The Return of Sherlock Holmes | Full Audiobook 🎧🕵️‍♂️ #crime #detective #audiobook

Rack your brain a bit with this collection of detective stories by the legendary Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a Scottish writer best known for his iconic detective stories featuring the legendary Sherlock Holmes. His works have captivated readers with their brilliant deductions, intricate plots, and memorable characters. His contributions to the detective genre and popular culture have left a lasting legacy, making him one of the most influential authors of the 19th and 20th centuries.

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Synopsis:
“The Return of Sherlock Holmes” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is a collection of detective stories featuring the famous fictional detective Sherlock Holmes. The book follows Holmes’ reappearance after his presumed death, and it presents a series of intriguing cases that challenge his deductive skills. Each story provides a thrilling blend of mystery, clever investigation, and Holmes’ brilliant reasoning, captivating readers with the detective’s triumphant return to solving crimes in Victorian England.
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Full Text can be found at: https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/108/pg108-images.html

Read by Mike Vendetti: https://librivox.org/the-return-of-sherlock-holmes-by-sir-arthur-conan-doyle/
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🔖Chapters
00:00:00 // The Empty House
00:39:35 // The Norwood Builder
01:20:30 // The Dancing Men
02:07:49 // The Solitary Cyclist
02:51:45 // The Priory School
03:45:56 // Black Peter
04:27:08 // Charles Augustus Milverton
05:04:20 // The Six Napoleons
05:45:18 // The Three Students
06:16:09 // The Golden Pince-Nez
07:01:21 // The Missing Three-Quarter
07:39:45 // The Abbey Grange
08:26:27 // The Second Stain

The Return of Sherlock Holmes,  by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle  THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE It was in the spring of the year   1894 that all London was interested, and the  fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of   the Honourable Ronald Adair under most unusual  and inexplicable circumstances. The public has  

Already learned those particulars of the crime  which came out in the police investigation,   but a good deal was suppressed upon that occasion,  since the case for the prosecution was so   overwhelmingly strong that it was not necessary  to bring forward all the facts. Only now,  

At the end of nearly ten years, am I allowed  to supply those missing links which make up   the whole of that remarkable chain. The crime was  of interest in itself, but that interest was as   nothing to me compared to the inconceivable  sequel, which afforded me the greatest shock  

And surprise of any event in my adventurous  life. Even now, after this long interval,   I find myself thrilling as I think of it, and  feeling once more that sudden flood of joy,   amazement, and incredulity which utterly submerged  my mind. Let me say to that public, which has  

Shown some interest in those glimpses which I  have occasionally given them of the thoughts and   actions of a very remarkable man, that they are  not to blame me if I have not shared my knowledge  

With them, for I should have considered it my  first duty to do so, had I not been barred by   a positive prohibition from his own lips, which  was only withdrawn upon the third of last month. It can be imagined that my close intimacy with  Sherlock Holmes had interested me deeply in crime,  

And that after his disappearance I never failed  to read with care the various problems which came   before the public. And I even attempted, more  than once, for my own private satisfaction,   to employ his methods in their solution, though  with indifferent success. There was none, however,  

Which appealed to me like this tragedy of Ronald  Adair. As I read the evidence at the inquest,   which led up to a verdict of willful murder  against some person or persons unknown,   I realized more clearly than I had ever done the  loss which the community had sustained by the  

Death of Sherlock Holmes. There were points about  this strange business which would, I was sure,   have specially appealed to him, and the efforts of  the police would have been supplemented, or more   probably anticipated, by the trained observation  and the alert mind of the first criminal agent  

In Europe. All day, as I drove upon my round,  I turned over the case in my mind and found no   explanation which appeared to me to be adequate.  At the risk of telling a twice-told tale,   I will recapitulate the facts as they were known  to the public at the conclusion of the inquest.

The Honourable Ronald Adair was the  second son of the Earl of Maynooth,   at that time governor of one of the Australian  colonies. Adair’s mother had returned from   Australia to undergo the operation for cataract,  and she, her son Ronald, and her daughter Hilda  

Were living together at 427, Park Lane.  The youth moved in the best society—had,   so far as was known, no enemies and no particular  vices. He had been engaged to Miss Edith Woodley,   of Carstairs, but the engagement had been  broken off by mutual consent some months before,  

And there was no sign that it had left any  very profound feeling behind it. For the rest,   the man’s life moved in a narrow and conventional  circle, for his habits were quiet and his nature   unemotional. Yet it was upon this easy-going young  aristocrat that death came, in most strange and  

Unexpected form, between the hours of ten and  eleven-twenty on the night of March 30, 1894. Ronald Adair was fond of cards—playing  continually, but never for such stakes as   would hurt him. He was a member of the Baldwin,  the Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs.  

It was shown that, after dinner on the day of  his death, he had played a rubber of whist at   the latter club. He had also played there in  the afternoon. The evidence of those who had   played with him—Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and  Colonel Moran—showed that the game was whist,  

And that there was a fairly equal fall of  the cards. Adair might have lost five pounds,   but not more. His fortune was a considerable  one, and such a loss could not in any way affect   him. He had played nearly every day at one  club or other, but he was a cautious player,  

And usually rose a winner. It came out in  evidence that, in partnership with Colonel Moran,   he had actually won as much as four hundred and  twenty pounds in a sitting, some weeks before,   from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral. So much for  his recent history as it came out at the inquest.

On the evening of the crime, he returned from  the club exactly at ten. His mother and sister   were out spending the evening with a relation.  The servant deposed that she heard him enter the   front room on the second floor, generally used  as his sitting-room. She had lit a fire there,  

And as it smoked she had opened the window. No  sound was heard from the room until eleven-twenty,   the hour of the return of Lady Maynooth and  her daughter. Desiring to say good-night,   she attempted to enter her son’s room.  The door was locked on the inside,  

And no answer could be got to their cries and  knocking. Help was obtained, and the door forced.   The unfortunate young man was found lying near  the table. His head had been horribly mutilated   by an expanding revolver bullet, but no weapon  of any sort was to be found in the room. On the  

Table lay two banknotes for ten pounds each  and seventeen pounds ten in silver and gold,   the money arranged in little piles of varying  amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet   of paper, with the names of some club friends  opposite to them, from which it was conjectured  

That before his death he was endeavouring  to make out his losses or winnings at cards. A minute examination of the circumstances served  only to make the case more complex. In the first   place, no reason could be given why the young man  should have fastened the door upon the inside.  

There was the possibility that the murderer  had done this, and had afterwards escaped by   the window. The drop was at least twenty feet,  however, and a bed of crocuses in full bloom lay   beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed  any sign of having been disturbed, nor were there  

Any marks upon the narrow strip of grass which  separated the house from the road. Apparently,   therefore, it was the young man himself who  had fastened the door. But how did he come by   his death? No one could have climbed up to  the window without leaving traces. Suppose  

A man had fired through the window, he would  indeed be a remarkable shot who could with a   revolver inflict so deadly a wound. Again,  Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare;   there is a cab stand within a hundred yards  of the house. No one had heard a shot. And  

Yet there was the dead man and there the  revolver bullet, which had mushroomed out,   as soft-nosed bullets will, and so inflicted  a wound which must have caused instantaneous   death. Such were the circumstances of the Park  Lane Mystery, which were further complicated by  

Entire absence of motive, since, as I have said,  young Adair was not known to have any enemy,   and no attempt had been made to remove  the money or valuables in the room. All day I turned these facts over in my mind,  endeavouring to hit upon some theory which could  

Reconcile them all, and to find that line of least  resistance which my poor friend had declared to   be the starting-point of every investigation.  I confess that I made little progress. In the   evening I strolled across the Park, and found  myself about six o’clock at the Oxford Street  

End of Park Lane. A group of loafers upon the  pavements, all staring up at a particular window,   directed me to the house which I had come to  see. A tall, thin man with coloured glasses,   whom I strongly suspected of being a plain-clothes  detective, was pointing out some theory of his  

Own, while the others crowded round to listen  to what he said. I got as near him as I could,   but his observations seemed to me to be absurd,  so I withdrew again in some disgust. As I did so  

I struck against an elderly, deformed man, who had  been behind me, and I knocked down several books   which he was carrying. I remember that as I picked  them up, I observed the title of one of them,  

The Origin of Tree Worship, and it struck me that  the fellow must be some poor bibliophile, who,   either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector  of obscure volumes. I endeavoured to apologize   for the accident, but it was evident that these  books which I had so unfortunately maltreated were  

Very precious objects in the eyes of their owner.  With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel,   and I saw his curved back and white  side-whiskers disappear among the throng. My observations of No. 427, Park Lane did  little to clear up the problem in which  

I was interested. The house was separated  from the street by a low wall and railing,   the whole not more than five feet  high. It was perfectly easy, therefore,   for anyone to get into the garden, but the window  was entirely inaccessible, since there was no  

Waterpipe or anything which could help the most  active man to climb it. More puzzled than ever,   I retraced my steps to Kensington. I had not  been in my study five minutes when the maid   entered to say that a person desired to see me.  To my astonishment it was none other than my  

Strange old book collector, his sharp, wizened  face peering out from a frame of white hair,   and his precious volumes, a dozen of them  at least, wedged under his right arm. “You’re surprised to see me, sir,”  said he, in a strange, croaking voice. I acknowledged that I was.

“Well, I’ve a conscience, sir, and when  I chanced to see you go into this house,   as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself,  I’ll just step in and see that kind gentleman,   and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in  my manner there was not any harm meant,  

And that I am much obliged to  him for picking up my books.” “You make too much of a trifle,” said  I. “May I ask how you knew who I was?” “Well, sir, if it isn’t too great a  liberty, I am a neighbour of yours,  

For you’ll find my little bookshop at the corner  of Church Street, and very happy to see you,   I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself,  sir. Here’s British Birds, and Catullus,   and The Holy War—a bargain, every one of  them. With five volumes you could just  

Fill that gap on that second shelf.  It looks untidy, does it not, sir?” I moved my head to look at the cabinet  behind me. When I turned again,   Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me  across my study table. I rose to my feet,  

Stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement,  and then it appears that I must have fainted   for the first and the last time in my life.  Certainly a grey mist swirled before my eyes,   and when it cleared I found my collar-ends  undone and the tingling after-taste of  

Brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending  over my chair, his flask in his hand. “My dear Watson,” said the well-remembered voice,   “I owe you a thousand apologies. I had  no idea that you would be so affected.” I gripped him by the arms.

“Holmes!” I cried. “Is it really you?  Can it indeed be that you are alive?   Is it possible that you succeeded in  climbing out of that awful abyss?” “Wait a moment,” said he. “Are you sure  that you are really fit to discuss things?  

I have given you a serious shock by my  unnecessarily dramatic reappearance.” “I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can  hardly believe my eyes. Good heavens! to   think that you—you of all men—should be standing  in my study.” Again I gripped him by the sleeve,  

And felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it. “Well,  you’re not a spirit anyhow,” said I. “My dear   chap, I’m overjoyed to see you. Sit down, and tell  me how you came alive out of that dreadful chasm.” He sat opposite to me, and  lit a cigarette in his old,  

Nonchalant manner. He was dressed in the  seedy frockcoat of the book merchant,   but the rest of that individual lay in a pile  of white hair and old books upon the table.   Holmes looked even thinner and keener than  of old, but there was a dead-white tinge in  

His aquiline face which told me that his  life recently had not been a healthy one. “I am glad to stretch myself, Watson,” said he.  “It is no joke when a tall man has to take a foot  

Off his stature for several hours on end. Now, my  dear fellow, in the matter of these explanations,   we have, if I may ask for your cooperation, a hard  and dangerous night’s work in front of us. Perhaps  

It would be better if I gave you an account of  the whole situation when that work is finished.” “I am full of curiosity. I  should much prefer to hear now.” “You’ll come with me to-night?” “When you like and where you like.”

“This is, indeed, like the old days. We shall  have time for a mouthful of dinner before we   need go. Well, then, about that chasm. I had  no serious difficulty in getting out of it,   for the very simple reason  that I never was in it.” “You never were in it?”

“No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you  was absolutely genuine. I had little doubt that I   had come to the end of my career when I perceived  the somewhat sinister figure of the late Professor   Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which  led to safety. I read an inexorable purpose in  

His grey eyes. I exchanged some remarks with him,  therefore, and obtained his courteous permission   to write the short note which you afterwards  received. I left it with my cigarette-box and   my stick, and I walked along the pathway, Moriarty  still at my heels. When I reached the end I stood  

At bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed at me and  threw his long arms around me. He knew that his   own game was up, and was only anxious to revenge  himself upon me. We tottered together upon the  

Brink of the fall. I have some knowledge, however,  of baritsu, or the Japanese system of wrestling,   which has more than once been very useful to  me. I slipped through his grip, and he with a   horrible scream kicked madly for a few seconds,  and clawed the air with both his hands. But for  

All his efforts he could not get his balance,  and over he went. With my face over the brink,   I saw him fall for a long way. Then he struck a  rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water.” I listened with amazement to this explanation,   which Holmes delivered between  the puffs of his cigarette.

“But the tracks!” I cried.  “I saw, with my own eyes,   that two went down the path and none returned.” “It came about in this way. The instant that the  Professor had disappeared, it struck me what a   really extraordinarily lucky chance Fate had  placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not  

The only man who had sworn my death. There were  at least three others whose desire for vengeance   upon me would only be increased by the death  of their leader. They were all most dangerous   men. One or other would certainly get me. On the  other hand, if all the world was convinced that  

I was dead they would take liberties, these  men, they would soon lay themselves open,   and sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it  would be time for me to announce that I was still   in the land of the living. So rapidly does  the brain act that I believe I had thought  

This all out before Professor Moriarty had  reached the bottom of the Reichenbach Fall. “I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind  me. In your picturesque account of the matter,   which I read with great interest some months  later, you assert that the wall was sheer.  

That was not literally true. A few small  footholds presented themselves, and there was   some indication of a ledge. The cliff is so high  that to climb it all was an obvious impossibility,   and it was equally impossible to make my way along  the wet path without leaving some tracks. I might,  

It is true, have reversed my boots, as I have  done on similar occasions, but the sight of three   sets of tracks in one direction would certainly  have suggested a deception. On the whole, then,   it was best that I should risk the climb. It  was not a pleasant business, Watson. The fall  

Roared beneath me. I am not a fanciful person,  but I give you my word that I seemed to hear   Moriarty’s voice screaming at me out of the abyss.  A mistake would have been fatal. More than once,  

As tufts of grass came out in my hand or my  foot slipped in the wet notches of the rock,   I thought that I was gone. But I struggled  upward, and at last I reached a ledge several   feet deep and covered with soft green moss,  where I could lie unseen, in the most perfect  

Comfort. There I was stretched, when you, my dear  Watson, and all your following were investigating   in the most sympathetic and inefficient  manner the circumstances of my death. “At last, when you had all formed your  inevitable and totally erroneous conclusions,  

You departed for the hotel, and I was left alone.  I had imagined that I had reached the end of my   adventures, but a very unexpected occurrence  showed me that there were surprises still in   store for me. A huge rock, falling from above,  boomed past me, struck the path, and bounded over  

Into the chasm. For an instant I thought that it  was an accident, but a moment later, looking up,   I saw a man’s head against the darkening sky, and  another stone struck the very ledge upon which   I was stretched, within a foot of my head. Of  course, the meaning of this was obvious. Moriarty  

Had not been alone. A confederate—and even that  one glance had told me how dangerous a man that   confederate was—had kept guard while the Professor  had attacked me. From a distance, unseen by me,   he had been a witness of his friend’s death and of  my escape. He had waited, and then making his way  

Round to the top of the cliff, he had endeavoured  to succeed where his comrade had failed. “I did not take long to think about it, Watson.  Again I saw that grim face look over the cliff,  

And I knew that it was the precursor of another  stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I don’t   think I could have done it in cold blood.  It was a hundred times more difficult than   getting up. But I had no time to think of  the danger, for another stone sang past me  

As I hung by my hands from the edge of  the ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but,   by the blessing of God, I landed, torn and  bleeding, upon the path. I took to my heels,   did ten miles over the mountains in the darkness,  and a week later I found myself in Florence,  

With the certainty that no one in  the world knew what had become of me. “I had only one confidant—my brother  Mycroft. I owe you many apologies,   my dear Watson, but it was all-important  that it should be thought I was dead,  

And it is quite certain that you would not  have written so convincing an account of   my unhappy end had you not yourself thought that  it was true. Several times during the last three   years I have taken up my pen to write to you, but  always I feared lest your affectionate regard for  

Me should tempt you to some indiscretion which  would betray my secret. For that reason I turned   away from you this evening when you upset  my books, for I was in danger at the time,   and any show of surprise and emotion upon your  part might have drawn attention to my identity  

And led to the most deplorable and irreparable  results. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him   in order to obtain the money which I needed. The  course of events in London did not run so well  

As I had hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty  gang left two of its most dangerous members,   my own most vindictive enemies, at liberty. I  travelled for two years in Tibet, therefore,   and amused myself by visiting Lhassa, and spending  some days with the head lama. You may have read of  

The remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named  Sigerson, but I am sure that it never occurred to   you that you were receiving news of your friend.  I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca,   and paid a short but interesting visit to the  Khalifa at Khartoum the results of which I have  

Communicated to the Foreign Office. Returning to  France, I spent some months in a research into   the coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a  laboratory at Montpellier, in the south of France.   Having concluded this to my satisfaction and  learning that only one of my enemies was now left  

In London, I was about to return when my movements  were hastened by the news of this very remarkable   Park Lane Mystery, which not only appealed to  me by its own merits, but which seemed to offer   some most peculiar personal opportunities.  I came over at once to London, called in my  

Own person at Baker Street, threw Mrs. Hudson  into violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft   had preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as  they had always been. So it was, my dear Watson,   that at two o’clock to-day I found myself in my  old armchair in my own old room, and only wishing  

That I could have seen my old friend Watson in  the other chair which he has so often adorned.” Such was the remarkable narrative to which  I listened on that April evening—a narrative   which would have been utterly incredible to me  had it not been confirmed by the actual sight of  

The tall, spare figure and the keen, eager face,  which I had never thought to see again. In some   manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement,  and his sympathy was shown in his manner rather  

Than in his words. “Work is the best antidote to  sorrow, my dear Watson,” said he; “and I have a   piece of work for us both to-night which, if we  can bring it to a successful conclusion, will  

In itself justify a man’s life on this planet.”  In vain I begged him to tell me more. “You will   hear and see enough before morning,” he answered.  “We have three years of the past to discuss. Let   that suffice until half-past nine, when we start  upon the notable adventure of the empty house.”

It was indeed like old times when, at that hour,  I found myself seated beside him in a hansom,   my revolver in my pocket, and the thrill of  adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and   stern and silent. As the gleam of the street-lamps  flashed upon his austere features, I saw that his  

Brows were drawn down in thought and his thin lips  compressed. I knew not what wild beast we were   about to hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal  London, but I was well assured, from the bearing   of this master huntsman, that the adventure was  a most grave one—while the sardonic smile which  

Occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom  boded little good for the object of our quest. I had imagined that we were bound for Baker  Street, but Holmes stopped the cab at the   corner of Cavendish Square. I observed that as  he stepped out he gave a most searching glance  

To right and left, and at every subsequent  street corner he took the utmost pains to   assure that he was not followed. Our  route was certainly a singular one.   Holmes’s knowledge of the byways of London  was extraordinary, and on this occasion he  

Passed rapidly and with an assured step  through a network of mews and stables,   the very existence of which I had never known. We  emerged at last into a small road, lined with old,   gloomy houses, which led us into Manchester  Street, and so to Blandford Street. Here he  

Turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed  through a wooden gate into a deserted yard, and   then opened with a key the back door of a house.  We entered together, and he closed it behind us.

The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to  me that it was an empty house. Our feet creaked   and crackled over the bare planking, and my  outstretched hand touched a wall from which   the paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes’s cold,  thin fingers closed round my wrist and led me  

Forward down a long hall, until I dimly saw the  murky fanlight over the door. Here Holmes turned   suddenly to the right and we found ourselves in  a large, square, empty room, heavily shadowed   in the corners, but faintly lit in the centre  from the lights of the street beyond. There  

Was no lamp near, and the window was thick with  dust, so that we could only just discern each   other’s figures within. My companion put his hand  upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear. “Do you know where we are?” he whispered.

“Surely that is Baker Street,” I  answered, staring through the dim window. “Exactly. We are in Camden House, which  stands opposite to our own old quarters.” “But why are we here?” “Because it commands so excellent a view of  that picturesque pile. Might I trouble you,  

My dear Watson, to draw a  little nearer to the window,   taking every precaution not to show  yourself, and then to look up at our   old rooms—the starting-point of so many of  your little fairy-tales? We will see if my   three years of absence have entirely  taken away my power to surprise you.”

I crept forward and looked across at the  familiar window. As my eyes fell upon it,   I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The blind  was down, and a strong light was burning in the   room. The shadow of a man who was seated  in a chair within was thrown in hard, black  

Outline upon the luminous screen of the window.  There was no mistaking the poise of the head,   the squareness of the shoulders, the sharpness  of the features. The face was turned half-round,   and the effect was that of one of those black  silhouettes which our grandparents loved to  

Frame. It was a perfect reproduction of Holmes.  So amazed was I that I threw out my hand to make   sure that the man himself was standing beside  me. He was quivering with silent laughter. “Well?” said he. “Good heavens!” I cried. “It is marvellous.”

“I trust that age doth not wither nor  custom stale my infinite variety,” said he,   and I recognized in his voice  the joy and pride which the   artist takes in his own creation. “It  really is rather like me, is it not?” “I should be prepared to swear that it was you.”

“The credit of the execution is  due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier,   of Grenoble, who spent some days in  doing the moulding. It is a bust in   wax. The rest I arranged myself during  my visit to Baker Street this afternoon.” “But why?” “Because, my dear Watson, I had the  strongest possible reason for wishing  

Certain people to think that I was  there when I was really elsewhere.” “And you thought the rooms were watched?” “I knew that they were watched.” “By whom?” “By my old enemies, Watson. By the  charming society whose leader lies in   the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember  that they knew, and only they knew,  

That I was still alive. Sooner or later  they believed that I should come back to   my rooms. They watched them continuously,  and this morning they saw me arrive.” “How do you know?” “Because I recognized their sentinel when I  glanced out of my window. He is a harmless enough  

Fellow, Parker by name, a garroter by trade, and a  remarkable performer upon the jew’s-harp. I cared   nothing for him. But I cared a great deal for the  much more formidable person who was behind him,   the bosom friend of Moriarty, the man  who dropped the rocks over the cliff,  

The most cunning and dangerous criminal in London.  That is the man who is after me to-night Watson,   and that is the man who is quite  unaware that we are after him.” My friend’s plans were gradually revealing  themselves. From this convenient retreat,  

The watchers were being watched and the trackers  tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the   bait, and we were the hunters. In silence we stood  together in the darkness and watched the hurrying   figures who passed and repassed in front of us.  Holmes was silent and motionless; but I could  

Tell that he was keenly alert, and that his eyes  were fixed intently upon the stream of passers-by.   It was a bleak and boisterous night and the wind  whistled shrilly down the long street. Many people   were moving to and fro, most of them muffled in  their coats and cravats. Once or twice it seemed  

To me that I had seen the same figure before,  and I especially noticed two men who appeared   to be sheltering themselves from the wind in the  doorway of a house some distance up the street. I   tried to draw my companion’s attention to them;  but he gave a little ejaculation of impatience,  

And continued to stare into the street. More  than once he fidgeted with his feet and tapped   rapidly with his fingers upon the wall. It  was evident to me that he was becoming uneasy,   and that his plans were not working out altogether  as he had hoped. At last, as midnight approached  

And the street gradually cleared, he paced up  and down the room in uncontrollable agitation.   I was about to make some remark to him, when I  raised my eyes to the lighted window, and again   experienced almost as great a surprise as before.  I clutched Holmes’s arm, and pointed upward.

