing it to his  companion. “After all, since we are to be on such  

Terms, Mr. Altamont,” said he, “I don’t see why  I should trust you any more than you trust me.   Do you understand?” he added, looking back over  his shoulder at the American. “There’s the check   upon the table. I claim the right to examine  that parcel before you pick the money up.”

The American passed it over without a word. Von  Bork undid a winding of string and two wrappers   of paper. Then he sat gazing for a moment  in silent amazement at a small blue book   which lay before him. Across the cover was  printed in golden letters Practical Handbook  

Of Bee Culture. Only for one instant did the  master spy glare at this strangely irrelevant   inscription. The next he was gripped at  the back of his neck by a grasp of iron,   and a chloroformed sponge was held  in front of his writhing face.

“Another glass, Watson!” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes  as he extended the bottle of Imperial Tokay. The thickset chauffeur, who had  seated himself by the table,   pushed forward his glass with some eagerness. “It is a good wine, Holmes.” “A remarkable wine, Watson. Our friend  upon the sofa has assured me that it is  

From Franz Josef’s special cellar at the  Schoenbrunn Palace. Might I trouble you   to open the window, for chloroform  vapour does not help the palate.” The safe was ajar, and Holmes standing in  front of it was removing dossier after dossier,  

Swiftly examining each, and then packing it  neatly in Von Bork’s valise. The German lay   upon the sofa sleeping stertorously with a strap  round his upper arms and another round his legs. “We need not hurry ourselves, Watson.  We are safe from interruption. Would  

You mind touching the bell? There is  no one in the house except old Martha,   who has played her part to admiration.  I got her the situation here when first   I took the matter up. Ah, Martha, you  will be glad to hear that all is well.”

The pleasant old lady had appeared  in the doorway. She curtseyed with a   smile to Mr. Holmes, but glanced with some  apprehension at the figure upon the sofa. “It is all right, Martha. He  has not been hurt at all.” “I am glad of that, Mr. Holmes.  According to his lights he has  

Been a kind master. He wanted me to  go with his wife to Germany yesterday,   but that would hardly have suited  your plans, would it, sir?” “No, indeed, Martha. So long as you  were here I was easy in my mind. We   waited some time for your signal to-night.” “It was the secretary, sir.”

“I know. His car passed ours.” “I thought he would never go. I knew that it  would not suit your plans, sir, to find him here.” “No, indeed. Well, it only meant that  we waited half an hour or so until I  

Saw your lamp go out and knew that the  coast was clear. You can report to me   to-morrow in London, Martha, at Claridge’s Hotel.” “Very good, sir.” “I suppose you have everything ready to leave.” “Yes, sir. He posted seven letters  to-day. I have the addresses as usual.”

“Very good, Martha. I will look into them  to-morrow. Good-night. These papers,” he   continued as the old lady vanished, “are not  of very great importance, for, of course,   the information which they represent has been  sent off long ago to the German government.  

These are the originals which could  not safely be got out of the country.” “Then they are of no use.” “I should not go so far as to say that,   Watson. They will at least show our people what  is known and what is not. I may say that a good  

Many of these papers have come through me, and  I need not add are thoroughly untrustworthy.   It would brighten my declining years to see a  German cruiser navigating the Solent according   to the mine-field plans which I have furnished.  But you, Watson”—he stopped his work and took his  

Old friend by the shoulders—“I’ve hardly seen  you in the light yet. How have the years used   you? You look the same blithe boy as ever.” “I feel twenty years younger, Holmes. I have   seldom felt so happy as when I got your  wire asking me to meet you at Harwich with  

The car. But you, Holmes—you have changed  very little—save for that horrible goatee.” “These are the sacrifices one makes for  one’s country, Watson,” said Holmes,   pulling at his little tuft. “To-morrow  it will be but a dreadful memory. With   my hair cut and a few other superficial  changes I shall no doubt reappear at  

Claridge’s to-morrow as I was before this  American stunt—I beg your pardon, Watson,   my well of English seems to be permanently  defiled—before this American job came my way.” “But you have retired, Holmes. We  heard of you as living the life of  

A hermit among your bees and your books  in a small farm upon the South Downs.” “Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit  of my leisured ease, the magnum opus   of my latter years!” He picked up the volume  from the table and read out the whole title,  

Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with  Some Observations upon the Segregation of   the Queen. “Alone I did it. Behold the fruit  of pensive nights and laborious days when I   watched the little working gangs as once  I watched the criminal world of London.” “But how did you get to work again?”

“Ah, I have often marvelled at it myself. The  Foreign Minister alone I could have withstood,   but when the Premier also deigned to visit  my humble roof—! The fact is, Watson,   that this gentleman upon the sofa was a bit  too good for our people. He was in a class by  

Himself. Things were going wrong, and no one  could understand why they were going wrong.   Agents were suspected or even caught, but there  was evidence of some strong and secret central   force. It was absolutely necessary to expose it.  Strong pressure was brought upon me to look into  

The matter. It has cost me two years, Watson,  but they have not been devoid of excitement. When   I say that I started my pilgrimage at Chicago,  graduated in an Irish secret society at Buffalo,   gave serious trouble to the constabulary at  Skibbareen, and so eventually caught the eye of a  

Subordinate agent of Von Bork, who recommended me  as a likely man, you will realise that the matter   was complex. Since then I have been honoured by  his confidence, which has not prevented most of   his plans going subtly wrong and five of his best  agents being in prison. I watched them, Watson,  

And I picked them as they ripened. Well,  sir, I hope that you are none the worse!” The last remark was addressed to Von Bork himself,   who after much gasping and blinking had lain  quietly listening to Holmes’s statement. He   broke out now into a furious stream of German  invective, his face convulsed with passion.  