“The shadow has moved!” I cried. It was indeed no longer the profile, but  the back, which was turned towards us. Three years had certainly  not smoothed the asperities   of his temper or his impatience with a  less active intelligence than his own.

“Of course it has moved,” said he.  “Am I such a farcical bungler, Watson,   that I should erect an obvious dummy,  and expect that some of the sharpest   men in Europe would be deceived by it?  We have been in this room two hours,  

And Mrs. Hudson has made some change in that  figure eight times, or once in every quarter of   an hour. She works it from the front, so that  her shadow may never be seen. Ah!” He drew in   his breath with a shrill, excited intake. In  the dim light I saw his head thrown forward,  

His whole attitude rigid with attention. Outside  the street was absolutely deserted. Those two men   might still be crouching in the doorway, but I  could no longer see them. All was still and dark,   save only that brilliant yellow screen in front of  us with the black figure outlined upon its centre.  

Again in the utter silence I heard that thin,  sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed   excitement. An instant later he pulled me back  into the blackest corner of the room, and I felt   his warning hand upon my lips. The fingers which  clutched me were quivering. Never had I known  

My friend more moved, and yet the dark street  still stretched lonely and motionless before us. But suddenly I was aware of that which his  keener senses had already distinguished. A low,   stealthy sound came to my ears, not from the  direction of Baker Street, but from the back  

Of the very house in which we lay concealed.  A door opened and shut. An instant later steps   crept down the passage—steps which were meant to  be silent, but which reverberated harshly through   the empty house. Holmes crouched back against the  wall, and I did the same, my hand closing upon  

The handle of my revolver. Peering through the  gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a shade   blacker than the blackness of the open door. He  stood for an instant, and then he crept forward,   crouching, menacing, into the room. He was  within three yards of us, this sinister figure,  

And I had braced myself to meet his spring, before  I realized that he had no idea of our presence. He   passed close beside us, stole over to the window,  and very softly and noiselessly raised it for half  

A foot. As he sank to the level of this opening,  the light of the street, no longer dimmed by the   dusty glass, fell full upon his face. The man  seemed to be beside himself with excitement.   His two eyes shone like stars, and his features  were working convulsively. He was an elderly man,  

With a thin, projecting nose, a high, bald  forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache. An   opera hat was pushed to the back of his head, and  an evening dress shirt-front gleamed out through   his open overcoat. His face was gaunt and swarthy,  scored with deep, savage lines. In his hand he  

Carried what appeared to be a stick, but as he  laid it down upon the floor it gave a metallic   clang. Then from the pocket of his overcoat he  drew a bulky object, and he busied himself in  

Some task which ended with a loud, sharp click,  as if a spring or bolt had fallen into its place.   Still kneeling upon the floor he bent forward and  threw all his weight and strength upon some lever,   with the result that there came a long, whirling,  grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful  

Click. He straightened himself then, and I saw  that what he held in his hand was a sort of gun,   with a curiously misshapen butt. He  opened it at the breech, put something in,   and snapped the breech-lock. Then, crouching  down, he rested the end of the barrel upon  

The ledge of the open window, and I saw his  long moustache droop over the stock and his   eye gleam as it peered along the sights. I heard  a little sigh of satisfaction as he cuddled the   butt into his shoulder; and saw that amazing  target, the black man on the yellow ground,  

Standing clear at the end of his foresight.  For an instant he was rigid and motionless.   Then his finger tightened on the trigger. There  was a strange, loud whiz and a long, silvery   tinkle of broken glass. At that instant Holmes  sprang like a tiger on to the marksman’s back,  

And hurled him flat upon his face. He was up  again in a moment, and with convulsive strength   he seized Holmes by the throat, but I struck him  on the head with the butt of my revolver, and he  

Dropped again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and  as I held him my comrade blew a shrill call upon   a whistle. There was the clatter of running feet  upon the pavement, and two policemen in uniform,   with one plain-clothes detective, rushed  through the front entrance and into the room.

“That you, Lestrade?” said Holmes. “Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself.  It’s good to see you back in London, sir.” “I think you want a little unofficial help.  Three undetected murders in one year won’t do,   Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery with  

Less than your usual—that’s to  say, you handled it fairly well.” We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner  breathing hard, with a stalwart constable on   each side of him. Already a few loiterers had  begun to collect in the street. Holmes stepped  

Up to the window, closed it, and dropped the  blinds. Lestrade had produced two candles, and   the policemen had uncovered their lanterns. I was  able at last to have a good look at our prisoner. It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister  face which was turned towards us. With the  

Brow of a philosopher above and the jaw of a  sensualist below, the man must have started   with great capacities for good or for evil. But  one could not look upon his cruel blue eyes,   with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the  fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening,  

Deep-lined brow, without reading Nature’s plainest  danger-signals. He took no heed of any of us,   but his eyes were fixed upon Holmes’s face with  an expression in which hatred and amazement   were equally blended. “You fiend!” he kept  on muttering. “You clever, clever fiend!”

“Ah, Colonel!” said Holmes, arranging his  rumpled collar. “‘Journeys end in lovers’   meetings,’ as the old play says. I don’t think  I have had the pleasure of seeing you since you   favoured me with those attentions as I lay  on the ledge above the Reichenbach Fall.”

The colonel still stared at my friend  like a man in a trance. “You cunning,   cunning fiend!” was all that he could say. “I have not introduced you yet,”  said Holmes. “This, gentlemen,   is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once  of Her Majesty’s Indian Army,  

And the best heavy-game shot that our  Eastern Empire has ever produced. I   believe I am correct Colonel, in saying that  your bag of tigers still remains unrivalled?” The fierce old man said nothing, but  still glared at my companion. With   his savage eyes and bristling moustache  he was wonderfully like a tiger himself.

“I wonder that my very simple stratagem could  deceive so old a shikari,” said Holmes. “It   must be very familiar to you. Have you  not tethered a young kid under a tree,   lain above it with your rifle, and waited  for the bait to bring up your tiger? This  

Empty house is my tree, and you are my tiger.  You have possibly had other guns in reserve in   case there should be several tigers, or  in the unlikely supposition of your own   aim failing you. These,” he pointed around,  “are my other guns. The parallel is exact.”

Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of rage,   but the constables dragged him back. The  fury upon his face was terrible to look at. “I confess that you had one small surprise for  me,” said Holmes. “I did not anticipate that  

You would yourself make use of this empty  house and this convenient front window.   I had imagined you as operating  from the street, where my friend,   Lestrade and his merry men were awaiting you.  With that exception, all has gone as I expected.” Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

“You may or may not have just  cause for arresting me,” said he,   “but at least there can be no reason  why I should submit to the gibes of   this person. If I am in the hands of the  law, let things be done in a legal way.” “Well, that’s reasonable enough,” said Lestrade.  

“Nothing further you have to  say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?” Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from  the floor, and was examining its mechanism. “An admirable and unique weapon,” said  he, “noiseless and of tremendous power:   I knew Von Herder, the blind German mechanic,  

Who constructed it to the order of the late  Professor Moriarty. For years I have been   aware of its existence though I have never  before had the opportunity of handling it. I   commend it very specially to your attention,  Lestrade and also the bullets which fit it.”

“You can trust us to look after  that, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade,   as the whole party moved towards  the door. “Anything further to say?” “Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?” “What charge, sir? Why, of course, the  attempted murder of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear  in the matter at all. To you, and to you only,   belongs the credit of the remarkable arrest  which you have effected. Yes, Lestrade,   I congratulate you! With your usual happy mixture  of cunning and audacity, you have got him.” “Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?”

“The man that the whole force has been seeking  in vain—Colonel Sebastian Moran, who shot the   Honourable Ronald Adair with an expanding bullet  from an air-gun through the open window of the   second-floor front of No. 427, Park Lane, upon  the thirtieth of last month. That’s the charge,  

Lestrade. And now, Watson, if you can  endure the draught from a broken window,   I think that half an hour in my study over a  cigar may afford you some profitable amusement.” Our old chambers had been left unchanged  through the supervision of Mycroft Holmes and  

The immediate care of Mrs. Hudson. As I entered  I saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the   old landmarks were all in their place. There  were the chemical corner and the acid-stained,   deal-topped table. There upon a shelf was  the row of formidable scrap-books and books  

Of reference which many of our fellow-citizens  would have been so glad to burn. The diagrams,   the violin-case, and the pipe-rack—even the  Persian slipper which contained the tobacco—all   met my eyes as I glanced round me. There were  two occupants of the room—one, Mrs. Hudson,  

Who beamed upon us both as we entered—the other,  the strange dummy which had played so important   a part in the evening’s adventures. It was a  wax-coloured model of my friend, so admirably   done that it was a perfect facsimile. It stood on  a small pedestal table with an old dressing-gown  

Of Holmes’s so draped round it that the  illusion from the street was absolutely perfect. “I hope you observed all precautions,  Mrs. Hudson?” said Holmes. “I went to it on my knees,  sir, just as you told me.” “Excellent. You carried the thing out very  well. Did you observe where the bullet went?”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it has spoilt your  beautiful bust, for it passed right through   the head and flattened itself on the wall.  I picked it up from the carpet. Here it is!” Holmes held it out to me. “A soft revolver bullet,  as you perceive, Watson. There’s genius in that,  

For who would expect to find such a thing fired  from an airgun? All right, Mrs. Hudson. I am much   obliged for your assistance. And now, Watson,  let me see you in your old seat once more,   for there are several points which  I should like to discuss with you.”

He had thrown off the seedy frockcoat,  and now he was the Holmes of old in the   mouse-coloured dressing-gown  which he took from his effigy. “The old shikari’s nerves have not lost their  steadiness, nor his eyes their keenness,” said he,   with a laugh, as he inspected the  shattered forehead of his bust.

“Plumb in the middle of the back of the head  and smack through the brain. He was the best   shot in India, and I expect that there are few  better in London. Have you heard the name?” “No, I have not.” “Well, well, such is fame!  But, then, if I remember right,  

You had not heard the name of Professor  James Moriarty, who had one of the great   brains of the century. Just give me down  my index of biographies from the shelf.” He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in  his chair and blowing great clouds from his cigar.

“My collection of M’s is a fine one,” said  he. “Moriarty himself is enough to make any   letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the  poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory,   and Mathews, who knocked out my left canine  in the waiting-room at Charing Cross, and,   finally, here is our friend of to-night.”

He handed over the book, and I read: Moran, Sebastian, Colonel. Unemployed. Formerly  1st Bangalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of   Sir Augustus Moran, C.B., once British Minister  to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford. Served in   Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasiab  (despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Author of  

Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas (1881);  Three Months in the Jungle (1884). Address:   Conduit Street. Clubs: The Anglo-Indian,  the Tankerville, the Bagatelle Card Club. On the margin was written,  in Holmes’s precise hand: The second most dangerous man in London. “This is astonishing,” said I,  

As I handed back the volume. “The man’s  career is that of an honourable soldier.” “It is true,” Holmes answered. “Up to a certain  point he did well. He was always a man of iron   nerve, and the story is still told in India  how he crawled down a drain after a wounded  

Man-eating tiger. There are some trees, Watson,  which grow to a certain height, and then suddenly   develop some unsightly eccentricity. You will  see it often in humans. I have a theory that the   individual represents in his development  the whole procession of his ancestors,  

And that such a sudden turn to good or evil stands  for some strong influence which came into the line   of his pedigree. The person becomes, as it were,  the epitome of the history of his own family.” “It is surely rather fanciful.” “Well, I don’t insist upon it.  Whatever the cause, Colonel Moran  

Began to go wrong. Without any open scandal, he  still made India too hot to hold him. He retired,   came to London, and again acquired an evil  name. It was at this time that he was sought   out by Professor Moriarty, to whom for a time  he was chief of the staff. Moriarty supplied him  

Liberally with money, and used him only in one  or two very high-class jobs, which no ordinary   criminal could have undertaken. You may have  some recollection of the death of Mrs. Stewart,   of Lauder, in 1887. Not? Well, I am sure Moran  was at the bottom of it, but nothing could be  

Proved. So cleverly was the colonel concealed  that, even when the Moriarty gang was broken up,   we could not incriminate him. You remember at  that date, when I called upon you in your rooms,   how I put up the shutters for fear of air-guns?  No doubt you thought me fanciful. I knew exactly  

What I was doing, for I knew of the existence of  this remarkable gun, and I knew also that one of   the best shots in the world would be behind it.  When we were in Switzerland he followed us with  

Moriarty, and it was undoubtedly he who gave me  that evil five minutes on the Reichenbach ledge. “You may think that I read the papers with  some attention during my sojourn in France,   on the look-out for any chance of laying him  by the heels. So long as he was free in London,  

My life would really not have been worth living.  Night and day the shadow would have been over me,   and sooner or later his chance must have come.  What could I do? I could not shoot him at sight,  

Or I should myself be in the dock. There was  no use appealing to a magistrate. They cannot   interfere on the strength of what would appear  to them to be a wild suspicion. So I could do   nothing. But I watched the criminal news, knowing  that sooner or later I should get him. Then came  

The death of this Ronald Adair. My chance had come  at last. Knowing what I did, was it not certain   that Colonel Moran had done it? He had played  cards with the lad, he had followed him home from  

The club, he had shot him through the open window.  There was not a doubt of it. The bullets alone are   enough to put his head in a noose. I came over  at once. I was seen by the sentinel, who would,  

I knew, direct the colonel’s attention to my  presence. He could not fail to connect my sudden   return with his crime, and to be terribly alarmed.  I was sure that he would make an attempt to get me  

Out of the way at once, and would bring round his  murderous weapon for that purpose. I left him an   excellent mark in the window, and, having warned  the police that they might be needed—by the way,   Watson, you spotted their presence in that  doorway with unerring accuracy—I took up  

What seemed to me to be a judicious post for  observation, never dreaming that he would   choose the same spot for his attack. Now, my dear  Watson, does anything remain for me to explain?” “Yes,” said I. “You have not made  it clear what was Colonel Moran’s   motive in murdering the Honourable Ronald Adair?”

“Ah! my dear Watson, there we come  into those realms of conjecture,   where the most logical mind may be at  fault. Each may form his own hypothesis   upon the present evidence, and yours  is as likely to be correct as mine.” “You have formed one, then?”

“I think that it is not difficult to explain  the facts. It came out in evidence that Colonel   Moran and young Adair had, between them, won  a considerable amount of money. Now, Moran   undoubtedly played foul—of that I have long been  aware. I believe that on the day of the murder  

Adair had discovered that Moran was cheating.  Very likely he had spoken to him privately,   and had threatened to expose him unless he  voluntarily resigned his membership of the club,   and promised not to play cards again.  It is unlikely that a youngster like  

Adair would at once make a hideous scandal by  exposing a well-known man so much older than   himself. Probably he acted as I suggest.  The exclusion from his clubs would mean   ruin to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten  card-gains. He therefore murdered Adair,  

Who at the time was endeavouring to work  out how much money he should himself return,   since he could not profit by his partner’s foul  play. He locked the door lest the ladies should   surprise him and insist upon knowing what he was  doing with these names and coins. Will it pass?”

“I have no doubt that you  have hit upon the truth.” “It will be verified or disproved at the trial.  Meanwhile, come what may, Colonel Moran will   trouble us no more. The famous air-gun of Von  Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum,  

And once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to  devote his life to examining those interesting   little problems which the complex life  of London so plentifully presents.” END OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER

“From the point of view of the criminal expert,”  said Mr. Sherlock Holmes, “London has become a   singularly uninteresting city since the death  of the late lamented Professor Moriarty.” “I can hardly think that you would find many  decent citizens to agree with you,” I answered.

“Well, well, I must not be selfish,” said he,  with a smile, as he pushed back his chair from   the breakfast-table. “The community is certainly  the gainer, and no one the loser, save the poor   out-of-work specialist, whose occupation  has gone. With that man in the field, one’s  

Morning paper presented infinite possibilities.  Often it was only the smallest trace, Watson,   the faintest indication, and yet it was enough to  tell me that the great malignant brain was there,   as the gentlest tremors of the edges of the web  remind one of the foul spider which lurks in the  

Centre. Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless  outrage—to the man who held the clue all could be   worked into one connected whole. To the scientific  student of the higher criminal world, no capital   in Europe offered the advantages which London then  possessed. But now——” He shrugged his shoulders  

In humorous deprecation of the state of things  which he had himself done so much to produce. At the time of which I speak, Holmes  had been back for some months,   and I at his request had sold my practice  and returned to share the old quarters in  

Baker Street. A young doctor, named Verner,  had purchased my small Kensington practice,   and given with astonishingly little demur  the highest price that I ventured to ask—an   incident which only explained itself some  years later, when I found that Verner was a  

Distant relation of Holmes, and that it was  my friend who had really found the money. Our months of partnership had not been so  uneventful as he had stated, for I find, on   looking over my notes, that this period includes  the case of the papers of ex-President Murillo,  

And also the shocking affair of the Dutch  steamship Friesland, which so nearly cost   us both our lives. His cold and proud nature was  always averse, however, from anything in the shape   of public applause, and he bound me in the most  stringent terms to say no further word of himself,  

His methods, or his successes—a prohibition which,  as I have explained, has only now been removed. Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in  his chair after his whimsical protest,   and was unfolding his morning paper in a leisurely  fashion, when our attention was arrested by a  

Tremendous ring at the bell, followed immediately  by a hollow drumming sound, as if someone were   beating on the outer door with his fist. As it  opened there came a tumultuous rush into the hall,   rapid feet clattered up the stair, and an instant  later a wild-eyed and frantic young man, pale,  

Disheveled, and palpitating, burst into the room.  He looked from one to the other of us, and under   our gaze of inquiry he became conscious that some  apology was needed for this unceremonious entry. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he cried. “You  mustn’t blame me. I am nearly mad. Mr.  

Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane.” He made the announcement as if the name alone  would explain both his visit and its manner,   but I could see, by my companion’s unresponsive  face, that it meant no more to him than to me.

“Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane,” said he,  pushing his case across. “I am sure that,   with your symptoms, my friend Dr. Watson here  would prescribe a sedative. The weather has   been so very warm these last few days. Now, if  you feel a little more composed, I should be  

Glad if you would sit down in that chair, and  tell us very slowly and quietly who you are,   and what it is that you want. You mentioned  your name, as if I should recognize it,   but I assure you that, beyond the obvious  facts that you are a bachelor, a solicitor,  

A Freemason, and an asthmatic, I  know nothing whatever about you.” Familiar as I was with my friend’s methods, it  was not difficult for me to follow his deductions,   and to observe the untidiness of attire,  the sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm,  

And the breathing which had prompted them.  Our client, however, stared in amazement. “Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes; and, in  addition, I am the most unfortunate man   at this moment in London. For heaven’s sake,  don’t abandon me, Mr. Holmes! If they come  

To arrest me before I have finished my story,  make them give me time, so that I may tell you   the whole truth. I could go to jail happy if  I knew that you were working for me outside.” “Arrest you!” said Holmes. “This is  really most grati—most interesting.  

On what charge do you expect to be arrested?” “Upon the charge of murdering Mr.  Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood.” My companion’s expressive face  showed a sympathy which was not,   I am afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction. “Dear me,” said he, “it was only this moment  at breakfast that I was saying to my friend,  

Dr. Watson, that sensational cases  had disappeared out of our papers.” Our visitor stretched forward a quivering  hand and picked up the Daily Telegraph,   which still lay upon Holmes’s knee. “If you had looked at it, sir, you would have  seen at a glance what the errand is on which I  

Have come to you this morning. I feel as if my  name and my misfortune must be in every man’s   mouth.” He turned it over to expose the  central page. “Here it is, and with your   permission I will read it to you. Listen to this,  Mr. Holmes. The headlines are: ‘Mysterious Affair  

At Lower Norwood. Disappearance of a Well-known  Builder. Suspicion of Murder and Arson. A Clue   to the Criminal.’ That is the clue which they are  already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that it   leads infallibly to me. I have been followed from  London Bridge Station, and I am sure that they are  

Only waiting for the warrant to arrest me. It will  break my mother’s heart—it will break her heart!”   He wrung his hands in an agony of apprehension,  and swayed backward and forward in his chair. I looked with interest upon this man, who  was accused of being the perpetrator of a  

Crime of violence. He was flaxen-haired and  handsome, in a washed-out negative fashion,   with frightened blue eyes, and a clean-shaven  face, with a weak, sensitive mouth. His age   may have been about twenty-seven, his dress and  bearing that of a gentleman. From the pocket of  

His light summer overcoat protruded the bundle of  indorsed papers which proclaimed his profession. “We must use what time we  have,” said Holmes. “Watson,   would you have the kindness to take the  paper and to read the paragraph in question?” Underneath the vigorous headlines  which our client had quoted,   I read the following suggestive narrative:

“Late last night, or early this morning, an  incident occurred at Lower Norwood which points,   it is feared, to a serious crime. Mr. Jonas  Oldacre is a well-known resident of that suburb,   where he has carried on his business as a builder  for many years. Mr. Oldacre is a bachelor,  

Fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep  Dene House, at the Sydenham end of the road   of that name. He has had the reputation  of being a man of eccentric habits,   secretive and retiring. For some years he  has practically withdrawn from the business,  

In which he is said to have massed considerable  wealth. A small timber-yard still exists, however,   at the back of the house, and last night, about  twelve o’clock, an alarm was given that one of   the stacks was on fire. The engines were soon upon  the spot, but the dry wood burned with great fury,  

And it was impossible to arrest the conflagration  until the stack had been entirely consumed. Up to   this point the incident bore the appearance of  an ordinary accident, but fresh indications seem   to point to serious crime. Surprise was expressed  at the absence of the master of the establishment  

From the scene of the fire, and an inquiry  followed, which showed that he had disappeared   from the house. An examination of his room  revealed that the bed had not been slept in, that   a safe which stood in it was open, that a number  of important papers were scattered about the room,  

And finally, that there were signs of a murderous  struggle, slight traces of blood being found   within the room, and an oaken walking-stick, which  also showed stains of blood upon the handle. It is   known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre had received a late  visitor in his bedroom upon that night, and the  

Stick found has been identified as the property  of this person, who is a young London solicitor   named John Hector McFarlane, junior partner of  Graham and McFarlane, of 426, Gresham Buildings,   E.C. The police believe that they have evidence in  their possession which supplies a very convincing  

Motive for the crime, and altogether it cannot be  doubted that sensational developments will follow.  “LATER.—It is rumoured as we go to press that  Mr. John Hector McFarlane has actually been   arrested on the charge of the murder of Mr.  Jonas Oldacre. It is at least certain that a  

Warrant has been issued. There have been further  and sinister developments in the investigation at   Norwood. Besides the signs of a struggle in the  room of the unfortunate builder it is now known   that the French windows of his bedroom (which  is on the ground floor) were found to be open,  

That there were marks as if some bulky object  had been dragged across to the wood-pile, and,   finally, it is asserted that charred remains have  been found among the charcoal ashes of the fire.   The police theory is that a most sensational crime  has been committed, that the victim was clubbed to  

Death in his own bedroom, his papers rifled, and  his dead body dragged across to the wood-stack,   which was then ignited so as to hide all  traces of the crime. The conduct of the   criminal investigation has been left in the  experienced hands of Inspector Lestrade,  

Of Scotland Yard, who is following up the  clues with his accustomed energy and sagacity.” Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and  fingertips together to this remarkable account. “The case has certainly some points of interest,”  said he, in his languid fashion. “May I ask,  

In the first place, Mr. McFarlane, how  it is that you are still at liberty,   since there appears to be enough  evidence to justify your arrest?” “I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath,  with my parents, Mr. Holmes, but last night,  

Having to do business very late with Mr. Jonas  Oldacre, I stayed at an hotel in Norwood,   and came to my business from there. I knew  nothing of this affair until I was in the train,   when I read what you have just heard. I at  once saw the horrible danger of my position,  

And I hurried to put the case into your hands.  I have no doubt that I should have been arrested   either at my city office or at my home. A  man followed me from London Bridge Station,   and I have no doubt—Great heaven! what is that?”

It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly  by heavy steps upon the stair. A moment later,   our old friend Lestrade appeared in the doorway.   Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of  one or two uniformed policemen outside. “Mr. John Hector McFarlane?” said Lestrade. Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

“I arrest you for the wilful murder of  Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood.” McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair,   and sank into his chair once  more like one who is crushed. “One moment, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “Half an  hour more or less can make no difference to you,  

And the gentleman was about to give us an  account of this very interesting affair,   which might aid us in clearing it up.” “I think there will be no difficulty in  clearing it up,” said Lestrade, grimly. “None the less, with your permission, I should  be much interested to hear his account.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult  for me to refuse you anything,   for you have been of use to the force once or  twice in the past, and we owe you a good turn   at Scotland Yard,” said Lestrade. “At the  same time I must remain with my prisoner,  

And I am bound to warn him that anything he  may say will appear in evidence against him.” “I wish nothing better,” said our client. “All I   ask is that you should hear and  recognize the absolute truth.” Lestrade looked at his watch. “I’ll  give you half an hour,” said he.

“I must explain first,” said McFarlane, “that  I knew nothing of Mr. Jonas Oldacre. His name   was familiar to me, for many years ago  my parents were acquainted with him,   but they drifted apart. I was very much surprised  therefore, when yesterday, about three o’clock in  

The afternoon, he walked into my office in  the city. But I was still more astonished   when he told me the object of his visit. He  had in his hand several sheets of a notebook,   covered with scribbled writing—here  they are—and he laid them on my table.

“‘Here is my will,’ said he.  ‘I want you, Mr. McFarlane,   to cast it into proper legal shape.  I will sit here while you do so.’ “I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine  my astonishment when I found that, with some  

Reservations, he had left all his property to  me. He was a strange little ferret-like man,   with white eyelashes, and when I looked up  at him I found his keen grey eyes fixed upon   me with an amused expression. I could hardly  believe my own as I read the terms of the will;  

But he explained that he was a bachelor with  hardly any living relation, that he had known my   parents in his youth, and that he had always  heard of me as a very deserving young man,   and was assured that his money would be in  worthy hands. Of course, I could only stammer  

Out my thanks. The will was duly finished,  signed, and witnessed by my clerk. This is   it on the blue paper, and these slips, as I have  explained, are the rough draft. Mr. Jonas Oldacre   then informed me that there were a number of  documents—building leases, title-deeds, mortgages,  

Scrip, and so forth—which it was necessary that  I should see and understand. He said that his   mind would not be easy until the whole thing was  settled, and he begged me to come out to his house   at Norwood that night, bringing the will with me,  and to arrange matters. ‘Remember, my boy, not  

One word to your parents about the affair until  everything is settled. We will keep it as a little   surprise for them.’ He was very insistent upon  this point, and made me promise it faithfully. “You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a  humour to refuse him anything that he might ask.  

He was my benefactor, and all my desire was  to carry out his wishes in every particular.   I sent a telegram home, therefore, to say that  I had important business on hand, and that it  

Was impossible for me to say how late I might be.  Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me to   have supper with him at nine, as he might not be  home before that hour. I had some difficulty in  

Finding his house, however, and it was nearly  half-past before I reached it. I found him——” “One moment!” said Holmes. “Who opened the door?” “A middle-aged woman, who was,  I suppose, his housekeeper.” “And it was she, I presume,  who mentioned your name?” “Exactly,” said McFarlane. “Pray proceed.”

McFarlane wiped his damp brow,  and then continued his narrative: “I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room,  where a frugal supper was laid out. Afterwards,   Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into his bedroom,  in which there stood a heavy safe. This he  

Opened and took out a mass of documents, which  we went over together. It was between eleven   and twelve when we finished. He remarked  that we must not disturb the housekeeper.   He showed me out through his own French  window, which had been open all this time.” “Was the blind down?” asked Holmes.

“I will not be sure, but I believe that it was  only half down. Yes, I remember how he pulled it   up in order to swing open the window. I could  not find my stick, and he said, ‘Never mind,  

My boy, I shall see a good deal of you now,  I hope, and I will keep your stick until you   come back to claim it.’ I left him there, the  safe open, and the papers made up in packets  

Upon the table. It was so late that I could not  get back to Blackheath, so I spent the night at   the Anerley Arms, and I knew nothing more until  I read of this horrible affair in the morning.” “Anything more that you would like  to ask, Mr. Holmes?” said Lestrade,  

Whose eyebrows had gone up once or twice  during this remarkable explanation. “Not until I have been to Blackheath.” “You mean to Norwood,” said Lestrade. “Oh, yes, no doubt that is what I must have  meant,” said Holmes, with his enigmatical  

Smile. Lestrade had learned by more experiences  than he would care to acknowledge that that brain   could cut through that which was impenetrable to  him. I saw him look curiously at my companion. “I think I should like to have a word with you  presently, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said he. “Now,  

Mr. McFarlane, two of my constables are  at the door, and there is a four-wheeler   waiting.” The wretched young man arose, and  with a last beseeching glance at us walked   from the room. The officers conducted  him to the cab, but Lestrade remained.

Holmes had picked up the pages which  formed the rough draft of the will,   and was looking at them with the  keenest interest upon his face. “There are some points about that document,   Lestrade, are there not?”  said he, pushing them over. The official looked at them  with a puzzled expression.

“I can read the first few lines and  these in the middle of the second page,   and one or two at the end. Those  are as clear as print,” said he,   “but the writing in between is very bad, and there  are three places where I cannot read it at all.”

“What do you make of that?” said Holmes. “Well, what do you make of it?” “That it was written in a train. The  good writing represents stations,   the bad writing movement, and the very bad  writing passing over points. A scientific   expert would pronounce at once that  this was drawn up on a suburban line,  

Since nowhere save in the immediate vicinity  of a great city could there be so quick a   succession of points. Granting that his whole  journey was occupied in drawing up the will,   then the train was an express, only stopping  once between Norwood and London Bridge.” Lestrade began to laugh.

“You are too many for me when you  begin to get on your theories,   Mr. Holmes,” said he. “How  does this bear on the case?” “Well, it corroborates the young man’s  story to the extent that the will was   drawn up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey  yesterday. It is curious—is it not?—that  

A man should draw up so important a document  in so haphazard a fashion. It suggests that   he did not think it was going to be  of much practical importance. If a   man drew up a will which he did not intend  ever to be effective, he might do it so.”

“Well, he drew up his own death warrant  at the same time,” said Lestrade. “Oh, you think so?” “Don’t you?” “Well, it is quite possible, but  the case is not clear to me yet.” “Not clear? Well, if that isn’t clear,  what could be clearer? Here is a young man  

Who learns suddenly that, if a certain older  man dies, he will succeed to a fortune. What   does he do? He says nothing to anyone, but he  arranges that he shall go out on some pretext   to see his client that night. He waits until  the only other person in the house is in bed,  

And then in the solitude of a man’s room he  murders him, burns his body in the wood-pile,   and departs to a neighbouring hotel. The  blood-stains in the room and also on the   stick are very slight. It is probable that  he imagined his crime to be a bloodless one,  

And hoped that if the body were consumed  it would hide all traces of the method of   his death—traces which, for some reason, must  have pointed to him. Is not all this obvious?” “It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being just a  trifle too obvious,” said Holmes. “You do not add  

Imagination to your other great qualities, but if  you could for one moment put yourself in the place   of this young man, would you choose the very night  after the will had been made to commit your crime?  

Would it not seem dangerous to you to make so very  close a relation between the two incidents? Again,   would you choose an occasion when you are known  to be in the house, when a servant has let you  

In? And, finally, would you take the great pains  to conceal the body, and yet leave your own stick   as a sign that you were the criminal? Confess,  Lestrade, that all this is very unlikely.” “As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well  as I do that a criminal is often flurried,  

And does such things, which a cool man  would avoid. He was very likely afraid to   go back to the room. Give me another  theory that would fit the facts.” “I could very easily give you half a  dozen,” said Holmes. “Here for example,  

Is a very possible and even probable one. I  make you a free present of it. The older man   is showing documents which are of evident value.  A passing tramp sees them through the window,   the blind of which is only half down. Exit the  solicitor. Enter the tramp! He seizes a stick,  

Which he observes there, kills Oldacre,  and departs after burning the body.” “Why should the tramp burn the body?” “For the matter of that, why should McFarlane?” “To hide some evidence.” “Possibly the tramp wanted to hide that  any murder at all had been committed.” “And why did the tramp take nothing?”

“Because they were papers  that he could not negotiate.” Lestrade shook his head,   though it seemed to me that his manner  was less absolutely assured than before. “Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for  your tramp, and while you are finding him  

We will hold on to our man. The future will  show which is right. Just notice this point,   Mr. Holmes: that so far as we know,  none of the papers were removed,   and that the prisoner is the one man in the  world who had no reason for removing them,  

Since he was heir-at-law, and  would come into them in any case.” My friend seemed struck by this remark. “I don’t mean to deny that the evidence is  in some ways very strongly in favour of your   theory,” said he. “I only wish to point out that  there are other theories possible. As you say,  

The future will decide. Good-morning!  I dare say that in the course of the   day I shall drop in at Norwood  and see how you are getting on.” When the detective departed, my friend  rose and made his preparations for the  

Day’s work with the alert air of a man  who has a congenial task before him. “My first movement Watson,” said he, as  he bustled into his frockcoat, “must,   as I said, be in the direction of Blackheath.” “And why not Norwood?”

“Because we have in this case one singular  incident coming close to the heels of another   singular incident. The police are making the  mistake of concentrating their attention upon   the second, because it happens to be the  one which is actually criminal. But it is  

Evident to me that the logical way to approach  the case is to begin by trying to throw some   light upon the first incident—the curious will,  so suddenly made, and to so unexpected an heir.   It may do something to simplify what followed.  No, my dear fellow, I don’t think you can help  

Me. There is no prospect of danger, or I should  not dream of stirring out without you. I trust   that when I see you in the evening, I will  be able to report that I have been able to   do something for this unfortunate youngster,  who has thrown himself upon my protection.”

It was late when my friend returned, and I could  see, by a glance at his haggard and anxious face,   that the high hopes with which he had started  had not been fulfilled. For an hour he droned   away upon his violin, endeavouring to soothe  his own ruffled spirits. At last he flung  

Down the instrument, and plunged into a  detailed account of his misadventures. “It’s all going wrong, Watson—all as wrong as  it can go. I kept a bold face before Lestrade,   but, upon my soul, I believe that for once  the fellow is on the right track and we are  

On the wrong. All my instincts are one  way, and all the facts are the other,   and I much fear that British juries have  not yet attained that pitch of intelligence   when they will give the preference to  my theories over Lestrade’s facts.” “Did you go to Blackheath?”

“Yes, Watson, I went there, and I found very  quickly that the late lamented Oldacre was a   pretty considerable blackguard. The father  was away in search of his son. The mother   was at home—a little, fluffy, blue-eyed person,  in a tremor of fear and indignation. Of course,  

She would not admit even the possibility  of his guilt. But she would not express   either surprise or regret over the  fate of Oldacre. On the contrary,   she spoke of him with such bitterness that she  was unconsciously considerably strengthening the  

Case of the police for, of course, if her son  had heard her speak of the man in this fashion,   it would predispose him towards hatred and  violence. ‘He was more like a malignant and   cunning ape than a human being,’ said she, ‘and  he always was, ever since he was a young man.’

“‘You knew him at that time?’ said I. “‘Yes, I knew him well, in fact, he was an  old suitor of mine. Thank heaven that I had   the sense to turn away from him and to marry a  better, if poorer, man. I was engaged to him,  

Mr. Holmes, when I heard a shocking story of  how he had turned a cat loose in an aviary,   and I was so horrified at his brutal  cruelty that I would have nothing more   to do with him.’ She rummaged in a bureau, and  presently she produced a photograph of a woman,  

Shamefully defaced and mutilated with  a knife. ‘That is my own photograph,’   she said. ‘He sent it to me in that state,  with his curse, upon my wedding morning.’ “‘Well,’ said I, ‘at least  he has forgiven you now,   since he has left all his property to your son.’

“‘Neither my son nor I want anything from  Jonas Oldacre, dead or alive!’ she cried,   with a proper spirit. ‘There is a God in heaven,  Mr. Holmes, and that same God who has punished   that wicked man will show, in His own good time,  that my son’s hands are guiltless of his blood.’

“Well, I tried one or two leads, but could get  at nothing which would help our hypothesis,   and several points which would make against it.  I gave it up at last and off I went to Norwood. “This place, Deep Dene House, is a big modern  villa of staring brick, standing back in its  

Own grounds, with a laurel-clumped lawn in front  of it. To the right and some distance back from   the road was the timber-yard which had been the  scene of the fire. Here’s a rough plan on a leaf  

Of my notebook. This window on the left is the one  which opens into Oldacre’s room. You can look into   it from the road, you see. That is about the only  bit of consolation I have had to-day. Lestrade was  

Not there, but his head constable did the honours.  They had just found a great treasure-trove. They   had spent the morning raking among the ashes of  the burned wood-pile, and besides the charred   organic remains they had secured several  discoloured metal discs. I examined them  

With care, and there was no doubt that they were  trouser buttons. I even distinguished that one   of them was marked with the name of ‘Hyams,’ who  was Oldacres tailor. I then worked the lawn very   carefully for signs and traces, but this drought  has made everything as hard as iron. Nothing was  

To be seen save that some body or bundle had been  dragged through a low privet hedge which is in a   line with the wood-pile. All that, of course, fits  in with the official theory. I crawled about the  

Lawn with an August sun on my back, but I got  up at the end of an hour no wiser than before. “Well, after this fiasco I went into the bedroom  and examined that also. The blood-stains were very   slight, mere smears and discolourations, but  undoubtedly fresh. The stick had been removed,  

But there also the marks were slight. There  is no doubt about the stick belonging to our   client. He admits it. Footmarks of both  men could be made out on the carpet,   but none of any third person, which  again is a trick for the other side.  

They were piling up their score all  the time and we were at a standstill. “Only one little gleam of hope did I get—and yet  it amounted to nothing. I examined the contents   of the safe, most of which had been taken out  and left on the table. The papers had been made  

Up into sealed envelopes, one or two of which  had been opened by the police. They were not,   so far as I could judge, of any great value, nor  did the bank-book show that Mr. Oldacre was in   such very affluent circumstances. But it seemed  to me that all the papers were not there. There  

Were allusions to some deeds—possibly the  more valuable—which I could not find. This,   of course, if we could definitely prove it,  would turn Lestrade’s argument against himself,   for who would steal a thing if he  knew that he would shortly inherit it?

“Finally, having drawn every other cover and  picked up no scent, I tried my luck with the   housekeeper. Mrs. Lexington is her name—a little,  dark, silent person, with suspicious and sidelong   eyes. She could tell us something if she would—I  am convinced of it. But she was as close as wax.  

Yes, she had let Mr. McFarlane in at half-past  nine. She wished her hand had withered before   she had done so. She had gone to bed at half-past  ten. Her room was at the other end of the house,  

And she could hear nothing of what had passed.  Mr. McFarlane had left his hat, and to the best   of her belief his stick, in the hall. She had  been awakened by the alarm of fire. Her poor,   dear master had certainly been murdered. Had he  any enemies? Well, every man had enemies, but Mr.  

Oldacre kept himself very much to himself, and  only met people in the way of business. She had   seen the buttons, and was sure that they belonged  to the clothes which he had worn last night. The  

Wood-pile was very dry, for it had not rained  for a month. It burned like tinder, and by the   time she reached the spot, nothing could be seen  but flames. She and all the firemen smelled the   burned flesh from inside it. She knew nothing of  the papers, nor of Mr. Oldacre’s private affairs.

“So, my dear Watson, there’s my report of  a failure. And yet—and yet—” he clenched   his thin hands in a paroxysm of conviction—“I  know it’s all wrong. I feel it in my bones.   There is something that has not come out,  and that housekeeper knows it. There was a  

Sort of sulky defiance in her eyes, which  only goes with guilty knowledge. However,   there’s no good talking any more about it,  Watson; but unless some lucky chance comes   our way I fear that the Norwood Disappearance  Case will not figure in that chronicle of  

Our successes which I foresee that a patient  public will sooner or later have to endure.” “Surely,” said I, “the man’s  appearance would go far with any jury?” “That is a dangerous argument my dear Watson. You  remember that terrible murderer, Bert Stevens, who  

Wanted us to get him off in ’87? Was there ever  a more mild-mannered, Sunday-school young man?” “It is true.” “Unless we succeed in establishing an alternative  theory, this man is lost. You can hardly find a   flaw in the case which can now be presented  against him, and all further investigation  

Has served to strengthen it. By the way, there  is one curious little point about those papers   which may serve us as the starting-point for  an inquiry. On looking over the bank-book I   found that the low state of the balance  was principally due to large checks which  

Have been made out during the last year to Mr.  Cornelius. I confess that I should be interested   to know who this Mr. Cornelius may be with whom a  retired builder has such very large transactions.   Is it possible that he has had a hand in the  affair? Cornelius might be a broker, but we  

Have found no scrip to correspond with these  large payments. Failing any other indication,   my researches must now take the direction of  an inquiry at the bank for the gentleman who   has cashed these checks. But I fear, my dear  fellow, that our case will end ingloriously  

By Lestrade hanging our client, which will  certainly be a triumph for Scotland Yard.” I do not know how far Sherlock  Holmes took any sleep that night,   but when I came down to breakfast I found him pale  and harassed, his bright eyes the brighter for the  

Dark shadows round them. The carpet round  his chair was littered with cigarette-ends   and with the early editions of the morning  papers. An open telegram lay upon the table. “What do you think of this, Watson?”  he asked, tossing it across. It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:

Important fresh evidence  to hand. McFarlane’s guilt   definitely established. Advise  you to abandon case.—LESTRADE. “This sounds serious,” said I. “It is Lestrade’s little cock-a-doodle of  victory,” Holmes answered, with a bitter   smile. “And yet it may be premature to abandon  the case. After all, important fresh evidence  

Is a two-edged thing, and may possibly cut  in a very different direction to that which   Lestrade imagines. Take your breakfast,  Watson, and we will go out together and   see what we can do. I feel as if I shall need  your company and your moral support today.”

My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was  one of his peculiarities that in his more intense   moments he would permit himself no food, and I  have known him presume upon his iron strength   until he has fainted from pure inanition. “At  present I cannot spare energy and nerve force  

For digestion,” he would say in answer to my  medical remonstrances. I was not surprised,   therefore, when this morning he left his  untouched meal behind him, and started with   me for Norwood. A crowd of morbid sightseers  were still gathered round Deep Dene House,  

Which was just such a suburban villa as I had  pictured. Within the gates Lestrade met us,   his face flushed with victory,  his manner grossly triumphant. “Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to be  wrong yet? Have you found your tramp?” he cried. “I have formed no conclusion  whatever,” my companion answered.

“But we formed ours yesterday,  and now it proves to be correct,   so you must acknowledge that we have been a  little in front of you this time, Mr. Holmes.” “You certainly have the air of something  unusual having occurred,” said Holmes. Lestrade laughed loudly.

“You don’t like being beaten any more than  the rest of us do,” said he. “A man can’t   expect always to have it his own way, can he, Dr.  Watson? Step this way, if you please, gentlemen,  

And I think I can convince you once for all  that it was John McFarlane who did this crime.” He led us through the passage  and out into a dark hall beyond. “This is where young McFarlane must have  come out to get his hat after the crime  

Was done,” said he. “Now look at this.”  With dramatic suddenness he struck a match,   and by its light exposed a stain of blood upon  the whitewashed wall. As he held the match nearer,   I saw that it was more than a stain. It  was the well-marked print of a thumb.

“Look at that with your  magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes.” “Yes, I am doing so.” “You are aware that no two thumb-marks are alike?” “I have heard something of the kind.” “Well, then, will you please compare  that print with this wax impression   of young McFarlane’s right thumb,  taken by my orders this morning?”

As he held the waxen print  close to the blood-stain,   it did not take a magnifying glass to  see that the two were undoubtedly from   the same thumb. It was evident to me  that our unfortunate client was lost. “That is final,” said Lestrade. “Yes, that is final,” I involuntarily echoed.

“It is final,” said Holmes. Something in his tone caught my  ear, and I turned to look at him.   An extraordinary change had come over  his face. It was writhing with inward   merriment. His two eyes were shining like  stars. It seemed to me that he was making  

Desperate efforts to restrain a  convulsive attack of laughter. “Dear me! Dear me!” he said at last. “Well, now,   who would have thought it? And how deceptive  appearances may be, to be sure! Such a nice  

Young man to look at! It is a lesson to us not  to trust our own judgment, is it not, Lestrade?” “Yes, some of us are a little too  much inclined to be cock-sure,   Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. The man’s insolence  was maddening, but we could not resent it.

“What a providential thing that this young man  should press his right thumb against the wall in   taking his hat from the peg! Such a very natural  action, too, if you come to think of it.” Holmes   was outwardly calm, but his whole body gave a  wriggle of suppressed excitement as he spoke.

“By the way, Lestrade, who made  this remarkable discovery?” “It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who  drew the night constable’s attention to it.” “Where was the night constable?” “He remained on guard in the bedroom  where the crime was committed,   so as to see that nothing was touched.”

“But why didn’t the police  see this mark yesterday?” “Well, we had no particular reason to make  a careful examination of the hall. Besides,   it’s not in a very prominent place, as you see.” “No, no—of course not. I suppose there is  no doubt that the mark was there yesterday?”

Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he  was going out of his mind. I confess that I   was myself surprised both at his hilarious  manner and at his rather wild observation. “I don’t know whether you think that  McFarlane came out of jail in the dead  

Of the night in order to strengthen the  evidence against himself,” said Lestrade.   “I leave it to any expert in the world  whether that is not the mark of his thumb.” “It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb.” “There, that’s enough,” said Lestrade.  “I am a practical man, Mr. Holmes,  

And when I have got my evidence I come to  my conclusions. If you have anything to say,   you will find me writing my  report in the sitting-room.” Holmes had recovered his equanimity,   though I still seemed to detect  gleams of amusement in his expression.

“Dear me, this is a very sad development,  Watson, is it not?” said he. “And yet there   are singular points about it which  hold out some hopes for our client.” “I am delighted to hear it,” said I, heartily.  “I was afraid it was all up with him.”

“I would hardly go so far as to say that,  my dear Watson. The fact is that there is   one really serious flaw in this evidence to  which our friend attaches so much importance.” “Indeed, Holmes! What is it?” “Only this: that I know that that mark  was not there when I examined the hall  

Yesterday. And now, Watson, let us have  a little stroll round in the sunshine.” With a confused brain, but with a heart into  which some warmth of hope was returning,   I accompanied my friend in a walk round the  garden. Holmes took each face of the house  

In turn, and examined it with great  interest. He then led the way inside,   and went over the whole building from basement  to attic. Most of the rooms were unfurnished,   but none the less Holmes inspected them  all minutely. Finally, on the top corridor,  

Which ran outside three untenanted bedrooms,  he again was seized with a spasm of merriment. “There are really some very unique features  about this case, Watson,” said he. “I think   it is time now that we took our friend  Lestrade into our confidence. He has had  

His little smile at our expense, and perhaps  we may do as much by him, if my reading of   this problem proves to be correct. Yes, yes,  I think I see how we should approach it.” The Scotland Yard inspector was still writing  in the parlour when Holmes interrupted him.

“I understood that you were writing  a report of this case,” said he. “So I am.” “Don’t you think it may be  a little premature? I can’t   help thinking that your evidence is not complete.” Lestrade knew my friend too well to disregard his   words. He laid down his pen  and looked curiously at him.

“What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?” “Only that there is an important  witness whom you have not seen.” “Can you produce him?” “I think I can.” “Then do so.” “I will do my best. How many constables have you?” “There are three within call.”