Holmes continued his swift investigation of  documents while his prisoner cursed and swore. “Though unmusical, German is the  most expressive of all languages,”   he observed when Von Bork had stopped from  pure exhaustion. “Hullo! Hullo!” he added  

As he looked hard at the corner of a tracing  before putting it in the box. “This should put   another bird in the cage. I had no idea  that the paymaster was such a rascal,   though I have long had an eye upon him. Mister  Von Bork, you have a great deal to answer for.”

The prisoner had raised himself with  some difficulty upon the sofa and was   staring with a strange mixture of  amazement and hatred at his captor. “I shall get level with you, Altamont,” he said,   speaking with slow deliberation. “If it takes  me all my life I shall get level with you!”

“The old sweet song,” said Holmes. “How  often have I heard it in days gone by.   It was a favorite ditty of the late lamented  Professor Moriarty. Colonel Sebastian Moran   has also been known to warble it. And yet  I live and keep bees upon the South Downs.”

“Curse you, you double traitor!” cried the German,   straining against his bonds and  glaring murder from his furious eyes. “No, no, it is not so bad as that,” said  Holmes, smiling. “As my speech surely shows you,   Mr. Altamont of Chicago had no existence  in fact. I used him and he is gone.”

“Then who are you?” “It is really immaterial who I am, but since  the matter seems to interest you, Mr. Von Bork,   I may say that this is not my first acquaintance  with the members of your family. I have done a  

Good deal of business in Germany in the past  and my name is probably familiar to you.” “I would wish to know it,”  said the Prussian grimly.  “It was I who brought about the separation  between Irene Adler and the late King of Bohemia  

When your cousin Heinrich was the Imperial  Envoy. It was I also who saved from murder,   by the Nihilist Klopman, Count Von  und Zu Grafenstein, who was your   mother’s elder brother. It was I—” Von Bork sat up in amazement. “There is only one man,” he cried. “Exactly,” said Holmes.

Von Bork groaned and sank back on the  sofa. “And most of that information came   through you,” he cried. “What is it worth?  What have I done? It is my ruin forever!” “It is certainly a little untrustworthy,”  said Holmes. “It will require some checking  

And you have little time to check  it. Your admiral may find the new   guns rather larger than he expects, and  the cruisers perhaps a trifle faster.” Von Bork clutched at his own throat in despair. “There are a good many other points of detail  which will, no doubt, come to light in good time.  

But you have one quality which is very rare in a  German, Mr. Von Bork: you are a sportsman and you   will bear me no ill-will when you realise that  you, who have outwitted so many other people,   have at last been outwitted yourself. After  all, you have done your best for your country,  

And I have done my best for mine, and what  could be more natural? Besides,” he added,   not unkindly, as he laid his hand upon  the shoulder of the prostrate man,   “it is better than to fall before some  ignoble foe. These papers are now ready,  

Watson. If you will help me with our prisoner, I  think that we may get started for London at once.” It was no easy task to move Von Bork, for he  was a strong and a desperate man. Finally,  

Holding either arm, the two friends walked him  very slowly down the garden walk which he had   trod with such proud confidence when he received  the congratulations of the famous diplomatist only   a few hours before. After a short, final struggle  he was hoisted, still bound hand and foot,  

Into the spare seat of the little car. His  precious valise was wedged in beside him. “I trust that you are as comfortable as  circumstances permit,” said Holmes when   the final arrangements were made.  “Should I be guilty of a liberty   if I lit a cigar and placed it between your lips?”

But all amenities were  wasted upon the angry German. “I suppose you realise, Mr.  Sherlock Holmes,” said he,   “that if your government bears you out in  this treatment it becomes an act of war.” “What about your government and all this  treatment?” said Holmes, tapping the valise.

“You are a private individual. You have no warrant   for my arrest. The whole proceeding  is absolutely illegal and outrageous.” “Absolutely,” said Holmes. “Kidnapping a German subject.” “And stealing his private papers.” “Well, you realise your position, you  and your accomplice here. If I were   to shout for help as we pass through the village—”

“My dear sir, if you did anything so foolish you  would probably enlarge the two limited titles of   our village inns by giving us ‘The Dangling  Prussian’ as a signpost. The Englishman is a   patient creature, but at present his temper is  a little inflamed, and it would be as well not  

To try him too far. No, Mr. Von Bork, you will go  with us in a quiet, sensible fashion to Scotland   Yard, whence you can send for your friend, Baron  Von Herling, and see if even now you may not fill  

That place which he has reserved for you in  the ambassadorial suite. As to you, Watson,   you are joining us with your old service, as I  understand, so London won’t be out of your way.   Stand with me here upon the terrace, for it may  be the last quiet talk that we shall ever have.”

The two friends chatted in intimate converse  for a few minutes, recalling once again the   days of the past, while their prisoner vainly  wriggled to undo the bonds that held him. As   they turned to the car Holmes pointed back to  the moonlit sea and shook a thoughtful head. “There’s an east wind coming, Watson.”

“I think not, Holmes. It is very warm.” “Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point  in a changing age. There’s an east wind coming   all the same, such a wind as never blew on  England yet. It will be cold and bitter,  

Watson, and a good many of us may wither before  its blast. But it’s God’s own wind none the less,   and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in  the sunshine when the storm has cleared. Start  

Her up, Watson, for it’s time that we were on our  way. I have a check for five hundred pounds which   should be cashed early, for the drawer is  quite capable of stopping it if he can.” Thank you for listening. If you like our recordings consider liking  this video and subscribing to our channel,  

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