“Excellent!” said Holmes. “May I ask if they are  all large, able-bodied men with powerful voices?” “I have no doubt they are, though I fail to  see what their voices have to do with it.” “Perhaps I can help you to see that and  one or two other things as well,” said  

Holmes. “Kindly summon your men, and I will try.” Five minutes later, three policemen  had assembled in the hall. “In the outhouse you will find a considerable  quantity of straw,” said Holmes. “I will ask   you to carry in two bundles of it. I think it  will be of the greatest assistance in producing  

The witness whom I require. Thank you very  much. I believe you have some matches in your   pocket Watson. Now, Mr. Lestrade, I will ask  you all to accompany me to the top landing.” As I have said, there was a broad corridor there,  which ran outside three empty bedrooms. At one  

End of the corridor we were all marshalled by  Sherlock Holmes, the constables grinning and   Lestrade staring at my friend with amazement,  expectation, and derision chasing each other   across his features. Holmes stood before us with  the air of a conjurer who is performing a trick.

“Would you kindly send one of your constables  for two buckets of water? Put the straw on the   floor here, free from the wall on either  side. Now I think that we are all ready.” Lestrade’s face had begun to grow  red and angry. “I don’t know whether  

You are playing a game with us, Mr.  Sherlock Holmes,” said he. “If you   know anything, you can surely say  it without all this tomfoolery.” “I assure you, my good Lestrade, that I have  an excellent reason for everything that I do.  

You may possibly remember that you chaffed me a  little, some hours ago, when the sun seemed on   your side of the hedge, so you must not grudge me  a little pomp and ceremony now. Might I ask you,  

Watson, to open that window, and then to  put a match to the edge of the straw?” I did so, and driven by the draught a coil  of grey smoke swirled down the corridor,   while the dry straw crackled and flamed. “Now we must see if we can  find this witness for you,  

Lestrade. Might I ask you all to join in the  cry of ‘Fire!’? Now then; one, two, three——” “Fire!” we all yelled. “Thank you. I will trouble you once again.” “Fire!” “Just once more, gentlemen, and all together.” “Fire!” The shout must have rung over Norwood.

It had hardly died away when an amazing  thing happened. A door suddenly flew open   out of what appeared to be solid  wall at the end of the corridor,   and a little, wizened man darted out  of it, like a rabbit out of its burrow.

“Capital!” said Holmes, calmly. “Watson, a bucket  of water over the straw. That will do! Lestrade,   allow me to present you with your principal  missing witness, Mr. Jonas Oldacre.” The detective stared at the newcomer with  blank amazement. The latter was blinking in  

The bright light of the corridor, and peering  at us and at the smouldering fire. It was an   odious face—crafty, vicious, malignant, with  shifty, light-grey eyes and white lashes. “What’s this, then?” said Lestrade, at last.  “What have you been doing all this time, eh?”

Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh, shrinking back  from the furious red face of the angry detective. “I have done no harm.” “No harm? You have done your best to get  an innocent man hanged. If it wasn’t for   this gentleman here, I am not sure  that you would not have succeeded.”

The wretched creature began to whimper. “I am sure, sir, it was only my practical joke.” “Oh! a joke, was it? You won’t find the laugh  on your side, I promise you. Take him down,   and keep him in the sitting-room until  I come. Mr. Holmes,” he continued,  

When they had gone, “I could not speak before  the constables, but I don’t mind saying,   in the presence of Dr. Watson, that this is  the brightest thing that you have done yet,   though it is a mystery to me how you did  it. You have saved an innocent man’s life,  

And you have prevented a very grave scandal, which  would have ruined my reputation in the Force.” Holmes smiled, and clapped  Lestrade upon the shoulder. “Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will  find that your reputation has been enormously   enhanced. Just make a few alterations  in that report which you were writing,  

And they will understand how hard it is to  throw dust in the eyes of Inspector Lestrade.” “And you don’t want your name to appear?” “Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps  I shall get the credit also at some distant day,  

When I permit my zealous historian  to lay out his foolscap once more—eh,   Watson? Well, now, let us see  where this rat has been lurking.” A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across  the passage six feet from the end, with a door  

Cunningly concealed in it. It was lit within by  slits under the eaves. A few articles of furniture   and a supply of food and water were within,  together with a number of books and papers. “There’s the advantage of being a builder,”  said Holmes, as we came out. “He was able  

To fix up his own little hiding-place  without any confederate—save, of course,   that precious housekeeper of his, whom I should  lose no time in adding to your bag, Lestrade.” “I’ll take your advice. But how did  you know of this place, Mr. Holmes?”

“I made up my mind that the fellow was in hiding  in the house. When I paced one corridor and found   it six feet shorter than the corresponding  one below, it was pretty clear where he was.  

I thought he had not the nerve to lie quiet  before an alarm of fire. We could, of course,   have gone in and taken him, but it amused  me to make him reveal himself. Besides,   I owed you a little mystification,  Lestrade, for your chaff in the morning.”

“Well, sir, you certainly  got equal with me on that.   But how in the world did you know  that he was in the house at all?” “The thumb-mark, Lestrade. You  said it was final; and so it was,  

In a very different sense. I knew it had not  been there the day before. I pay a good deal   of attention to matters of detail, as you may  have observed, and I had examined the hall,   and was sure that the wall was clear.  Therefore, it had been put on during the night.”

“But how?” “Very simply. When those packets were sealed up,  Jonas Oldacre got McFarlane to secure one of the   seals by putting his thumb upon the soft wax.  It would be done so quickly and so naturally,   that I daresay the young man himself has no  recollection of it. Very likely it just so  

Happened, and Oldacre had himself no notion of  the use he would put it to. Brooding over the   case in that den of his, it suddenly struck him  what absolutely damning evidence he could make   against McFarlane by using that thumb-mark. It  was the simplest thing in the world for him to  

Take a wax impression from the seal, to moisten it  in as much blood as he could get from a pin-prick,   and to put the mark upon the wall during the  night, either with his own hand or with that  

Of his housekeeper. If you examine among those  documents which he took with him into his retreat,   I will lay you a wager that you find  the seal with the thumb-mark upon it.” “Wonderful!” said Lestrade. “Wonderful!  It’s all as clear as crystal,  

As you put it. But what is the object  of this deep deception, Mr. Holmes?” It was amusing to me to see how the  detective’s overbearing manner had   changed suddenly to that of a child  asking questions of its teacher.

“Well, I don’t think that is very hard to explain.  A very deep, malicious, vindictive person is the   gentleman who is now waiting us downstairs. You  know that he was once refused by McFarlane’s   mother? You don’t! I told you that you should go  to Blackheath first and Norwood afterwards. Well,  

This injury, as he would consider it, has rankled  in his wicked, scheming brain, and all his life   he has longed for vengeance, but never seen his  chance. During the last year or two, things have   gone against him—secret speculation, I think—and  he finds himself in a bad way. He determines to  

Swindle his creditors, and for this purpose he  pays large checks to a certain Mr. Cornelius,   who is, I imagine, himself under another  name. I have not traced these checks yet,   but I have no doubt that they were banked under  that name at some provincial town where Oldacre  

From time to time led a double existence.  He intended to change his name altogether,   draw this money, and vanish,  starting life again elsewhere.” “Well, that’s likely enough.” “It would strike him that in disappearing  he might throw all pursuit off his track,  

And at the same time have an ample and crushing  revenge upon his old sweetheart, if he could give   the impression that he had been murdered by her  only child. It was a masterpiece of villainy,   and he carried it out like a master. The idea  of the will, which would give an obvious motive  

For the crime, the secret visit unknown to  his own parents, the retention of the stick,   the blood, and the animal remains and buttons  in the wood-pile, all were admirable. It was a   net from which it seemed to me, a few hours ago,  that there was no possible escape. But he had not  

That supreme gift of the artist, the knowledge  of when to stop. He wished to improve that which   was already perfect—to draw the rope tighter yet  round the neck of his unfortunate victim—and so   he ruined all. Let us descend, Lestrade. There are  just one or two questions that I would ask him.”

The malignant creature was seated in his own  parlour, with a policeman upon each side of him. “It was a joke, my good sir—a practical joke,  nothing more,” he whined incessantly. “I assure   you, sir, that I simply concealed myself in  order to see the effect of my disappearance,  

And I am sure that you would not  be so unjust as to imagine that   I would have allowed any harm to  befall poor young Mr. McFarlane.” “That’s for a jury to decide,” said  Lestrade. “Anyhow, we shall have   you on a charge of conspiracy,  if not for attempted murder.”

“And you’ll probably find that  your creditors will impound the   banking account of Mr. Cornelius,” said Holmes. The little man started, and turned  his malignant eyes upon my friend. “I have to thank you for a good deal,” said  he. “Perhaps I’ll pay my debt some day.” Holmes smiled indulgently.

“I fancy that, for some few years, you will  find your time very fully occupied,” said   he. “By the way, what was it you put into the  wood-pile besides your old trousers? A dead dog,   or rabbits, or what? You won’t tell? Dear  me, how very unkind of you! Well, well,  

I daresay that a couple of rabbits would  account both for the blood and for the   charred ashes. If ever you write an account,  Watson, you can make rabbits serve your turn.” END OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN

Holmes had been seated for some  hours in silence with his long,   thin back curved over a chemical vessel  in which he was brewing a particularly   malodorous product. His head was sunk upon  his breast, and he looked from my point  

Of view like a strange, lank bird, with  dull grey plumage and a black top-knot. “So, Watson,” said he, suddenly, “you do not  propose to invest in South African securities?” I gave a start of astonishment. Accustomed  as I was to Holmes’s curious faculties,   this sudden intrusion into my most  intimate thoughts was utterly inexplicable.

“How on earth do you know that?” I asked. He wheeled round upon his stool, with  a steaming test-tube in his hand,   and a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes. “Now, Watson, confess yourself  utterly taken aback,” said he. “I am.” “I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect.” “Why?”

“Because in five minutes you will say  that it is all so absurdly simple.” “I am sure that I shall say nothing of the kind.” “You see, my dear Watson,”—he propped his  test-tube in the rack, and began to lecture with  

The air of a professor addressing his class—“it  is not really difficult to construct a series   of inferences, each dependent upon its predecessor  and each simple in itself. If, after doing so, one   simply knocks out all the central inferences and  presents one’s audience with the starting-point  

And the conclusion, one may produce a startling,  though possibly a meretricious, effect. Now,   it was not really difficult, by an inspection of  the groove between your left forefinger and thumb,   to feel sure that you did not propose to  invest your small capital in the gold fields.” “I see no connection.”

“Very likely not; but I can quickly show you  a close connection. Here are the missing links   of the very simple chain: 1. You had chalk  between your left finger and thumb when you   returned from the club last night. 2. You  put chalk there when you play billiards,  

To steady the cue. 3. You never play billiards  except with Thurston. 4. You told me, four weeks   ago, that Thurston had an option on some South  African property which would expire in a month,   and which he desired you to share with him.  5. Your check book is locked in my drawer,  

And you have not asked for the key. 6. You do  not propose to invest your money in this manner.” “How absurdly simple!” I cried. “Quite so!” said he, a little nettled. “Every  problem becomes very childish when once it is  

Explained to you. Here is an unexplained one.  See what you can make of that, friend Watson.”   He tossed a sheet of paper upon the table,  and turned once more to his chemical analysis. I looked with amazement at the  absurd hieroglyphics upon the paper. “Why, Holmes, it is a child’s drawing,” I cried.

“Oh, that’s your idea!” “What else should it be?” “That is what Mr. Hilton Cubitt, of Riding  Thorpe Manor, Norfolk, is very anxious to   know. This little conundrum came by the first  post, and he was to follow by the next train.  

There’s a ring at the bell, Watson. I should  not be very much surprised if this were he.” A heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and  an instant later there entered a tall, ruddy,   clean-shaven gentleman, whose clear eyes and  florid cheeks told of a life led far from the  

Fogs of Baker Street. He seemed to bring a whiff  of his strong, fresh, bracing, east-coast air   with him as he entered. Having shaken hands with  each of us, he was about to sit down, when his eye  

Rested upon the paper with the curious markings,  which I had just examined and left upon the table. “Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you make of these?”  he cried. “They told me that you were fond of   queer mysteries, and I don’t think you  can find a queerer one than that. I sent  

The paper on ahead, so that you might  have time to study it before I came.” “It is certainly rather a curious  production,” said Holmes. “At   first sight it would appear to be some  childish prank. It consists of a number   of absurd little figures dancing  across the paper upon which they  

Are drawn. Why should you attribute any  importance to so grotesque an object?” “I never should, Mr. Holmes. But my wife does.  It is frightening her to death. She says nothing,   but I can see terror in her eyes. That’s why  I want to sift the matter to the bottom.”

Holmes held up the paper so that the  sunlight shone full upon it. It was   a page torn from a notebook. The markings  were done in pencil, and ran in this way: Holmes examined it for some time, and then,   folding it carefully up, he  placed it in his pocketbook.

“This promises to be a most interesting  and unusual case,” said he. “You gave me   a few particulars in your letter, Mr. Hilton  Cubitt, but I should be very much obliged if   you would kindly go over it all again for  the benefit of my friend, Dr. Watson.”

“I’m not much of a story-teller,” said our  visitor, nervously clasping and unclasping   his great, strong hands. “You’ll just ask me  anything that I don’t make clear. I’ll begin at   the time of my marriage last year, but I want to  say first of all that, though I’m not a rich man,  

My people have been at Riding Thorpe for a matter  of five centuries, and there is no better known   family in the County of Norfolk. Last year I came  up to London for the Jubilee, and I stopped at a  

Boarding-house in Russell Square, because Parker,  the vicar of our parish, was staying in it. There   was an American young lady there—Patrick was the  name—Elsie Patrick. In some way we became friends,   until before my month was up I was as much  in love as a man could be. We were quietly  

Married at a registry office, and we returned to  Norfolk a wedded couple. You’ll think it very mad,   Mr. Holmes, that a man of a good old family should  marry a wife in this fashion, knowing nothing of  

Her past or of her people, but if you saw her  and knew her, it would help you to understand. “She was very straight about it, was Elsie. I  can’t say that she did not give me every chance  

Of getting out of it if I wished to do so. ‘I  have had some very disagreeable associations in   my life,’ said she, ‘I wish to forget all about  them. I would rather never allude to the past,  

For it is very painful to me. If you take me,  Hilton, you will take a woman who has nothing   that she need be personally ashamed of, but you  will have to be content with my word for it,  

And to allow me to be silent as to all that  passed up to the time when I became yours.   If these conditions are too hard, then go back to  Norfolk, and leave me to the lonely life in which  

You found me.’ It was only the day before our  wedding that she said those very words to me.   I told her that I was content to take her on her  own terms, and I have been as good as my word.

“Well we have been married now for a year, and  very happy we have been. But about a month ago,   at the end of June, I saw for the first time  signs of trouble. One day my wife received a   letter from America. I saw the American stamp.  She turned deadly white, read the letter,  

And threw it into the fire. She made no allusion  to it afterwards, and I made none, for a promise   is a promise, but she has never known an easy  hour from that moment. There is always a look of  

Fear upon her face—a look as if she were waiting  and expecting. She would do better to trust me.   She would find that I was her best friend. But  until she speaks, I can say nothing. Mind you,   she is a truthful woman, Mr. Holmes, and  whatever trouble there may have been in  

Her past life it has been no fault of hers. I am  only a simple Norfolk squire, but there is not   a man in England who ranks his family honour  more highly than I do. She knows it well, and  

She knew it well before she married me. She would  never bring any stain upon it—of that I am sure. “Well, now I come to the queer part of my story.  About a week ago—it was the Tuesday of last week—I  

Found on one of the window-sills a number of  absurd little dancing figures like these upon the   paper. They were scrawled with chalk. I thought  that it was the stable-boy who had drawn them,   but the lad swore he knew nothing about it.  Anyhow, they had come there during the night.  

I had them washed out, and I only mentioned the  matter to my wife afterwards. To my surprise,   she took it very seriously, and begged me if any  more came to let her see them. None did come for  

A week, and then yesterday morning I found this  paper lying on the sundial in the garden. I showed   it to Elsie, and down she dropped in a dead faint.  Since then she has looked like a woman in a dream,  

Half dazed, and with terror always lurking in  her eyes. It was then that I wrote and sent   the paper to you, Mr. Holmes. It was not  a thing that I could take to the police,  

For they would have laughed at me, but you will  tell me what to do. I am not a rich man, but if   there is any danger threatening my little woman,  I would spend my last copper to shield her.” He was a fine creature, this man of the old  English soil—simple, straight, and gentle,  

With his great, earnest blue eyes and  broad, comely face. His love for his   wife and his trust in her shone in his  features. Holmes had listened to his   story with the utmost attention, and now  he sat for some time in silent thought.

“Don’t you think, Mr. Cubitt,” said he,  at last, “that your best plan would be   to make a direct appeal to your wife, and  to ask her to share her secret with you?” Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.

“A promise is a promise, Mr. Holmes. If  Elsie wished to tell me she would. If not,   it is not for me to force her confidence. But I  am justified in taking my own line—and I will.” “Then I will help you with all  my heart. In the first place,  

Have you heard of any strangers  being seen in your neighbourhood?” “No.” “I presume that it is a very quiet place.  Any fresh face would cause comment?” “In the immediate neighbourhood,  yes. But we have several small   watering-places not very far away.  And the farmers take in lodgers.”

“These hieroglyphics have evidently a meaning. If  it is a purely arbitrary one, it may be impossible   for us to solve it. If, on the other hand, it is  systematic, I have no doubt that we shall get to  

The bottom of it. But this particular sample is  so short that I can do nothing, and the facts   which you have brought me are so indefinite that  we have no basis for an investigation. I would  

Suggest that you return to Norfolk, that you keep  a keen lookout, and that you take an exact copy of   any fresh dancing men which may appear. It is a  thousand pities that we have not a reproduction   of those which were done in chalk upon the  window-sill. Make a discreet inquiry also as to  

Any strangers in the neighbourhood. When you have  collected some fresh evidence, come to me again.   That is the best advice which I can give you,  Mr. Hilton Cubitt. If there are any pressing   fresh developments, I shall be always ready  to run down and see you in your Norfolk home.”

The interview left Sherlock Holmes  very thoughtful, and several times   in the next few days I saw him take his slip  of paper from his notebook and look long and   earnestly at the curious figures inscribed  upon it. He made no allusion to the affair,  

However, until one afternoon a fortnight or so  later. I was going out when he called me back. “You had better stay here, Watson.” “Why?” “Because I had a wire from Hilton Cubitt  this morning. You remember Hilton Cubitt,  

Of the dancing men? He was to reach Liverpool  Street at one-twenty. He may be here at any   moment. I gather from his wire that there  have been some new incidents of importance.” We had not long to wait, for our Norfolk squire  came straight from the station as fast as a  

Hansom could bring him. He was looking worried and  depressed, with tired eyes and a lined forehead. “It’s getting on my nerves, this business, Mr.  Holmes,” said he, as he sank, like a wearied man,   into an armchair. “It’s bad enough to  feel that you are surrounded by unseen,  

Unknown folk, who have some kind of design  upon you, but when, in addition to that,   you know that it is just killing your wife  by inches, then it becomes as much as flesh   and blood can endure. She’s wearing away  under it—just wearing away before my eyes.” “Has she said anything yet?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, she has not. And yet there have  been times when the poor girl has wanted to speak,   and yet could not quite bring herself to  take the plunge. I have tried to help her,  

But I daresay I did it clumsily, and scared her  from it. She has spoken about my old family,   and our reputation in the county, and  our pride in our unsullied honour,   and I always felt it was leading to the point,  but somehow it turned off before we got there.”

“But you have found out something for yourself?” “A good deal, Mr. Holmes. I have several fresh  dancing-men pictures for you to examine, and,   what is more important, I have seen the fellow.” “What, the man who draws them?”

“Yes, I saw him at his work. But I will  tell you everything in order. When I got   back after my visit to you, the very first  thing I saw next morning was a fresh crop   of dancing men. They had been drawn in chalk  upon the black wooden door of the tool-house,  

Which stands beside the lawn in full view of  the front windows. I took an exact copy, and   here it is.” He unfolded a paper and laid it upon  the table. Here is a copy of the hieroglyphics: “Excellent!” said Holmes.  “Excellent! Pray continue.”

“When I had taken the copy,  I rubbed out the marks, but,   two mornings later, a fresh inscription  had appeared. I have a copy of it here:” Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight. “Our material is rapidly accumulating,” said he.

“Three days later a message was left scrawled  upon paper, and placed under a pebble upon the   sundial. Here it is. The characters are,  as you see, exactly the same as the last   one. After that I determined to lie in wait, so  I got out my revolver and I sat up in my study,  

Which overlooks the lawn and garden. About  two in the morning I was seated by the window,   all being dark save for the moonlight  outside, when I heard steps behind me,   and there was my wife in her dressing-gown. She  implored me to come to bed. I told her frankly  

That I wished to see who it was who played  such absurd tricks upon us. She answered   that it was some senseless practical joke,  and that I should not take any notice of it. “‘If it really annoys you, Hilton, we might go and  travel, you and I, and so avoid this nuisance.’

“‘What, be driven out of our own house  by a practical joker?’ said I. ‘Why,   we should have the whole county laughing at us.’ “‘Well, come to bed,’ said she, ‘and  we can discuss it in the morning.’

“Suddenly, as she spoke, I saw her white face  grow whiter yet in the moonlight, and her hand   tightened upon my shoulder. Something was moving  in the shadow of the tool-house. I saw a dark,   creeping figure which crawled round the corner and  squatted in front of the door. Seizing my pistol,  

I was rushing out, when my wife threw her arms  round me and held me with convulsive strength.   I tried to throw her off, but she clung to  me most desperately. At last I got clear,  

But by the time I had opened the door and reached  the house the creature was gone. He had left a   trace of his presence, however, for there on the  door was the very same arrangement of dancing men  

Which had already twice appeared, and which I  have copied on that paper. There was no other   sign of the fellow anywhere, though I ran all  over the grounds. And yet the amazing thing is   that he must have been there all the time, for  when I examined the door again in the morning,  

He had scrawled some more of his pictures  under the line which I had already seen.” “Have you that fresh drawing?” “Yes, it is very short, but I made  a copy of it, and here it is.” Again he produced a paper. The  new dance was in this form:

“Tell me,” said Holmes—and I could see by  his eyes that he was much excited—“was this   a mere addition to the first or did  it appear to be entirely separate?” “It was on a different panel of the door.”

“Excellent! This is far the most important of  all for our purpose. It fills me with hopes. Now,   Mr. Hilton Cubitt, please continue  your most interesting statement.” “I have nothing more to say, Mr. Holmes, except  that I was angry with my wife that night for  

Having held me back when I might have caught the  skulking rascal. She said that she feared that   I might come to harm. For an instant it had  crossed my mind that perhaps what she really  

Feared was that he might come to harm, for I  could not doubt that she knew who this man was,   and what he meant by these strange signals. But  there is a tone in my wife’s voice, Mr. Holmes,  

And a look in her eyes which forbid doubt, and I  am sure that it was indeed my own safety that was   in her mind. There’s the whole case, and now  I want your advice as to what I ought to do.  

My own inclination is to put half a dozen of  my farm lads in the shrubbery, and when this   fellow comes again to give him such a hiding  that he will leave us in peace for the future.” “I fear it is too deep a case for such simple  

Remedies,” said Holmes. “How  long can you stay in London?” “I must go back to-day. I would not  leave my wife alone all night for   anything. She is very nervous,  and begged me to come back.” “I daresay you are right. But if you could have  stopped, I might possibly have been able to return  

With you in a day or two. Meanwhile you will  leave me these papers, and I think that it is very   likely that I shall be able to pay you a visit  shortly and to throw some light upon your case.” Sherlock Holmes preserved his calm professional  manner until our visitor had left us, although  

It was easy for me, who knew him so well, to see  that he was profoundly excited. The moment that   Hilton Cubitt’s broad back had disappeared through  the door my comrade rushed to the table, laid out   all the slips of paper containing dancing men in  front of him, and threw himself into an intricate  

And elaborate calculation. For two hours I watched  him as he covered sheet after sheet of paper with   figures and letters, so completely absorbed in his  task that he had evidently forgotten my presence.   Sometimes he was making progress and whistled  and sang at his work; sometimes he was puzzled,  

And would sit for long spells with a furrowed brow  and a vacant eye. Finally he sprang from his chair   with a cry of satisfaction, and walked up and down  the room rubbing his hands together. Then he wrote  

A long telegram upon a cable form. “If my answer  to this is as I hope, you will have a very pretty   case to add to your collection, Watson,” said  he. “I expect that we shall be able to go down to  

Norfolk tomorrow, and to take our friend some very  definite news as to the secret of his annoyance.” I confess that I was filled with curiosity,   but I was aware that Holmes liked to make his  disclosures at his own time and in his own way,  

So I waited until it should suit  him to take me into his confidence. But there was a delay in that answering telegram,  and two days of impatience followed, during which   Holmes pricked up his ears at every ring of the  bell. On the evening of the second there came a  

Letter from Hilton Cubitt. All was quiet with  him, save that a long inscription had appeared   that morning upon the pedestal of the sundial. He  inclosed a copy of it, which is here reproduced: Holmes bent over this grotesque frieze for  some minutes, and then suddenly sprang to  

His feet with an exclamation of surprise and  dismay. His face was haggard with anxiety. “We have let this affair go far enough,” said  he. “Is there a train to North Walsham to-night?” I turned up the time-table.  The last had just gone.

“Then we shall breakfast early and take the  very first in the morning,” said Holmes. “Our   presence is most urgently needed. Ah! here is  our expected cablegram. One moment, Mrs. Hudson,   there may be an answer. No, that is quite as  I expected. This message makes it even more  

Essential that we should not lose an hour in  letting Hilton Cubitt know how matters stand,   for it is a singular and a dangerous web in  which our simple Norfolk squire is entangled.” So, indeed, it proved, and as I come to the dark  conclusion of a story which had seemed to me to be  

Only childish and bizarre, I experience once  again the dismay and horror with which I was   filled. Would that I had some brighter ending  to communicate to my readers, but these are the   chronicles of fact, and I must follow to their  dark crisis the strange chain of events which  

For some days made Riding Thorpe Manor a household  word through the length and breadth of England. We had hardly alighted at North Walsham, and  mentioned the name of our destination, when   the station-master hurried towards us. “I suppose  that you are the detectives from London?” said he.

A look of annoyance passed over Holmes’s face. “What makes you think such a thing?” “Because Inspector Martin from Norwich  has just passed through. But maybe you   are the surgeons. She’s not dead—or wasn’t by last   accounts. You may be in time to save  her yet—though it be for the gallows.”

Holmes’s brow was dark with anxiety. “We are going to Riding Thorpe Manor,” said he,   “but we have heard nothing  of what has passed there.” “It’s a terrible business,” said  the stationmaster. “They are shot,   both Mr. Hilton Cubitt and his wife.  She shot him and then herself—so the  

Servants say. He’s dead and her  life is despaired of. Dear, dear,   one of the oldest families in the county  of Norfolk, and one of the most honoured.” Without a word Holmes hurried to a carriage,  and during the long seven miles’ drive he never  

Opened his mouth. Seldom have I seen him so  utterly despondent. He had been uneasy during   all our journey from town, and I had observed  that he had turned over the morning papers   with anxious attention, but now this sudden  realization of his worst fears left him in a  

Blank melancholy. He leaned back in his seat, lost  in gloomy speculation. Yet there was much around   to interest us, for we were passing through  as singular a countryside as any in England,   where a few scattered cottages represented  the population of to-day, while on every hand  

Enormous square-towered churches bristled up  from the flat green landscape and told of the   glory and prosperity of old East Anglia. At last  the violet rim of the German Ocean appeared over   the green edge of the Norfolk coast, and the  driver pointed with his whip to two old brick  

And timber gables which projected from a grove  of trees. “That’s Riding Thorpe Manor,” said he. As we drove up to the porticoed front door, I  observed in front of it, beside the tennis lawn,   the black tool-house and the pedestalled  sundial with which we had such strange  

Associations. A dapper little man, with a  quick, alert manner and a waxed moustache,   had just descended from a high dog-cart. He  introduced himself as Inspector Martin, of   the Norfolk Constabulary, and he was considerably  astonished when he heard the name of my companion.

“Why, Mr. Holmes, the crime was only  committed at three this morning. How   could you hear of it in London  and get to the spot as soon as I?” “I anticipated it. I came in  the hope of preventing it.” “Then you must have important  evidence, of which we are ignorant,  

For they were said to be a most united couple.” “I have only the evidence of the dancing men,”  said Holmes. “I will explain the matter to you   later. Meanwhile, since it is too late to  prevent this tragedy, I am very anxious that  

I should use the knowledge which I possess in  order to insure that justice be done. Will you   associate me in your investigation, or will  you prefer that I should act independently?” “I should be proud to feel  that we were acting together,   Mr. Holmes,” said the inspector, earnestly.

“In that case I should be glad to  hear the evidence and to examine the   premises without an instant of unnecessary delay.” Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow  my friend to do things in his own fashion,   and contented himself with carefully  noting the results. The local surgeon,  

An old, white-haired man, had just come down from  Mrs. Hilton Cubitt’s room, and he reported that   her injuries were serious, but not necessarily  fatal. The bullet had passed through the front   of her brain, and it would probably be some  time before she could regain consciousness.  

On the question of whether she had been shot or  had shot herself, he would not venture to express   any decided opinion. Certainly the bullet had been  discharged at very close quarters. There was only   the one pistol found in the room, two barrels  of which had been emptied. Mr. Hilton Cubitt  

Had been shot through the heart. It was equally  conceivable that he had shot her and then himself,   or that she had been the criminal, for the  revolver lay upon the floor midway between them. “Has he been moved?” asked Holmes.

“We have moved nothing except the lady. We could  not leave her lying wounded upon the floor.” “How long have you been here, Doctor?” “Since four o’clock.” “Anyone else?” “Yes, the constable here.” “And you have touched nothing?” “Nothing.” “You have acted with great  discretion. Who sent for you?” “The housemaid, Saunders.”

“Was it she who gave the alarm?” “She and Mrs. King, the cook.” “Where are they now?” “In the kitchen, I believe.” “Then I think we had better  hear their story at once.” The old hall, oak-panelled and high-windowed,  had been turned into a court of investigation.  

Holmes sat in a great, old-fashioned chair, his  inexorable eyes gleaming out of his haggard face.   I could read in them a set purpose to devote his  life to this quest until the client whom he had   failed to save should at last be avenged. The trim  Inspector Martin, the old, grey-headed country  

Doctor, myself, and a stolid village policeman  made up the rest of that strange company. The two women told their story clearly enough.  They had been aroused from their sleep by the   sound of an explosion, which had been followed  a minute later by a second one. They slept in  

Adjoining rooms, and Mrs. King had rushed in to  Saunders. Together they had descended the stairs.   The door of the study was open, and a candle was  burning upon the table. Their master lay upon his   face in the centre of the room. He was quite  dead. Near the window his wife was crouching,  

Her head leaning against the wall. She was  horribly wounded, and the side of her face   was red with blood. She breathed heavily, but  was incapable of saying anything. The passage,   as well as the room, was full of smoke and the  smell of powder. The window was certainly shut  

And fastened upon the inside. Both women were  positive upon the point. They had at once sent   for the doctor and for the constable. Then,  with the aid of the groom and the stable-boy,   they had conveyed their injured mistress  to her room. Both she and her husband had  

Occupied the bed. She was clad in her dress—he  in his dressing-gown, over his night-clothes.   Nothing had been moved in the study. So far  as they knew, there had never been any quarrel   between husband and wife. They had always  looked upon them as a very united couple.

These were the main points of the servants’  evidence. In answer to Inspector Martin,   they were clear that every door was fastened upon  the inside, and that no one could have escaped   from the house. In answer to Holmes, they both  remembered that they were conscious of the smell  

Of powder from the moment that they ran out  of their rooms upon the top floor. “I commend   that fact very carefully to your attention,”  said Holmes to his professional colleague.   “And now I think that we are in a position to  undertake a thorough examination of the room.”

The study proved to be a small chamber,  lined on three sides with books,   and with a writing-table facing an ordinary  window, which looked out upon the garden. Our   first attention was given to the body of  the unfortunate squire, whose huge frame  

Lay stretched across the room. His disordered  dress showed that he had been hastily aroused   from sleep. The bullet had been fired at him  from the front, and had remained in his body,   after penetrating the heart. His death had  certainly been instantaneous and painless.  

There was no powder-marking either upon his  dressing-gown or on his hands. According to   the country surgeon, the lady had stains  upon her face, but none upon her hand. “The absence of the latter means nothing,  though its presence may mean everything,”  

Said Holmes. “Unless the powder from a badly  fitting cartridge happens to spurt backward,   one may fire many shots without leaving a sign.  I would suggest that Mr. Cubitt’s body may now   be removed. I suppose, Doctor, you have not  recovered the bullet which wounded the lady?”

“A serious operation will be necessary  before that can be done. But there are   still four cartridges in the revolver. Two  have been fired and two wounds inflicted,   so that each bullet can be accounted for.” “So it would seem,” said Holmes.  “Perhaps you can account also for  

The bullet which has so obviously  struck the edge of the window?” He had turned suddenly, and his long,  thin finger was pointing to a hole   which had been drilled right through the lower  window-sash, about an inch above the bottom. “By George!” cried the inspector.  “How ever did you see that?”

“Because I looked for it.” “Wonderful!” said the country  doctor. “You are certainly right,   sir. Then a third shot has been fired,  and therefore a third person must have   been present. But who could that have  been, and how could he have got away?”

“That is the problem which we are now about to  solve,” said Sherlock Holmes. “You remember,   Inspector Martin, when the servants said  that on leaving their room they were at   once conscious of a smell of powder, I remarked  that the point was an extremely important one?”

“Yes, sir; but I confess I  did not quite follow you.” “It suggested that at the time of the firing,   the window as well as the door of the room had  been open. Otherwise the fumes of powder could   not have been blown so rapidly through the  house. A draught in the room was necessary  

For that. Both door and window were only  open for a very short time, however.” “How do you prove that?” “Because the candle was not guttered.” “Capital!” cried the inspector. “Capital! “Feeling sure that the window had  been open at the time of the tragedy,  

I conceived that there might have  been a third person in the affair,   who stood outside this opening and fired  through it. Any shot directed at this   person might hit the sash. I looked, and  there, sure enough, was the bullet mark!” “But how came the window to be shut and fastened?”

“The woman’s first instinct would be to shut and  fasten the window. But, halloa! What is this?” It was a lady’s hand-bag which stood upon  the study table—a trim little handbag of   crocodile-skin and silver. Holmes opened it  and turned the contents out. There were twenty  

Fifty-pound notes of the Bank of England, held  together by an india-rubber band—nothing else. “This must be preserved, for it will figure  in the trial,” said Holmes, as he handed the   bag with its contents to the inspector. “It  is now necessary that we should try to throw  

Some light upon this third bullet, which has  clearly, from the splintering of the wood,   been fired from inside the room. I should like  to see Mrs. King, the cook, again. You said,   Mrs. King, that you were awakened by  a loud explosion. When you said that,  

Did you mean that it seemed to you  to be louder than the second one?” “Well, sir, it wakened me from my sleep, so it  is hard to judge. But it did seem very loud.” “You don’t think that it might have been  two shots fired almost at the same instant?”

“I am sure I couldn’t say, sir.” “I believe that it was undoubtedly  so. I rather think, Inspector Martin,   that we have now exhausted all that  this room can teach us. If you will   kindly step round with me, we shall see what  fresh evidence the garden has to offer.”

A flower-bed extended up to the study window,  and we all broke into an exclamation as we   approached it. The flowers were trampled  down, and the soft soil was imprinted all   over with footmarks. Large, masculine feet  they were, with peculiarly long, sharp toes.  

Holmes hunted about among the grass and leaves  like a retriever after a wounded bird. Then,   with a cry of satisfaction, he bent forward  and picked up a little brazen cylinder. “I thought so,” said he, “the revolver had  an ejector, and here is the third cartridge.  

I really think, Inspector Martin,  that our case is almost complete.” The country inspector’s face had shown his intense  amazement at the rapid and masterful progress of   Holmes’s investigation. At first he had shown  some disposition to assert his own position,  

But now he was overcome with admiration, and ready  to follow without question wherever Holmes led. “Whom do you suspect?” he asked. “I’ll go into that later. There are  several points in this problem which   I have not been able to explain to  you yet. Now that I have got so far,  

I had best proceed on my own lines, and then  clear the whole matter up once and for all.” “Just as you wish, Mr. Holmes,  so long as we get our man.” “I have no desire to make mysteries,  but it is impossible at the moment of  

Action to enter into long and complex  explanations. I have the threads of   this affair all in my hand. Even if this  lady should never recover consciousness,   we can still reconstruct the events of last night  and insure that justice be done. First of all,  

I wish to know whether there is any inn in  this neighbourhood known as ‘Elrige’s’?” The servants were cross-questioned,  but none of them had heard of such a   place. The stable-boy threw a light  upon the matter by remembering that   a farmer of that name lived some miles  off, in the direction of East Ruston.

“Is it a lonely farm?” “Very lonely, sir.” “Perhaps they have not heard yet of all  that happened here during the night?” “Maybe not, sir.” Holmes thought for a little, and then  a curious smile played over his face.

“Saddle a horse, my lad,” said he. “I shall  wish you to take a note to Elrige’s Farm.” He took from his pocket the various slips of  the dancing men. With these in front of him,   he worked for some time at the study-table.  Finally he handed a note to the boy,  

With directions to put it into the hands  of the person to whom it was addressed,   and especially to answer no questions of  any sort which might be put to him. I saw   the outside of the note, addressed in straggling,  irregular characters, very unlike Holmes’s usual  

Precise hand. It was consigned to Mr. Abe  Slaney, Elriges Farm, East Ruston, Norfolk. “I think, Inspector,” Holmes remarked, “that  you would do well to telegraph for an escort,   as, if my calculations prove to be correct,  you may have a particularly dangerous prisoner  

To convey to the county jail. The boy who takes  this note could no doubt forward your telegram.   If there is an afternoon train to town, Watson,  I think we should do well to take it, as I have   a chemical analysis of some interest to finish,  and this investigation draws rapidly to a close.”

When the youth had been dispatched with the  note, Sherlock Holmes gave his instructions   to the servants. If any visitor were  to call asking for Mrs. Hilton Cubitt,   no information should be given as to her  condition, but he was to be shown at once  

Into the drawing-room. He impressed these points  upon them with the utmost earnestness. Finally   he led the way into the drawing-room, with the  remark that the business was now out of our hands,   and that we must while away the time as best we  might until we could see what was in store for  

Us. The doctor had departed to his patients,  and only the inspector and myself remained. “I think that I can help you to pass an hour in an  interesting and profitable manner,” said Holmes,   drawing his chair up to the table, and spreading  out in front of him the various papers upon which  

Were recorded the antics of the dancing  men. “As to you, friend Watson, I owe you   every atonement for having allowed your natural  curiosity to remain so long unsatisfied. To you,   Inspector, the whole incident may appeal as a  remarkable professional study. I must tell you,  

First of all, the interesting circumstances  connected with the previous consultations which   Mr. Hilton Cubitt has had with me in Baker  Street.” He then shortly recapitulated the   facts which have already been recorded. “I have  here in front of me these singular productions,  

At which one might smile, had they not proved  themselves to be the forerunners of so terrible   a tragedy. I am fairly familiar with all forms  of secret writings, and am myself the author of   a trifling monograph upon the subject, in which  I analyze one hundred and sixty separate ciphers,  

But I confess that this is entirely new  to me. The object of those who invented   the system has apparently been to conceal  that these characters convey a message,   and to give the idea that they are  the mere random sketches of children. “Having once recognized, however,  that the symbols stood for letters,  

And having applied the rules which guide us in  all forms of secret writings, the solution was   easy enough. The first message submitted to me  was so short that it was impossible for me to   do more than to say, with some confidence, that  the symbol XXX stood for E. As you are aware,  

E is the most common letter in the English  alphabet, and it predominates to so marked an   extent that even in a short sentence one would  expect to find it most often. Out of fifteen  

Symbols in the first message, four were the same,  so it was reasonable to set this down as E. It is   true that in some cases the figure was bearing a  flag, and in some cases not, but it was probable,  

From the way in which the flags were distributed,  that they were used to break the sentence up into   words. I accepted this as a hypothesis,  and noted that E was represented by XXX. “But now came the real difficulty of the inquiry.  The order of the English letters after E is by no  

Means well marked, and any preponderance which  may be shown in an average of a printed sheet   may be reversed in a single short sentence.  Speaking roughly, T, A, O, I, N, S, H, R,  

D, and L are the numerical order in which letters  occur, but T, A, O, and I are very nearly abreast   of each other, and it would be an endless task to  try each combination until a meaning was arrived  

At. I therefore waited for fresh material. In  my second interview with Mr. Hilton Cubitt he   was able to give me two other short sentences  and one message, which appeared—since there was   no flag—to be a single word. Here are the symbols.  Now, in the single word I have already got the two  

E’s coming second and fourth in a word of five  letters. It might be ‘sever,’ or ‘lever,’ or   ‘never.’ There can be no question that the latter  as a reply to an appeal is far the most probable,   and the circumstances pointed to its being a reply  written by the lady. Accepting it as correct,  

We are now able to say that the symbols  stand respectively for N, V, and R. “Even now I was in considerable difficulty,  but a happy thought put me in possession of   several other letters. It occurred to me  that if these appeals came, as I expected,  

From someone who had been intimate with the  lady in her early life, a combination which   contained two E’s with three letters between  might very well stand for the name ‘ELSIE.’ On   examination I found that such a combination  formed the termination of the message which  

Was three times repeated. It was certainly some  appeal to ‘Elsie.’ In this way I had got my L, S,   and I. But what appeal could it be? There were  only four letters in the word which preceded  

‘Elsie,’ and it ended in E. Surely the word must  be ‘COME.’ I tried all other four letters ending   in E, but could find none to fit the case. So  now I was in possession of C, O, and M, and I  

Was in a position to attack the first message  once more, dividing it into words and putting   dots for each symbol which was still unknown.  So treated, it worked out in this fashion: .M .ERE ..E SL.NE. “Now the first letter can only be  A, which is a most useful discovery,  

Since it occurs no fewer than  three times in this short sentence,   and the H is also apparent in  the second word. Now it becomes: AM HERE A.E SLANE. Or, filling in the obvious vacancies in the name: AM HERE ABE SLANEY. I had so many letters now that I  could proceed with considerable  

Confidence to the second message,  which worked out in this fashion: A. ELRI. ES. Here I could only make sense by putting  T and G for the missing letters,   and supposing that the name was that of some  house or inn at which the writer was staying.”

Inspector Martin and I had listened with the  utmost interest to the full and clear account of   how my friend had produced results which had led  to so complete a command over our difficulties. “What did you do then, sir?” asked the inspector.

“I had every reason to suppose that  this Abe Slaney was an American,   since Abe is an American contraction, and since  a letter from America had been the starting-point   of all the trouble. I had also every cause to  think that there was some criminal secret in the  

Matter. The lady’s allusions to her past, and her  refusal to take her husband into her confidence,   both pointed in that direction. I therefore  cabled to my friend, Wilson Hargreave,   of the New York Police Bureau, who has more  than once made use of my knowledge of London  

Crime. I asked him whether the name of Abe  Slaney was known to him. Here is his reply:   ‘The most dangerous crook in Chicago.’ On the  very evening upon which I had his answer, Hilton   Cubitt sent me the last message from Slaney.  Working with known letters, it took this form:

ELSIE .RE.ARE TO MEET THY GO. The addition of a P and a D completed a message  which showed me that the rascal was proceeding   from persuasion to threats, and my knowledge of  the crooks of Chicago prepared me to find that he  

Might very rapidly put his words into action. I at  once came to Norfolk with my friend and colleague,   Dr. Watson, but, unhappily, only in time to  find that the worst had already occurred.” “It is a privilege to be associated with you  in the handling of a case,” said the inspector,  

Warmly. “You will excuse me, however,  if I speak frankly to you. You are   only answerable to yourself, but I have to  answer to my superiors. If this Abe Slaney,   living at Elrige’s, is indeed the murderer, and  if he has made his escape while I am seated here,  

I should certainly get into serious trouble.” “You need not be uneasy.  He will not try to escape.” “How do you know?” “To fly would be a confession of guilt.” “Then let us go arrest him.” “I expect him here every instant.” “But why should he come?” “Because I have written and asked him.”

“But this is incredible, Mr. Holmes! Why  should he come because you have asked him?   Would not such a request rather rouse  his suspicions and cause him to fly?” “I think I have known how to frame the  letter,” said Sherlock Holmes. “In fact,  

If I am not very much mistaken, here is  the gentleman himself coming up the drive.” A man was striding up the path which led to the  door. He was a tall, handsome, swarthy fellow,   clad in a suit of grey flannel, with a Panama  hat, a bristling black beard, and a great,  

Aggressive hooked nose, and flourishing  a cane as he walked. He swaggered up a   path as if the place belonged to him, and we  heard his loud, confident peal at the bell. “I think, gentlemen,” said Holmes, quietly,  “that we had best take up our position behind  

The door. Every precaution is necessary  when dealing with such a fellow. You will   need your handcuffs, Inspector.  You can leave the talking to me.” We waited in silence for a minute—one of  those minutes which one can never forget.  

Then the door opened and the man stepped in. In  an instant Holmes clapped a pistol to his head,   and Martin slipped the handcuffs over  his wrists. It was all done so swiftly   and deftly that the fellow was helpless before  he knew that he was attacked. He glared from  

One to the other of us with a pair of blazing  black eyes. Then he burst into a bitter laugh. “Well, gentlemen, you have the drop on me  this time. I seem to have knocked up against   something hard. But I came here in answer  to a letter from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt. Don’t  

Tell me that she is in this? Don’t tell  me that she helped to set a trap for me?” “Mrs. Hilton Cubitt was seriously  injured, and is at death’s door.” The man gave a hoarse cry of grief,  which rang through the house.

“You’re crazy!” he cried, fiercely. “It was  he that was hurt, not she. Who would have   hurt little Elsie? I may have threatened  her—God forgive me!—but I would not have   touched a hair of her pretty head. Take  it back—you! Say that she is not hurt!”

“She was found badly wounded, by  the side of her dead husband.” He sank with a deep groan on the settee and buried  his face in his manacled hands. For five minutes   he was silent. Then he raised his face once more,  and spoke with the cold composure of despair.

“I have nothing to hide from you, gentlemen,”  said he. “If I shot the man he had his shot at me,   and there’s no murder in that. But if  you think I could have hurt that woman,   then you don’t know either me or her. I tell you,  

There was never a man in this world loved a  woman more than I loved her. I had a right to   her. She was pledged to me years ago. Who was  this Englishman that he should come between  

Us? I tell you that I had the first right to  her, and that I was only claiming my own.” “She broke away from your influence when she  found the man that you are,” said Holmes,   sternly. “She fled from America to avoid you, and  she married an honourable gentleman in England.  

You dogged her and followed her and made her life  a misery to her, in order to induce her to abandon   the husband whom she loved and respected in  order to fly with you, whom she feared and  

Hated. You have ended by bringing about the death  of a noble man and driving his wife to suicide.   That is your record in this business, Mr. Abe  Slaney, and you will answer for it to the law.” “If Elsie dies, I care nothing what becomes  of me,” said the American. He opened one of  

His hands, and looked at a note crumpled up  in his palm. “See here, mister! he cried,   with a gleam of suspicion in his eyes, “you’re not  trying to scare me over this, are you? If the lady  

Is hurt as bad as you say, who was it that wrote  this note?” He tossed it forward on to the table. “I wrote it, to bring you here.” “You wrote it? There was no one  on earth outside the Joint who   knew the secret of the dancing  men. How came you to write it?”

“What one man can invent another  can discover,” said Holmes. “There   is a cab coming to convey you to  Norwich, Mr. Slaney. But meanwhile,   you have time to make some small reparation  for the injury you have wrought. Are you aware  

That Mrs. Hilton Cubitt has herself lain under  grave suspicion of the murder of her husband,   and that it was only my presence here, and  the knowledge which I happened to possess,   which has saved her from the accusation? The  least that you owe her is to make it clear to  

The whole world that she was in no way, directly  or indirectly, responsible for his tragic end.” “I ask nothing better,” said the  American. “I guess the very best   case I can make for myself  is the absolute naked truth.”

“It is my duty to warn you that it will  be used against you,” cried the inspector,   with the magnificent fair play  of the British criminal law. Slaney shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll chance that,” said he. “First of all, I want  you gentlemen to understand that I have known this  

Lady since she was a child. There were seven of  us in a gang in Chicago, and Elsie’s father was   the boss of the Joint. He was a clever man, was  old Patrick. It was he who invented that writing,  

Which would pass as a child’s scrawl unless  you just happened to have the key to it. Well,   Elsie learned some of our ways, but she couldn’t  stand the business, and she had a bit of honest  

Money of her own, so she gave us all the slip and  got away to London. She had been engaged to me,   and she would have married me, I believe,  if I had taken over another profession,  

But she would have nothing to do with anything  on the cross. It was only after her marriage to   this Englishman that I was able to find out where  she was. I wrote to her, but got no answer. After  

That I came over, and, as letters were no use,  I put my messages where she could read them. “Well, I have been here a month now. I lived  in that farm, where I had a room down below,  

And could get in and out every night, and no one  the wiser. I tried all I could to coax Elsie away.   I knew that she read the messages, for once  she wrote an answer under one of them. Then  

My temper got the better of me, and I began  to threaten her. She sent me a letter then,   imploring me to go away, and saying that it  would break her heart if any scandal should   come upon her husband. She said that she would  come down when her husband was asleep at three  

In the morning, and speak with me through the end  window, if I would go away afterwards and leave   her in peace. She came down and brought money with  her, trying to bribe me to go. This made me mad,  

And I caught her arm and tried to pull  her through the window. At that moment   in rushed the husband with his revolver in  his hand. Elsie had sunk down upon the floor,  

And we were face to face. I was heeled also, and  I held up my gun to scare him off and let me get   away. He fired and missed me. I pulled off almost  at the same instant, and down he dropped. I made  

Away across the garden, and as I went I heard  the window shut behind me. That’s God’s truth,   gentlemen, every word of it, and I heard no  more about it until that lad came riding up   with a note which made me walk in here, like  a jay, and give myself into your hands.”

A cab had driven up whilst the American  had been talking. Two uniformed policemen   sat inside. Inspector Martin rose and  touched his prisoner on the shoulder. “It is time for us to go.” “Can I see her first?” “No, she is not conscious. Mr. Sherlock  Holmes, I only hope that if ever again  

I have an important case, I shall have  the good fortune to have you by my side.” We stood at the window and watched  the cab drive away. As I turned back,   my eye caught the pellet of paper  which the prisoner had tossed upon  

The table. It was the note with  which Holmes had decoyed him. “See if you can read it,  Watson,” said he, with a smile. It contained no word, but this  little line of dancing men: “If you use the code which I have explained,”  said Holmes, “you will find that it simply  

Means ‘Come here at once.’ I was convinced that  it was an invitation which he would not refuse,   since he could never imagine that it could come  from anyone but the lady. And so, my dear Watson,  

We have ended by turning the dancing men to good  when they have so often been the agents of evil,   and I think that I have fulfilled my promise of  giving you something unusual for your notebook.   Three-forty is our train, and I fancy we  should be back in Baker Street for dinner.”

Only one word of epilogue. The American, Abe  Slaney, was condemned to death at the winter   assizes at Norwich, but his penalty was changed  to penal servitude in consideration of mitigating   circumstances, and the certainty that Hilton  Cubitt had fired the first shot. Of Mrs. Hilton  

Cubitt I only know that I have heard she recovered  entirely, and that she still remains a widow,   devoting her whole life to the care of the poor  and to the administration of her husband’s estate. END OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST

From the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive, Mr.  Sherlock Holmes was a very busy man. It is   safe to say that there was no public  case of any difficulty in which he was   not consulted during those eight years,  and there were hundreds of private cases,  

Some of them of the most intricate and  extraordinary character, in which he played   a prominent part. Many startling successes and  a few unavoidable failures were the outcome of   this long period of continuous work. As I have  preserved very full notes of all these cases,  

And was myself personally engaged in many of them,  it may be imagined that it is no easy task to know   which I should select to lay before the public. I  shall, however, preserve my former rule, and give  

The preference to those cases which derive their  interest not so much from the brutality of the   crime as from the ingenuity and dramatic quality  of the solution. For this reason I will now lay   before the reader the facts connected with Miss  Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist of Charlington,  

And the curious sequel of our investigation,  which culminated in unexpected tragedy. It   is true that the circumstance did not admit  of any striking illustration of those powers   for which my friend was famous, but there were  some points about the case which made it stand  

Out in those long records of crime from which I  gather the material for these little narratives. On referring to my notebook for the year 1895, I  find that it was upon Saturday, the 23rd of April,   that we first heard of Miss Violet Smith. Her  visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome to  

Holmes, for he was immersed at the moment in a  very abstruse and complicated problem concerning   the peculiar persecution to which John Vincent  Harden, the well-known tobacco millionaire,   had been subjected. My friend, who loved above  all things precision and concentration of thought,  

Resented anything which distracted his  attention from the matter in hand. And yet,   without a harshness which was foreign  to his nature, it was impossible to   refuse to listen to the story of the young and  beautiful woman, tall, graceful, and queenly,  

Who presented herself at Baker Street late in the  evening, and implored his assistance and advice.   It was vain to urge that his time was already  fully occupied, for the young lady had come   with the determination to tell her story, and it  was evident that nothing short of force could get  

Her out of the room until she had done so. With  a resigned air and a somewhat weary smile, Holmes   begged the beautiful intruder to take a seat, and  to inform us what it was that was troubling her. “At least it cannot be your health,” said  he, as his keen eyes darted over her,  

“so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy.” She glanced down in surprise at her  own feet, and I observed the slight   roughening of the side of the sole caused  by the friction of the edge of the pedal.

“Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that  has something to do with my visit to you to-day.” My friend took the lady’s ungloved  hand, and examined it with as close   an attention and as little sentiment as  a scientist would show to a specimen.

“You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my  business,” said he, as he dropped it. “I   nearly fell into the error of supposing  that you were typewriting. Of course,   it is obvious that it is music. You observe the  spatulate finger-ends, Watson, which is common  

To both professions? There is a spirituality  about the face, however”—she gently turned   it towards the light—“which the typewriter  does not generate. This lady is a musician.” “Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.” “In the country, I presume, from your complexion.” “Yes, sir, near Farnham,  on the borders of Surrey.”

“A beautiful neighbourhood, and full of the  most interesting associations. You remember,   Watson, that it was near there that we  took Archie Stamford, the forger. Now,   Miss Violet, what has happened to you,  near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?” The young lady, with great clearness and  composure, made the following curious statement:

“My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James  Smith, who conducted the orchestra at the   old Imperial Theatre. My mother and I were left  without a relation in the world except one uncle,   Ralph Smith, who went to Africa twenty-five  years ago, and we have never had a word from  

Him since. When father died, we were left very  poor, but one day we were told that there was   an advertisement in The Times, inquiring for our  whereabouts. You can imagine how excited we were,   for we thought that someone had left us  a fortune. We went at once to the lawyer  

Whose name was given in the paper. There we met  two gentlemen, Mr. Carruthers and Mr. Woodley,   who were home on a visit from South Africa.  They said that my uncle was a friend of theirs,   that he had died some months before  in great poverty in Johannesburg,  

And that he had asked them with his last breath to  hunt up his relations, and see that they were in   no want. It seemed strange to us that Uncle Ralph,  who took no notice of us when he was alive, should  

Be so careful to look after us when he was dead,  but Mr. Carruthers explained that the reason was   that my uncle had just heard of the death of his  brother, and so felt responsible for our fate.” “Excuse me,” said Holmes.  “When was this interview?” “Last December—four months ago.” “Pray proceed.”

“Mr. Woodley seemed to me to  be a most odious person. He   was for ever making eyes at me—a coarse,  puffy-faced, red-moustached young man,   with his hair plastered down on each side  of his forehead. I thought that he was  

Perfectly hateful—and I was sure that Cyril  would not wish me to know such a person.” “Oh, Cyril is his name!” said Holmes, smiling. The young lady blushed and laughed. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, Cyril Morton, an  electrical engineer, and we hope to  

Be married at the end of the summer. Dear  me, how did I get talking about him? What   I wished to say was that Mr. Woodley was  perfectly odious, but that Mr. Carruthers,   who was a much older man, was more agreeable. He  was a dark, sallow, clean-shaven, silent person,  

But he had polite manners and a pleasant  smile. He inquired how we were left,   and on finding that we were very poor, he  suggested that I should come and teach music   to his only daughter, aged ten. I said that  I did not like to leave my mother, on which  

He suggested that I should go home to her every  week-end, and he offered me a hundred a year,   which was certainly splendid pay. So it ended by  my accepting, and I went down to Chiltern Grange,   about six miles from Farnham. Mr. Carruthers was  a widower, but he had engaged a lady housekeeper,  

A very respectable, elderly person, called Mrs.  Dixon, to look after his establishment. The   child was a dear, and everything promised well.  Mr. Carruthers was very kind and very musical,   and we had most pleasant evenings together.  Every week-end I went home to my mother in town.

“The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival  of the red-moustached Mr. Woodley. He came for a   visit of a week, and oh! it seemed three months to  me. He was a dreadful person—a bully to everyone   else, but to me something infinitely worse. He  made odious love to me, boasted of his wealth,  

Said that if I married him I could have the  finest diamonds in London, and finally, when   I would have nothing to do with him, he seized me  in his arms one day after dinner—he was hideously  

Strong—and swore that he would not let me go until  I had kissed him. Mr. Carruthers came in and tore   him from me, on which he turned upon his own host,  knocking him down and cutting his face open. That  

Was the end of his visit, as you can imagine. Mr.  Carruthers apologized to me next day, and assured   me that I should never be exposed to such an  insult again. I have not seen Mr. Woodley since.

“And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the  special thing which has caused me to ask your   advice to-day. You must know that every Saturday  forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham Station,   in order to get the 12:22 to town. The  road from Chiltern Grange is a lonely one,  

And at one spot it is particularly so, for it lies  for over a mile between Charlington Heath upon one   side and the woods which lie round Charlington  Hall upon the other. You could not find a more  

Lonely tract of road anywhere, and it is quite  rare to meet so much as a cart, or a peasant,   until you reach the high road near Crooksbury  Hill. Two weeks ago I was passing this place,  

When I chanced to look back over my shoulder, and  about two hundred yards behind me I saw a man,   also on a bicycle. He seemed to be a middle-aged  man, with a short, dark beard. I looked back  

Before I reached Farnham, but the man was  gone, so I thought no more about it. But   you can imagine how surprised I was, Mr. Holmes,  when, on my return on the Monday, I saw the same   man on the same stretch of road. My astonishment  was increased when the incident occurred again,  

Exactly as before, on the following Saturday  and Monday. He always kept his distance and did   not molest me in any way, but still it certainly  was very odd. I mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers,   who seemed interested in what I said, and  told me that he had ordered a horse and trap,  

So that in future I should not pass over  these lonely roads without some companion. “The horse and trap were to have come this week,  but for some reason they were not delivered,   and again I had to cycle to the station. That  was this morning. You can think that I looked  

Out when I came to Charlington Heath, and there,  sure enough, was the man, exactly as he had   been the two weeks before. He always kept so far  from me that I could not clearly see his face,  

But it was certainly someone whom I did not know.  He was dressed in a dark suit with a cloth cap.   The only thing about his face that I could clearly  see was his dark beard. To-day I was not alarmed,  

But I was filled with curiosity, and I  determined to find out who he was and   what he wanted. I slowed down my machine, but  he slowed down his. Then I stopped altogether,   but he stopped also. Then I laid a trap for  him. There is a sharp turning of the road,  

And I pedalled very quickly round this, and  then I stopped and waited. I expected him to   shoot round and pass me before he could stop.  But he never appeared. Then I went back and   looked round the corner. I could see a mile  of road, but he was not on it. To make it  

The more extraordinary, there was no side road  at this point down which he could have gone.” Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands.  “This case certainly presents some   features of its own,” said he.  “How much time elapsed between   your turning the corner and your  discovery that the road was clear?” “Two or three minutes.”

“Then he could not have retreated down the  road, and you say that there are no side roads?” “None.” “Then he certainly took a footpath  on one side or the other.” “It could not have been on the side of  the heath, or I should have seen him.”

“So, by the process of exclusion, we arrive at the  fact that he made his way toward Charlington Hall,   which, as I understand, is situated in its own  grounds on one side of the road. Anything else?” “Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that  I was so perplexed that I felt I  

Should not be happy until I had  seen you and had your advice.” Holmes sat in silence for some little time. “Where is the gentleman to whom  you are engaged?” he asked at last. “He is in the Midland Electrical  Company, at Coventry.” “He would not pay you a surprise visit?”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes! As if I should not know him!” “Have you had any other admirers?” “Several before I knew Cyril.” “And since?” “There was this dreadful man, Woodley,  if you can call him an admirer.” “No one else?” Our fair client seemed a little confused. “Who was he?” asked Holmes.

“Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it  had seemed to me sometimes that my employer,   Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal of interest in   me. We are thrown rather together. I play  his accompaniments in the evening. He has  

Never said anything. He is a perfect  gentleman. But a girl always knows.” “Ha!” Holmes looked grave.  “What does he do for a living?” “He is a rich man.” “No carriages or horses?” “Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do. But  he goes into the city two or three times a  

Week. He is deeply interested  in South African gold shares.” “You will let me know any fresh development,  Miss Smith. I am very busy just now,   but I will find time to make some inquiries into  your case. In the meantime, take no step without  

Letting me know. Good-bye, and I trust that  we shall have nothing but good news from you.” “It is part of the settled order  of Nature that such a girl should   have followers,” said Holmes, he  pulled at his meditative pipe,   “but for choice not on bicycles in lonely  country roads. Some secretive lover,  

Beyond all doubt. But there are curious and  suggestive details about the case, Watson.” “That he should appear only at that point?” “Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who  are the tenants of Charlington Hall. Then, again,   how about the connection between Carruthers  and Woodley, since they appear to be men of  

Such a different type? How came they both to be  so keen upon looking up Ralph Smith’s relations?   One more point. What sort of a ménage is it which  pays double the market price for a governess but   does not keep a horse, although six miles  from the station? Odd, Watson—very odd!”

“You will go down?” “No, my dear fellow, you will go down. This may  be some trifling intrigue, and I cannot break my   other important research for the sake of it.  On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham;   you will conceal yourself near Charlington  Heath; you will observe these facts for yourself,  

And act as your own judgment advises. Then,  having inquired as to the occupants of the Hall,   you will come back to me and report. And now,  Watson, not another word of the matter until   we have a few solid stepping-stones on which  we may hope to get across to our solution.”

We had ascertained from the lady that she went  down upon the Monday by the train which leaves   Waterloo at 9:50, so I started early and  caught the 9:13. At Farnham Station I had   no difficulty in being directed to Charlington  Heath. It was impossible to mistake the scene  

Of the young lady’s adventure, for the road runs  between the open heath on one side and an old yew   hedge upon the other, surrounding a park which  is studded with magnificent trees. There was a   main gateway of lichen-studded stone, each side  pillar surmounted by mouldering heraldic emblems,  

But besides this central carriage drive I  observed several points where there were   gaps in the hedge and paths leading through  them. The house was invisible from the road,   but the surroundings all spoke of gloom and decay. The heath was covered with golden patches of  flowering gorse, gleaming magnificently in the  

Light of the bright spring sunshine. Behind  one of these clumps I took up my position,   so as to command both the gateway of the  Hall and a long stretch of the road upon   either side. It had been deserted when I  left it, but now I saw a cyclist riding  

Down it from the opposite direction to that in  which I had come. He was clad in a dark suit,   and I saw that he had a black beard. On  reaching the end of the Charlington grounds,   he sprang from his machine and led it through  a gap in the hedge, disappearing from my view.

A quarter of an hour passed, and then a  second cyclist appeared. This time it was   the young lady coming from the station. I  saw her look about her as she came to the   Charlington hedge. An instant later the man  emerged from his hiding-place, sprang upon  

His cycle, and followed her. In all the broad  landscape those were the only moving figures,   the graceful girl sitting very straight  upon her machine, and the man behind her   bending low over his handle-bar with a curiously  furtive suggestion in every movement. She looked  

Back at him and slowed her pace. He slowed  also. She stopped. He at once stopped, too,   keeping two hundred yards behind her. Her next  movement was as unexpected as it was spirited.   She suddenly whisked her wheels round and dashed  straight at him. He was as quick as she, however,  

And darted off in desperate flight. Presently she  came back up the road again, her head haughtily in   the air, not deigning to take any further notice  of her silent attendant. He had turned also,   and still kept his distance until the  curve of the road hid them from my sight.

I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well  that I did so, for presently the man reappeared,   cycling slowly back. He turned in at the Hall  gates, and dismounted from his machine. For   some minutes I could see him standing  among the trees. His hands were raised,  

And he seemed to be settling his  necktie. Then he mounted his cycle,   and rode away from me down the drive towards the  Hall. I ran across the heath and peered through   the trees. Far away I could catch glimpses  of the old grey building with its bristling  

Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran through a  dense shrubbery, and I saw no more of my man. However, it seemed to me that I had done a  fairly good morning’s work, and I walked back   in high spirits to Farnham. The local house agent  could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall,  

And referred me to a well-known firm in  Pall Mall. There I halted on my way home,   and met with courtesy from the representative.  No, I could not have Charlington Hall for the   summer. I was just too late. It had been let about  a month ago. Mr. Williamson was the name of the  

Tenant. He was a respectable, elderly gentleman.  The polite agent was afraid he could say no more,   as the affairs of his clients were  not matters which he could discuss. Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention  to the long report which I was able to present  

To him that evening, but it did not elicit  that word of curt praise which I had hoped   for and should have valued. On the contrary,  his austere face was even more severe than   usual as he commented upon the things that  I had done and the things that I had not.

“Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very  faulty. You should have been behind the hedge,   then you would have had a close view  of this interesting person. As it is,   you were some hundreds of yards away and can tell  me even less than Miss Smith. She thinks she does  

Not know the man; I am convinced she does. Why,  otherwise, should he be so desperately anxious   that she should not get so near him as to see  his features? You describe him as bending over   the handle-bar. Concealment again, you see.  You really have done remarkably badly. He  

Returns to the house, and you want to find out  who he is. You come to a London house agent!” “What should I have done?”  I cried, with some heat. “Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the  centre of country gossip. They would have told you  

Every name, from the master to the scullery-maid.  Williamson? It conveys nothing to my mind. If he   is an elderly man he is not this active cyclist  who sprints away from that young lady’s athletic   pursuit. What have we gained by your expedition?  The knowledge that the girl’s story is true. I  

Never doubted it. That there is a connection  between the cyclist and the Hall. I never   doubted that either. That the Hall is tenanted  by Williamson. Who’s the better for that? Well,   well, my dear sir, don’t look so depressed.  We can do little more until next Saturday,  

And in the meantime I may make  one or two inquiries myself.” Next morning, we had a note from Miss  Smith, recounting shortly and accurately   the very incidents which I had seen, but the  pith of the letter lay in the postscript:

“I am sure that you will respect my confidence,  Mr. Holmes, when I tell you that my place here   has become difficult, owing to the fact  that my employer has proposed marriage to   me. I am convinced that his feelings are most  deep and most honourable. At the same time,  

My promise is of course given. He took  my refusal very seriously, but also   very gently. You can understand, however,  that the situation is a little strained.” “Our young friend seems to be getting into  deep waters,” said Holmes, thoughtfully,   as he finished the letter. “The case  certainly presents more features of  

Interest and more possibility of  development than I had originally   thought. I should be none the worse for  a quiet, peaceful day in the country,   and I am inclined to run down this afternoon and  test one or two theories which I have formed.”

Holmes’s quiet day in the country had a  singular termination, for he arrived at   Baker Street late in the evening, with a cut  lip and a discoloured lump upon his forehead,   besides a general air of dissipation  which would have made his own person  

The fitting object of a Scotland Yard  investigation. He was immensely tickled   by his own adventures and laughed  heartily as he recounted them. “I get so little active exercise that it is  always a treat,” said he. “You are aware that   I have some proficiency in the good old  British sport of boxing. Occasionally,  

It is of service; to-day, for example, I should  have come to very ignominious grief without it.” I begged him to tell me what had occurred. “I found that country pub which I had already  recommended to your notice, and there I made  

My discreet inquiries. I was in the bar, and  a garrulous landlord was giving me all that I   wanted. Williamson is a white-bearded man, and  he lives alone with a small staff of servants   at the Hall. There is some rumour that he is or  has been a clergyman, but one or two incidents  

Of his short residence at the Hall struck me as  peculiarly unecclesiastical. I have already made   some inquiries at a clerical agency, and they tell  me that there was a man of that name in orders,   whose career has been a singularly dark one.  The landlord further informed me that there  

Are usually week-end visitors—‘a warm lot,  sir’—at the Hall, and especially one gentleman   with a red moustache, Mr. Woodley by name, who  was always there. We had got as far as this,   when who should walk in but the gentleman himself,  who had been drinking his beer in the tap-room  

And had heard the whole conversation. Who was  I? What did I want? What did I mean by asking   questions? He had a fine flow of language, and  his adjectives were very vigorous. He ended a   string of abuse by a vicious backhander, which  I failed to entirely avoid. The next few minutes  

Were delicious. It was a straight left against  a slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me.   Mr. Woodley went home in a cart. So ended my  country trip, and it must be confessed that,   however enjoyable, my day on the Surrey border  has not been much more profitable than your own.”

The Thursday brought us  another letter from our client. You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes (said  she), to hear that I am leaving Mr. Carruthers’s   employment. Even the high pay cannot reconcile me  to the discomforts of my situation. On Saturday I  

Come up to town, and I do not intend to  return. Mr. Carruthers has got a trap,   and so the dangers of the lonely road, if  there ever were any dangers, are now over.  As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not  merely the strained situation with Mr. Carruthers,  

But it is the reappearance of that odious  man, Mr. Woodley. He was always hideous,   but he looks more awful than ever now, for he  appears to have had an accident and he is much  

Disfigured. I saw him out of the window, but  I am glad to say I did not meet him. He had a   long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed much  excited afterwards. Woodley must be staying in  

The neighbourhood, for he did not sleep here, and  yet I caught a glimpse of him again this morning,   slinking about in the shrubbery. I would  sooner have a savage wild animal loose   about the place. I loathe and fear him more  than I can say. How can Mr. Carruthers endure  

Such a creature for a moment? However,  all my troubles will be over on Saturday. “So I trust, Watson, so I trust,” said Holmes,  gravely. “There is some deep intrigue going on   round that little woman, and it is our duty  to see that no one molests her upon that  

Last journey. I think, Watson, that we must  spare time to run down together on Saturday   morning and make sure that this curious and  inclusive investigation has no untoward ending.” I confess that I had not up to now taken a very  serious view of the case, which had seemed to me  

Rather grotesque and bizarre than dangerous. That  a man should lie in wait for and follow a very   handsome woman is no unheard-of thing, and if he  has so little audacity that he not only dared not   address her, but even fled from her approach, he  was not a very formidable assailant. The ruffian  

Woodley was a very different person, but, except  on one occasion, he had not molested our client,   and now he visited the house of Carruthers without  intruding upon her presence. The man on the   bicycle was doubtless a member of those week-end  parties at the Hall of which the publican had  

Spoken, but who he was, or what he wanted, was as  obscure as ever. It was the severity of Holmes’s   manner and the fact that he slipped a revolver  into his pocket before leaving our rooms which   impressed me with the feeling that tragedy might  prove to lurk behind this curious train of events.

A rainy night had been followed by a glorious  morning, and the heath-covered countryside,   with the glowing clumps of flowering gorse,  seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which   were weary of the duns and drabs and slate greys  of London. Holmes and I walked along the broad,  

Sandy road inhaling the fresh morning air and  rejoicing in the music of the birds and the   fresh breath of the spring. From a rise of  the road on the shoulder of Crooksbury Hill,   we could see the grim Hall bristling  out from amidst the ancient oaks, which,  

Old as they were, were still younger than  the building which they surrounded. Holmes   pointed down the long tract of road  which wound, a reddish yellow band,   between the brown of the heath and the budding  green of the woods. Far away, a black dot,  

We could see a vehicle moving in our direction.  Holmes gave an exclamation of impatience. “I have given a margin of half an hour,” said he.  “If that is her trap, she must be making for the   earlier train. I fear, Watson, that she will be  past Charlington before we can possibly meet her.”

From the instant that we passed the  rise, we could no longer see the vehicle,   but we hastened onward at such a pace that  my sedentary life began to tell upon me, and   I was compelled to fall behind. Holmes, however,  was always in training, for he had inexhaustible  

Stores of nervous energy upon which to draw.  His springy step never slowed until suddenly,   when he was a hundred yards in front of me,  he halted, and I saw him throw up his hand   with a gesture of grief and despair. At the same  instant an empty dog-cart, the horse cantering,  

The reins trailing, appeared round the curve  of the road and rattled swiftly towards us. “Too late, Watson, too late!” cried  Holmes, as I ran panting to his side.   “Fool that I was not to allow for  that earlier train! It’s abduction,  

Watson—abduction! Murder! Heaven knows what!  Block the road! Stop the horse! That’s right. Now,   jump in, and let us see if I can repair  the consequences of my own blunder.” We had sprung into the dog-cart,  and Holmes, after turning the horse,  

Gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew  back along the road. As we turned the curve,   the whole stretch of road between the Hall and  the heath was opened up. I grasped Holmes’s arm. “That’s the man!” I gasped.

A solitary cyclist was coming towards us.  His head was down and his shoulders rounded,   as he put every ounce of energy that  he possessed on to the pedals. He was   flying like a racer. Suddenly he raised  his bearded face, saw us close to him,  

And pulled up, springing from his machine.  That coal-black beard was in singular contrast   to the pallor of his face, and his eyes  were as bright as if he had a fever. He   stared at us and at the dog-cart. Then  a look of amazement came over his face.

“Halloa! Stop there!” he shouted, holding his  bicycle to block our road. “Where did you get   that dog-cart? Pull up, man!” he yelled, drawing  a pistol from his side pocket. “Pull up, I say,   or, by George, I’ll put a bullet into your horse.”

Holmes threw the reins into my  lap and sprang down from the cart. “You’re the man we want to see. Where is Miss  Violet Smith?” he said, in his quick, clear way. “That’s what I’m asking you. You’re in her  dog-cart. You ought to know where she is.”

“We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no  one in it. We drove back to help the young lady.” “Good Lord! Good Lord! What shall I do?” cried the  stranger, in an ecstasy of despair. “They’ve got   her, that hell-hound Woodley and the blackguard  parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her  

Friend. Stand by me and we’ll save her, if I  have to leave my carcass in Charlington Wood.” He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand,  towards a gap in the hedge. Holmes followed him,   and I, leaving the horse grazing  beside the road, followed Holmes.

“This is where they came through,” said  he, pointing to the marks of several feet   upon the muddy path. “Halloa! Stop  a minute! Who’s this in the bush?” It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed  like an ostler, with leather cords and gaiters.  

He lay upon his back, his knees drawn up, a  terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible,   but alive. A glance at his wound told  me that it had not penetrated the bone. “That’s Peter, the groom,” cried the  stranger. “He drove her. The beasts  

Have pulled him off and clubbed him.  Let him lie; we can’t do him any good,   but we may save her from the worst  fate that can befall a woman.” We ran frantically down the path, which  wound among the trees. We had reached   the shrubbery which surrounded  the house when Holmes pulled up.

“They didn’t go to the house. Here  are their marks on the left—here,   beside the laurel bushes. Ah! I said so.” As he spoke, a woman’s shrill scream—a  scream which vibrated with a frenzy of   horror—burst from the thick, green  clump of bushes in front of us. It  

Ended suddenly on its highest  note with a choke and a gurgle. “This way! This way! They are in the  bowling-alley,” cried the stranger,   darting through the bushes. “Ah,  the cowardly dogs! Follow me,   gentlemen! Too late! too  late! by the living Jingo!”

We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of  greensward surrounded by ancient trees. On the   farther side of it, under the shadow of a mighty  oak, there stood a singular group of three people.   One was a woman, our client, drooping and faint, a  handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite her stood a  

Brutal, heavy-faced, red-moustached young man,  his gaitered legs parted wide, one arm akimbo,   the other waving a riding crop, his whole attitude  suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them   an elderly, grey-bearded man, wearing a  short surplice over a light tweed suit,  

Had evidently just completed the wedding service,  for he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared,   and slapped the sinister bridegroom  upon the back in jovial congratulation. “They’re married!” I gasped. “Come on!” cried our guide, “come  on!” He rushed across the glade,  

Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached,  the lady staggered against the trunk of the   tree for support. Williamson, the ex-clergyman,  bowed to us with mock politeness, and the bully,   Woodley, advanced with a shout  of brutal and exultant laughter.

“You can take your beard off, Bob,” said  he. “I know you, right enough. Well,   you and your pals have just come in time for me  to be able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley.” Our guide’s answer was a singular  one. He snatched off the dark beard  

Which had disguised him and threw it on  the ground, disclosing a long, sallow,   clean-shaven face below it. Then he raised  his revolver and covered the young ruffian,   who was advancing upon him with his  dangerous riding-crop swinging in his hand. “Yes,” said our ally, “I am Bob Carruthers,  

And I’ll see this woman righted,  if I have to swing for it. I told   you what I’d do if you molested her, and,  by the Lord! I’ll be as good as my word.” “You’re too late. She’s my wife.” “No, she’s your widow.”

His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood  spurt from the front of Woodley’s waistcoat.   He spun round with a scream and fell upon  his back, his hideous red face turning   suddenly to a dreadful mottled pallor.  The old man, still clad in his surplice,  

Burst into such a string of foul oaths as I have  never heard, and pulled out a revolver of his own,   but, before he could raise it, he was  looking down the barrel of Holmes’s weapon. “Enough of this,” said my friend,  coldly. “Drop that pistol! Watson,  

Pick it up! Hold it to his head. Thank you. You,   Carruthers, give me that revolver. We’ll  have no more violence. Come, hand it over!” “Who are you, then?” “My name is Sherlock Holmes.” “Good Lord!” “You have heard of me, I see. I will represent  the official police until their arrival. Here,  

You!” he shouted to a frightened  groom, who had appeared at the edge   of the glade. “Come here. Take this note  as hard as you can ride to Farnham.” He   scribbled a few words upon a leaf from his  notebook. “Give it to the superintendent at  

The police-station. Until he comes, I must  detain you all under my personal custody.” The strong, masterful personality of  Holmes dominated the tragic scene,   and all were equally puppets in his hands.  Williamson and Carruthers found themselves   carrying the wounded Woodley into the house,  and I gave my arm to the frightened girl.  

The injured man was laid on his bed, and at  Holmes’s request I examined him. I carried my   report to where he sat in the old tapestry-hung  dining-room with his two prisoners before him. “He will live,” said I. “What!” cried Carruthers, springing out of  his chair. “I’ll go upstairs and finish him  

First. Do you tell me that that angel, is to  be tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?” “You need not concern yourself about  that,” said Holmes. “There are two   very good reasons why she should, under no  circumstances, be his wife. In the first  

Place, we are very safe in questioning Mr.  Williamson’s right to solemnize a marriage.” “I have been ordained,” cried the old rascal. “And also unfrocked.” “Once a clergyman, always a clergyman.” “I think not. How about the license?” “We had a license for the marriage.  I have it here in my pocket.”

“Then you got it by trick. But, in any  case a forced marriage is no marriage,   but it is a very serious felony, as you will  discover before you have finished. You’ll have   time to think the point out during the next ten  years or so, unless I am mistaken. As to you,  

Carruthers, you would have done better  to keep your pistol in your pocket.” “I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes, but when I  thought of all the precaution I had taken to   shield this girl—for I loved her, Mr. Holmes,  and it is the only time that ever I knew what  

Love was—it fairly drove me mad to think that she  was in the power of the greatest brute and bully   in South Africa—a man whose name is a holy terror  from Kimberley to Johannesburg. Why, Mr. Holmes,  

You’ll hardly believe it, but ever since that girl  has been in my employment I never once let her go   past this house, where I knew the rascals were  lurking, without following her on my bicycle,  

Just to see that she came to no harm. I kept  my distance from her, and I wore a beard,   so that she should not recognize me, for she is a  good and high-spirited girl, and she wouldn’t have  

Stayed in my employment long if she had thought  that I was following her about the country roads.” “Why didn’t you tell her of her danger?” “Because then, again, she would have left me,   and I couldn’t bear to face that. Even if  she couldn’t love me, it was a great deal  

To me just to see her dainty form about the  house, and to hear the sound of her voice.” “Well,” said I, “you call that love, Mr.  Carruthers, but I should call it selfishness.” “Maybe the two things go together.  Anyhow, I couldn’t let her go. Besides,  

With this crowd about, it was well that  she should have someone near to look   after her. Then, when the cable came,  I knew they were bound to make a move.” “What cable?” Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket. “That’s it,” said he. It was short and concise: The old man is dead.

“Hum!” said Holmes. “I think I see how things  worked, and I can understand how this message   would, as you say, bring them to a head. But  while you wait, you might tell me what you can.” The old reprobate with the surplice  burst into a volley of bad language.

“By heaven!” said he, “if you  squeal on us, Bob Carruthers,   I’ll serve you as you served Jack Woodley. You  can bleat about the girl to your heart’s content,   for that’s your own affair, but if you round  on your pals to this plain-clothes copper,  

It will be the worst day’s  work that ever you did.” “Your reverence need not be excited,” said  Holmes, lighting a cigarette. “The case is   clear enough against you, and all I ask is a  few details for my private curiosity. However,   if there’s any difficulty in your  telling me, I’ll do the talking,  

And then you will see how far you have a chance  of holding back your secrets. In the first place,   three of you came from South Africa on this  game—you Williamson, you Carruthers, and Woodley.” “Lie number one,” said the old man; “I never  saw either of them until two months ago,  

And I have never been in Africa in my life,   so you can put that in your pipe  and smoke it, Mr. Busybody Holmes!” “What he says is true,” said Carruthers. “Well, well, two of you came over.  His reverence is our own homemade  

Article. You had known Ralph Smith in South  Africa. You had reason to believe he would   not live long. You found out that his niece  would inherit his fortune. How’s that—eh?” Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore. “She was next of kin, no doubt, and you were  aware that the old fellow would make no will.”

“Couldn’t read or write,” said Carruthers. “So you came over, the two of you, and  hunted up the girl. The idea was that   one of you was to marry her, and the other  have a share of the plunder. For some reason,   Woodley was chosen as the husband. Why was that?”

“We played cards for her on the voyage. He won.” “I see. You got the young lady into your service,  and there Woodley was to do the courting. She   recognized the drunken brute that he was, and  would have nothing to do with him. Meanwhile,  

Your arrangement was rather upset by  the fact that you had yourself fallen   in love with the lady. You could no longer  bear the idea of this ruffian owning her?” “No, by George, I couldn’t!” “There was a quarrel between  you. He left you in a rage,  

And began to make his own  plans independently of you.” “It strikes me, Williamson, there isn’t  very much that we can tell this gentleman,”   cried Carruthers, with a bitter laugh. “Yes, we  quarreled, and he knocked me down. I am level with  

Him on that, anyhow. Then I lost sight of him.  That was when he picked up with this outcast padre   here. I found that they had set up housekeeping  together at this place on the line that she had  

To pass for the station. I kept my eye on her  after that, for I knew there was some devilry   in the wind. I saw them from time to time, for I  was anxious to know what they were after. Two days  

Ago Woodley came up to my house with this cable,  which showed that Ralph Smith was dead. He asked   me if I would stand by the bargain. I said I would  not. He asked me if I would marry the girl myself  

And give him a share. I said I would willingly  do so, but that she would not have me. He said,   ‘Let us get her married first and after a week  or two she may see things a bit different.’ I  

Said I would have nothing to do with violence.  So he went off cursing, like the foul-mouthed   blackguard that he was, and swearing that he would  have her yet. She was leaving me this week-end,  

And I had got a trap to take her to the station,  but I was so uneasy in my mind that I followed her   on my bicycle. She had got a start, however, and  before I could catch her, the mischief was done.  

The first thing I knew about it was when I saw  you two gentlemen driving back in her dog-cart.” Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette  into the grate. “I have been very obtuse,   Watson,” said he. “When in your report you  said that you had seen the cyclist as you  

Thought arrange his necktie in the shrubbery,  that alone should have told me all. However,   we may congratulate ourselves upon a curious and,  in some respects, a unique case. I perceive three   of the county constabulary in the drive, and  I am glad to see that the little ostler is  

Able to keep pace with them, so it is likely that  neither he nor the interesting bridegroom will be   permanently damaged by their morning’s adventures.  I think, Watson, that in your medical capacity,   you might wait upon Miss Smith and tell  her that if she is sufficiently recovered,  

We shall be happy to escort her to her mother’s  home. If she is not quite convalescent you will   find that a hint that we were about to  telegraph to a young electrician in the   Midlands would probably complete the cure.  As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I think that you  

Have done what you could to make amends for  your share in an evil plot. There is my card,   sir, and if my evidence can be of help in  your trial, it shall be at your disposal.” In the whirl of our incessant activity,  it has often been difficult for me,  

As the reader has probably observed, to round off  my narratives, and to give those final details   which the curious might expect. Each case has been  the prelude to another, and the crisis once over,   the actors have passed for ever out of our busy  lives. I find, however, a short note at the end  

Of my manuscript dealing with this case, in  which I have put it upon record that Miss   Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large fortune,  and that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton,   the senior partner of Morton & Kennedy, the  famous Westminster electricians. Williamson  

And Woodley were both tried for abduction and  assault, the former getting seven years the   latter ten. Of the fate of Carruthers, I have  no record, but I am sure that his assault was   not viewed very gravely by the court, since  Woodley had the reputation of being a most  

Dangerous ruffian, and I think that a few months  were sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice. END OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL We have had some dramatic entrances and exits  upon our small stage at Baker Street, but I cannot  

Recollect anything more sudden and startling than  the first appearance of Thorneycroft Huxtable,   M.A., Ph.D., etc. His card, which seemed too small  to carry the weight of his academic distinctions,   preceded him by a few seconds, and then he entered  himself—so large, so pompous, and so dignified  

That he was the very embodiment of self-possession  and solidity. And yet his first action, when the   door had closed behind him, was to stagger against  the table, whence he slipped down upon the floor,   and there was that majestic figure prostrate  and insensible upon our bearskin hearth-rug.

We had sprung to our feet, and for a few moments  we stared in silent amazement at this ponderous   piece of wreckage, which told of some sudden and  fatal storm far out on the ocean of life. Then   Holmes hurried with a cushion for his head,  and I with brandy for his lips. The heavy,  

White face was seamed with lines of trouble,  the hanging pouches under the closed eyes were   leaden in colour, the loose mouth  drooped dolorously at the corners,   the rolling chins were unshaven. Collar and shirt  bore the grime of a long journey, and the hair  

Bristled unkempt from the well-shaped head. It  was a sorely stricken man who lay before us. “What is it, Watson?” asked Holmes. “Absolute exhaustion—possibly  mere hunger and fatigue,” said I,   with my finger on the thready pulse, where  the stream of life trickled thin and small.

“Return ticket from Mackleton, in the north  of England,” said Holmes, drawing it from   the watch-pocket. “It is not twelve o’clock  yet. He has certainly been an early starter.” The puckered eyelids had begun to quiver, and  now a pair of vacant grey eyes looked up at  

Us. An instant later the man had scrambled  on to his feet, his face crimson with shame. “Forgive this weakness, Mr. Holmes, I  have been a little overwrought. Thank you,   if I might have a glass of milk and a  biscuit, I have no doubt that I should  

Be better. I came personally, Mr. Holmes, in  order to insure that you would return with me.   I feared that no telegram would convince  you of the absolute urgency of the case.” “When you are quite restored——”

“I am quite well again. I cannot imagine how  I came to be so weak. I wish you, Mr. Holmes,   to come to Mackleton with me by the next train.” My friend shook his head. “My colleague, Dr. Watson, could tell  you that we are very busy at present.  

I am retained in this case of the Ferrers  Documents, and the Abergavenny murder is   coming up for trial. Only a very important  issue could call me from London at present.” “Important!” Our visitor threw up  his hands. “Have you heard nothing   of the abduction of the only  son of the Duke of Holdernesse?”

“What! the late Cabinet Minister?” “Exactly. We had tried to keep it out of  the papers, but there was some rumour in   the Globe last night. I thought  it might have reached your ears.” Holmes shot out his long, thin arm and picked  out Volume “H” in his encyclopædia of reference.

“‘Holdernesse, 6th Duke, K.G., P.C.’—half the  alphabet! ‘Baron Beverley, Earl of Carston’—dear   me, what a list! ‘Lord Lieutenant of Hallamshire  since 1900. Married Edith, daughter of Sir Charles   Appledore, 1888. Heir and only child, Lord  Saltire. Owns about two hundred and fifty   thousand acres. Minerals in Lancashire and Wales.  Address: Carlton House Terrace; Holdernesse Hall,  

Hallamshire; Carston Castle, Bangor, Wales. Lord  of the Admiralty, 1872; Chief Secretary of State   for——’ Well, well, this man is certainly  one of the greatest subjects of the Crown!” “The greatest and perhaps the  wealthiest. I am aware, Mr. Holmes,  

That you take a very high line in professional  matters, and that you are prepared to work for   the work’s sake. I may tell you, however, that  his Grace has already intimated that a check   for five thousand pounds will be handed over to  the person who can tell him where his son is,  

And another thousand to him who can  name the man or men who have taken him.” “It is a princely offer,” said Holmes. “Watson,  I think that we shall accompany Dr. Huxtable back   to the north of England. And now, Dr. Huxtable,  when you have consumed that milk, you will kindly  

Tell me what has happened, when it happened, how  it happened, and, finally, what Dr. Thorneycroft   Huxtable, of the Priory School, near Mackleton,  has to do with the matter, and why he comes   three days after an event—the state of your chin  gives the date—to ask for my humble services.”

Our visitor had consumed his milk and biscuits.  The light had come back to his eyes and the colour   to his cheeks, as he set himself with great  vigour and lucidity to explain the situation. “I must inform you, gentlemen, that the Priory is  a preparatory school, of which I am the founder  

And principal. Huxtable’s Sidelights on Horace  may possibly recall my name to your memories.   The Priory is, without exception, the best and  most select preparatory school in England. Lord   Leverstoke, the Earl of Blackwater, Sir  Cathcart Soames—they all have intrusted  

Their sons to me. But I felt that my school  had reached its zenith when, weeks ago,   the Duke of Holdernesse sent Mr. James Wilder,  his secretary, with intimation that young Lord   Saltire, ten years old, his only son and heir,  was about to be committed to my charge. Little  

Did I think that this would be the prelude  to the most crushing misfortune of my life. “On May 1st the boy arrived, that being  the beginning of the summer term. He was   a charming youth, and he soon fell into our ways.  I may tell you—I trust that I am not indiscreet,  

But half-confidences are absurd in such  a case—that he was not entirely happy at   home. It is an open secret that the Duke’s  married life had not been a peaceful one,   and the matter had ended in a separation by mutual  consent, the Duchess taking up her residence in  

The south of France. This had occurred very  shortly before, and the boy’s sympathies are   known to have been strongly with his mother. He  moped after her departure from Holdernesse Hall,   and it was for this reason that the Duke  desired to send him to my establishment.  

In a fortnight the boy was quite at home  with us and was apparently absolutely happy. “He was last seen on the night of May 13th—that  is, the night of last Monday. His room was on   the second floor and was approached through  another larger room, in which two boys were  

Sleeping. These boys saw and heard nothing,  so that it is certain that young Saltire did   not pass out that way. His window was open,  and there is a stout ivy plant leading to the   ground. We could trace no footmarks below, but  it is sure that this is the only possible exit.

“His absence was discovered at seven o’clock  on Tuesday morning. His bed had been slept in.   He had dressed himself fully, before going  off, in his usual school suit of black Eton   jacket and dark grey trousers. There were  no signs that anyone had entered the room,  

And it is quite certain that anything in  the nature of cries or a struggle would   have been heard, since Caunter, the elder boy  in the inner room, is a very light sleeper. “When Lord Saltire’s disappearance was  discovered, I at once called a roll of  

The whole establishment—boys, masters, and  servants. It was then that we ascertained   that Lord Saltire had not been alone in  his flight. Heidegger, the German master,   was missing. His room was on the second  floor, at the farther end of the building,  

Facing the same way as Lord Saltire’s. His bed  had also been slept in, but he had apparently   gone away partly dressed, since his shirt  and socks were lying on the floor. He had   undoubtedly let himself down by the ivy, for  we could see the marks of his feet where he  

Had landed on the lawn. His bicycle was kept in a  small shed beside this lawn, and it also was gone. “He had been with me for two years, and came  with the best references, but he was a silent,  

Morose man, not very popular either with masters  or boys. No trace could be found of the fugitives,   and now, on Thursday morning, we are as  ignorant as we were on Tuesday. Inquiry was,   of course, made at once at Holdernesse  Hall. It is only a few miles away,  

And we imagined that, in some sudden attack of  homesickness, he had gone back to his father,   but nothing had been heard of him. The Duke is  greatly agitated, and, as to me, you have seen   yourselves the state of nervous prostration to  which the suspense and the responsibility have  

Reduced me. Mr. Holmes, if ever you put forward  your full powers, I implore you to do so now,   for never in your life could you have  a case which is more worthy of them.” Sherlock Holmes had listened with the  utmost intentness to the statement of  

The unhappy schoolmaster. His drawn brows  and the deep furrow between them showed that   he needed no exhortation to concentrate  all his attention upon a problem which,   apart from the tremendous interests involved  must appeal so directly to his love of the  

Complex and the unusual. He now drew out his  notebook and jotted down one or two memoranda. “You have been very remiss in not coming to  me sooner,” said he, severely. “You start   me on my investigation with a very serious  handicap. It is inconceivable, for example,  

That this ivy and this lawn would have  yielded nothing to an expert observer.” “I am not to blame, Mr. Holmes. His  Grace was extremely desirous to avoid   all public scandal. He was afraid of  his family unhappiness being dragged   before the world. He has a deep  horror of anything of the kind.”

“But there has been some official investigation?” “Yes, sir, and it has proved most disappointing.  An apparent clue was at once obtained,   since a boy and a young man were reported to have  been seen leaving a neighbouring station by an  

Early train. Only last night we had news that  the couple had been hunted down in Liverpool,   and they prove to have no connection whatever  with the matter in hand. Then it was that in   my despair and disappointment, after a sleepless  night, I came straight to you by the early train.”

“I suppose the local investigation was relaxed  while this false clue was being followed up?” “It was entirely dropped.” “So that three days have been wasted. The  affair has been most deplorably handled.” “I feel it and admit it.”

“And yet the problem should be capable of ultimate  solution. I shall be very happy to look into   it. Have you been able to trace any connection  between the missing boy and this German master?” “None at all.” “Was he in the master’s class?”

“No, he never exchanged a word  with him, so far as I know.” “That is certainly very  singular. Had the boy a bicycle?” “No.” “Was any other bicycle missing?” “No.” “Is that certain?” “Quite.” “Well, now, you do not mean to seriously  suggest that this German rode off upon a  

Bicycle in the dead of the night,  bearing the boy in his arms?” “Certainly not.” “Then what is the theory in your mind?” “The bicycle may have been a blind.  It may have been hidden somewhere,   and the pair gone off on foot.” “Quite so, but it seems rather an absurd blind,  

Does it not? Were there  other bicycles in this shed?” “Several.” “Would he not have hidden a couple,   had he desired to give the idea  that they had gone off upon them?” “I suppose he would.” “Of course he would. The blind theory won’t do.  But the incident is an admirable starting-point  

For an investigation. After all, a bicycle is  not an easy thing to conceal or to destroy.   One other question. Did anyone call to see  the boy on the day before he disappeared?” “No.” “Did he get any letters?” “Yes, one letter.” “From whom?” “From his father.” “Do you open the boys’ letters?” “No.”

“How do you know it was from the father?” “The coat of arms was on the envelope,  and it was addressed in the Duke’s   peculiar stiff hand. Besides, the  Duke remembers having written.” “When had he a letter before that?” “Not for several days.” “Had he ever one from France?” “No, never.

“You see the point of my questions, of course.  Either the boy was carried off by force or he   went of his own free will. In the latter  case, you would expect that some prompting  

From outside would be needed to make so young a  lad do such a thing. If he has had no visitors,   that prompting must have come in letters; hence  I try to find out who were his correspondents.” “I fear I cannot help you  much. His only correspondent,  

So far as I know, was his own father.” “Who wrote to him on the very day  of his disappearance. Were the   relations between father and son very friendly?” “His Grace is never very friendly with  anyone. He is completely immersed in   large public questions, and is rather  inaccessible to all ordinary emotions.  

But he was always kind to the boy in his own way.” “But the sympathies of the  latter were with the mother?” “Yes.” “Did he say so?” “No.” “The Duke, then?” “Good Heavens, no!” “Then how could you know?” “I have had some confidential  talks with Mr. James Wilder,  

His Grace’s secretary. It was he who gave me  the information about Lord Saltire’s feelings.” “I see. By the way, that last letter of   the Duke’s—was it found in the  boy’s room after he was gone?” “No, he had taken it with  him. I think, Mr. Holmes,  

It is time that we were leaving for Euston.” “I will order a four-wheeler. In a quarter of  an hour, we shall be at your service. If you   are telegraphing home, Mr. Huxtable, it would be  well to allow the people in your neighbourhood  

To imagine that the inquiry is still going on in  Liverpool, or wherever else that red herring led   your pack. In the meantime I will do a little  quiet work at your own doors, and perhaps the  

Scent is not so cold but that two old hounds  like Watson and myself may get a sniff of it.” That evening found us in the cold,  bracing atmosphere of the Peak country,   in which Dr. Huxtable’s famous school  is situated. It was already dark when  

We reached it. A card was lying on the  hall table, and the butler whispered   something to his master, who turned to  us with agitation in every heavy feature. “The Duke is here,” said he. “The Duke  and Mr. Wilder are in the study. Come,   gentlemen, and I will introduce you.”

I was, of course, familiar with the  pictures of the famous statesman,   but the man himself was very different from his  representation. He was a tall and stately person,   scrupulously dressed, with a drawn, thin face,  and a nose which was grotesquely curved and long.  

His complexion was of a dead pallor, which  was more startling by contrast with a long,   dwindling beard of vivid red, which flowed down  over his white waistcoat with his watch-chain   gleaming through its fringe. Such was the stately  presence who looked stonily at us from the centre  

Of Dr. Huxtable’s hearthrug. Beside him stood a  very young man, whom I understood to be Wilder,   the private secretary. He was small, nervous,  alert with intelligent light-blue eyes and mobile   features. It was he who at once, in an incisive  and positive tone, opened the conversation.

“I called this morning, Dr. Huxtable, too late to  prevent you from starting for London. I learned   that your object was to invite Mr. Sherlock Holmes  to undertake the conduct of this case. His Grace   is surprised, Dr. Huxtable, that you should  have taken such a step without consulting him.”

“When I learned that the police had failed——” “His Grace is by no means convinced  that the police have failed.” “But surely, Mr. Wilder——” “You are well aware, Dr. Huxtable, that his  Grace is particularly anxious to avoid all   public scandal. He prefers to take as few  people as possible into his confidence.”

“The matter can be easily remedied,”  said the brow-beaten doctor;   “Mr. Sherlock Holmes can return  to London by the morning train.” “Hardly that, Doctor, hardly that,” said Holmes,   in his blandest voice. “This northern  air is invigorating and pleasant,  

So I propose to spend a few days upon your  moors, and to occupy my mind as best I may.   Whether I have the shelter of your roof or of the  village inn is, of course, for you to decide.” I could see that the unfortunate doctor  was in the last stage of indecision,  

From which he was rescued by the deep,  sonorous voice of the red-bearded Duke,   which boomed out like a dinner-gong. “I agree with Mr. Wilder, Dr. Huxtable, that  you would have done wisely to consult me. But   since Mr. Holmes has already been taken  into your confidence, it would indeed be  

Absurd that we should not avail ourselves  of his services. Far from going to the inn,   Mr. Holmes, I should be pleased if you would  come and stay with me at Holdernesse Hall.” “I thank your Grace. For the  purposes of my investigation,  

I think that it would be wiser for me  to remain at the scene of the mystery.” “Just as you like, Mr. Holmes. Any information   which Mr. Wilder or I can give you  is, of course, at your disposal.” “It will probably be necessary for  me to see you at the Hall,” said  

Holmes. “I would only ask you now,  sir, whether you have formed any   explanation in your own mind as to the  mysterious disappearance of your son?” “No, sir, I have not.” “Excuse me if I allude to  that which is painful to you,  

But I have no alternative. Do you think that  the Duchess had anything to do with the matter?” The great minister showed perceptible hesitation. “I do not think so,” he said, at last. “The other most obvious explanation  is that the child has been kidnapped  

For the purpose of levying ransom. You  have not had any demand of the sort?” “No, sir.” “One more question, your Grace. I  understand that you wrote to your   son upon the day when this incident occurred.” “No, I wrote upon the day before.” “Exactly. But he received it on that day?” “Yes.”

“Was there anything in your letter   which might have unbalanced him or  induced him to take such a step?” “No, sir, certainly not.” “Did you post that letter yourself?” The nobleman’s reply was interrupted by  his secretary, who broke in with some heat.

“His Grace is not in the habit of posting  letters himself,” said he. “This letter was   laid with others upon the study table,  and I myself put them in the post-bag.” “You are sure this one was among them?” “Yes, I observed it.” “How many letters did your Grace write that day?”

“Twenty or thirty. I have a large correspondence.  But surely this is somewhat irrelevant?” “Not entirely,” said Holmes. “For my own part,” the Duke continued, “I have  advised the police to turn their attention to   the south of France. I have already said  that I do not believe that the Duchess  

Would encourage so monstrous an action, but  the lad had the most wrong-headed opinions,   and it is possible that he may have fled to her,   aided and abetted by this German. I think, Dr.  Huxtable, that we will now return to the Hall.”

I could see that there were other questions  which Holmes would have wished to put,   but the nobleman’s abrupt manner showed that  the interview was at an end. It was evident   that to his intensely aristocratic nature this  discussion of his intimate family affairs with  

A stranger was most abhorrent, and that  he feared lest every fresh question would   throw a fiercer light into the discreetly  shadowed corners of his ducal history. When the nobleman and his secretary had  left, my friend flung himself at once with   characteristic eagerness into the investigation.

The boy’s chamber was carefully examined, and  yielded nothing save the absolute conviction   that it was only through the window that he could  have escaped. The German master’s room and effects   gave no further clue. In his case a trailer of ivy  had given way under his weight, and we saw by the  

Light of a lantern the mark on the lawn where his  heels had come down. That one dint in the short,   green grass was the only material witness  left of this inexplicable nocturnal flight. Sherlock Holmes left the house alone, and only  returned after eleven. He had obtained a large  

Ordnance map of the neighbourhood, and this  he brought into my room, where he laid it out   on the bed, and, having balanced the lamp in  the middle of it, he began to smoke over it,   and occasionally to point out objects of  interest with the reeking amber of his pipe.

“This case grows upon me, Watson,” said  he. “There are decidedly some points of   interest in connection with it. In this  early stage, I want you to realize those   geographical features which may have a  good deal to do with our investigation.

“Look at this map. This dark square is the Priory  School. I’ll put a pin in it. Now, this line is   the main road. You see that it runs east and west  past the school, and you see also that there is no  

Side road for a mile either way. If these two  folk passed away by road, it was this road.” “Exactly.” “By a singular and happy chance, we are  able to some extent to check what passed   along this road during the night in question.  At this point, where my pipe is now resting,  

A county constable was on duty from twelve to  six. It is, as you perceive, the first cross-road   on the east side. This man declares that he  was not absent from his post for an instant,  

And he is positive that neither boy nor man could  have gone that way unseen. I have spoken with this   policeman to-night and he appears to me to be  a perfectly reliable person. That blocks this  

End. We have now to deal with the other. There  is an inn here, the Red Bull, the landlady of   which was ill. She had sent to Mackleton for  a doctor, but he did not arrive until morning,   being absent at another case. The people at the  inn were alert all night, awaiting his coming,  

And one or other of them seems to have continually  had an eye upon the road. They declare that no one   passed. If their evidence is good, then we are  fortunate enough to be able to block the west,  

And also to be able to say that the  fugitives did not use the road at all.” “But the bicycle?” I objected. “Quite so. We will come to the bicycle  presently. To continue our reasoning:   if these people did not go by the road, they  must have traversed the country to the north  

Of the house or to the south of the house. That  is certain. Let us weigh the one against the   other. On the south of the house is, as you  perceive, a large district of arable land,   cut up into small fields, with stone walls between  them. There, I admit that a bicycle is impossible.  

We can dismiss the idea. We turn to the country  on the north. Here there lies a grove of trees,   marked as the ‘Ragged Shaw,’ and on the  farther side stretches a great rolling moor,   Lower Gill Moor, extending for ten miles and  sloping gradually upward. Here, at one side of  

This wilderness, is Holdernesse Hall, ten miles  by road, but only six across the moor. It is a   peculiarly desolate plain. A few moor farmers  have small holdings, where they rear sheep and   cattle. Except these, the plover and the curlew  are the only inhabitants until you come to the  

Chesterfield high road. There is a church there,  you see, a few cottages, and an inn. Beyond that   the hills become precipitous. Surely it is  here to the north that our quest must lie.” “But the bicycle?” I persisted. “Well, well!” said Holmes, impatiently.  “A good cyclist does not need a high road.  

The moor is intersected with paths, and the  moon was at the full. Halloa! what is this?” There was an agitated knock at the door,  and an instant afterwards Dr. Huxtable   was in the room. In his hand he held a blue  cricket-cap with a white chevron on the peak.

“At last we have a clue!” he  cried. “Thank heaven! at last   we are on the dear boy’s track! It is his cap.” “Where was it found?” “In the van of the gipsies who camped  on the moor. They left on Tuesday.   To-day the police traced them down and  examined their caravan. This was found.”

“How do they account for it?” “They shuffled and lied—said that they found  it on the moor on Tuesday morning. They know   where he is, the rascals! Thank goodness,  they are all safe under lock and key. Either  

The fear of the law or the Duke’s purse will  certainly get out of them all that they know.” “So far, so good,” said Holmes, when the doctor  had at last left the room. “It at least bears  

Out the theory that it is on the side of the  Lower Gill Moor that we must hope for results.   The police have really done nothing locally,  save the arrest of these gipsies. Look here,   Watson! There is a watercourse across the  moor. You see it marked here in the map. In  

Some parts it widens into a morass. This  is particularly so in the region between   Holdernesse Hall and the school. It is vain to  look elsewhere for tracks in this dry weather,   but at that point there is certainly a chance  of some record being left. I will call you early  

To-morrow morning, and you and I will try if we  can throw some little light upon the mystery.” The day was just breaking when I woke  to find the long, thin form of Holmes   by my bedside. He was fully dressed,  and had apparently already been out.

“I have done the lawn and the bicycle  shed,” said he. “I have also had a   rumble through the Ragged Shaw. Now,  Watson, there is cocoa ready in the   next room. I must beg you to hurry,  for we have a great day before us.”

His eyes shone, and his cheek was flushed with  the exhilaration of the master workman who   sees his work lie ready before him. A very  different Holmes, this active, alert man,   from the introspective and pallid dreamer of  Baker Street. I felt, as I looked upon that  

Supple figure, alive with nervous energy, that  it was indeed a strenuous day that awaited us. And yet it opened in the blackest disappointment.  With high hopes we struck across the peaty,   russet moor, intersected with a thousand  sheep paths, until we came to the broad,  

Light-green belt which marked the morass between  us and Holdernesse. Certainly, if the lad had gone   homeward, he must have passed this, and he could  not pass it without leaving his traces. But no   sign of him or the German could be seen. With a  darkening face my friend strode along the margin,  

Eagerly observant of every muddy stain  upon the mossy surface. Sheep-marks there   were in profusion, and at one place, some miles  down, cows had left their tracks. Nothing more. “Check number one,” said Holmes, looking gloomily   over the rolling expanse of the moor.  “There is another morass down yonder,  

And a narrow neck between. Halloa!  halloa! halloa! what have we here?” We had come on a small black ribbon  of pathway. In the middle of it,   clearly marked on the sodden  soil, was the track of a bicycle. “Hurrah!” I cried. “We have it.”

But Holmes was shaking his head, and his face  was puzzled and expectant rather than joyous. “A bicycle, certainly, but not the bicycle,”  said he. “I am familiar with forty-two   different impressions left by tires. This,  as you perceive, is a Dunlop, with a patch  

Upon the outer cover. Heidegger’s tires were  Palmer’s, leaving longitudinal stripes. Aveling,   the mathematical master, was sure upon the  point. Therefore, it is not Heidegger’s track.” “The boy’s, then?” “Possibly, if we could prove a bicycle  to have been in his possession. But   this we have utterly failed to  do. This track, as you perceive,  

Was made by a rider who was going  from the direction of the school.” “Or towards it?” “No, no, my dear Watson. The more deeply sunk  impression is, of course, the hind wheel,   upon which the weight rests. You perceive  several places where it has passed across  

And obliterated the more shallow mark  of the front one. It was undoubtedly   heading away from the school. It may or  may not be connected with our inquiry,   but we will follow it backwards  before we go any farther.”

We did so, and at the end of a few hundred  yards lost the tracks as we emerged from the   boggy portion of the moor. Following the path  backwards, we picked out another spot, where a   spring trickled across it. Here, once again, was  the mark of the bicycle, though nearly obliterated  

By the hoofs of cows. After that there was no  sign, but the path ran right on into Ragged Shaw,   the wood which backed on to the school. From this  wood the cycle must have emerged. Holmes sat down  

On a boulder and rested his chin in his hands.  I had smoked two cigarettes before he moved. “Well, well,” said he, at last. “It is, of  course, possible that a cunning man might   change the tires of his bicycle in order to  leave unfamiliar tracks. A criminal who was  

Capable of such a thought is a man whom I should  be proud to do business with. We will leave this   question undecided and hark back to our morass  again, for we have left a good deal unexplored.” We continued our systematic survey of the  edge of the sodden portion of the moor,  

And soon our perseverance was gloriously  rewarded. Right across the lower part of   the bog lay a miry path. Holmes gave a cry of  delight as he approached it. An impression like   a fine bundle of telegraph wires ran down  the centre of it. It was the Palmer tires.

“Here is Herr Heidegger,  sure enough!” cried Holmes,   exultantly. “My reasoning seems to  have been pretty sound, Watson.” “I congratulate you.” “But we have a long way still to go.  Kindly walk clear of the path. Now   let us follow the trail. I fear  that it will not lead very far.”

We found, however, as we advanced that  this portion of the moor is intersected   with soft patches, and, though we  frequently lost sight of the track,   we always succeeded in picking it up once more. “Do you observe,” said Holmes, “that the rider  is now undoubtedly forcing the pace? There can  

Be no doubt of it. Look at this impression,  where you get both tires clear. The one is   as deep as the other. That can only mean  that the rider is throwing his weight on   to the handle-bar, as a man does when he  is sprinting. By Jove! he has had a fall.”

There was a broad, irregular smudge  covering some yards of the track.   Then there were a few footmarks,  and the tire reappeared once more. “A side-slip,” I suggested. Holmes held up a crumpled branch  of flowering gorse. To my horror I   perceived that the yellow blossoms were  all dabbled with crimson. On the path,  

Too, and among the heather were  dark stains of clotted blood. “Bad!” said Holmes. “Bad! Stand clear,  Watson! Not an unnecessary footstep!   What do I read here? He fell wounded—he  stood up—he remounted—he proceeded. But   there is no other track. Cattle on  this side path. He was surely not  

Gored by a bull? Impossible! But I see no  traces of anyone else. We must push on,   Watson. Surely, with stains as well as the  track to guide us, he cannot escape us now.” Our search was not a very long one. The tracks  of the tire began to curve fantastically upon  

The wet and shining path. Suddenly, as I  looked ahead, the gleam of metal caught   my eye from amid the thick gorse-bushes. Out  of them we dragged a bicycle, Palmer-tired,   one pedal bent, and the whole front of  it horribly smeared and slobbered with  

Blood. On the other side of the bushes  a shoe was projecting. We ran round,   and there lay the unfortunate rider. He was  a tall man, full-bearded, with spectacles,   one glass of which had been knocked out. The cause  of his death was a frightful blow upon the head,  

Which had crushed in part of his skull. That  he could have gone on after receiving such an   injury said much for the vitality and courage  of the man. He wore shoes, but no socks,   and his open coat disclosed a nightshirt beneath  it. It was undoubtedly the German master.

Holmes turned the body over reverently,  and examined it with great attention. He   then sat in deep thought for a time,  and I could see by his ruffled brow   that this grim discovery had not, in his  opinion, advanced us much in our inquiry.

“It is a little difficult to know  what to do, Watson,” said he,   at last. “My own inclinations are to push this  inquiry on, for we have already lost so much   time that we cannot afford to waste another  hour. On the other hand, we are bound to  

Inform the police of the discovery, and to see  that this poor fellow’s body is looked after.” “I could take a note back.” “But I need your company and assistance.  Wait a bit! There is a fellow cutting peat   up yonder. Bring him over here,  and he will guide the police.”

I brought the peasant across,   and Holmes dispatched the frightened  man with a note to Dr. Huxtable. “Now, Watson,” said he, “we have picked up  two clues this morning. One is the bicycle   with the Palmer tire, and we see what that  has led to. The other is the bicycle with the  

Patched Dunlop. Before we start to investigate  that, let us try to realize what we do know,   so as to make the most of it, and to  separate the essential from the accidental.” “First of all, I wish to impress upon you that  the boy certainly left of his own free-will.  

He got down from his window and he went off,  either alone or with someone. That is sure.” I assented. “Well, now, let us turn to this  unfortunate German master. The   boy was fully dressed when he fled.  Therefore, he foresaw what he would  

Do. But the German went without his socks.  He certainly acted on very short notice.” “Undoubtedly.” “Why did he go? Because, from his bedroom  window, he saw the flight of the boy,   because he wished to overtake him and  bring him back. He seized his bicycle,  

Pursued the lad, and in  pursuing him met his death.” “So it would seem.” “Now I come to the critical part of my argument.  The natural action of a man in pursuing a little   boy would be to run after him. He would know that  he could overtake him. But the German does not do  

So. He turns to his bicycle. I am told that he  was an excellent cyclist. He would not do this,   if he did not see that the boy  had some swift means of escape.” “The other bicycle.” “Let us continue our reconstruction. He meets his  death five miles from the school—not by a bullet,  

Mark you, which even a lad might conceivably  discharge, but by a savage blow dealt by a   vigorous arm. The lad, then, had a companion  in his flight. And the flight was a swift one,   since it took five miles before an expert  cyclist could overtake them. Yet we survey  

The ground round the scene of the tragedy.  What do we find? A few cattle-tracks,   nothing more. I took a wide sweep round, and there  is no path within fifty yards. Another cyclist   could have had nothing to do with the actual  murder, nor were there any human foot-marks.” “Holmes,” I cried, “this is impossible.”

“Admirable!” he said. “A most illuminating remark.  It is impossible as I state it, and therefore I   must in some respect have stated it wrong. Yet you  saw for yourself. Can you suggest any fallacy?” “He could not have fractured his skull in a fall?” “In a morass, Watson?” “I am at my wits’ end.”

“Tut, tut, we have solved some worse  problems. At least we have plenty of   material, if we can only use it. Come,  then, and, having exhausted the Palmer,   let us see what the Dunlop with  the patched cover has to offer us.”

We picked up the track and followed it onward for  some distance, but soon the moor rose into a long,   heather-tufted curve, and we left the watercourse  behind us. No further help from tracks could be   hoped for. At the spot where we saw the last  of the Dunlop tire it might equally have led  

To Holdernesse Hall, the stately towers of  which rose some miles to our left, or to a low,   grey village which lay in front of us and marked  the position of the Chesterfield high road. As we approached the forbidding and squalid inn,  with the sign of a game-cock above the door,  

Holmes gave a sudden groan, and clutched me by  the shoulder to save himself from falling. He   had had one of those violent strains of the ankle  which leave a man helpless. With difficulty he   limped up to the door, where a squat, dark,  elderly man was smoking a black clay pipe.

“How are you, Mr. Reuben Hayes?” said Holmes. “Who are you, and how do you get my  name so pat?” the countryman answered,   with a suspicious flash of a pair of cunning eyes. “Well, it’s printed on the board above your  head. It’s easy to see a man who is master of  

His own house. I suppose you haven’t such  a thing as a carriage in your stables?” “No, I have not.” “I can hardly put my foot to the ground.” “Don’t put it to the ground.” “But I can’t walk.” “Well, then hop.”

Mr. Reuben Hayes’s manner was far from gracious,  but Holmes took it with admirable good-humour. “Look here, my man,” said  he. “This is really rather   an awkward fix for me. I don’t mind how I get on.” “Neither do I,” said the morose landlord.

“The matter is very important. I would offer  you a sovereign for the use of a bicycle.” The landlord pricked up his ears. “Where do you want to go?” “To Holdernesse Hall.” “Pals of the Dook, I suppose?” said the landlord,   surveying our mud-stained  garments with ironical eyes. Holmes laughed good-naturedly.

“He’ll be glad to see us, anyhow.” “Why?” “Because we bring him news of his lost son.” The landlord gave a very visible start. “What, you’re on his track?” “He has been heard of in Liverpool.  They expect to get him every hour.”

Again a swift change passed over the heavy,  unshaven face. His manner was suddenly genial. “I’ve less reason to wish the Dook well than most  men,” said he, “for I was head coachman once,   and cruel bad he treated me. It was him that  sacked me without a character on the word of  

A lying corn-chandler. But I’m glad to hear  that the young lord was heard of in Liverpool,   and I’ll help you to take the news to the Hall.” “Thank you,” said Holmes. “We’ll have some food  first. Then you can bring round the bicycle.” “I haven’t got a bicycle.” Holmes held up a sovereign.

“I tell you, man, that I haven’t got one. I’ll  let you have two horses as far as the Hall.” “Well, well,” said Holmes, “we’ll talk  about it when we’ve had something to eat.” When we were left alone in the stone-flagged  kitchen, it was astonishing how rapidly that  

Sprained ankle recovered. It was nearly nightfall,  and we had eaten nothing since early morning,   so that we spent some time over our  meal. Holmes was lost in thought,   and once or twice he walked over to the  window and stared earnestly out. It opened  

On to a squalid courtyard. In the far corner  was a smithy, where a grimy lad was at work.   On the other side were the stables. Holmes had  sat down again after one of these excursions,   when he suddenly sprang out of  his chair with a loud exclamation.

“By heaven, Watson, I believe that  I’ve got it!” he cried. “Yes, yes,   it must be so. Watson, do you remember  seeing any cow-tracks to-day?” “Yes, several.” “Where?” “Well, everywhere. They were at the morass,   and again on the path, and again near  where poor Heidegger met his death.”

“Exactly. Well, now, Watson, how  many cows did you see on the moor?” “I don’t remember seeing any.” “Strange, Watson, that we should  see tracks all along our line,   but never a cow on the whole  moor. Very strange, Watson, eh?” “Yes, it is strange.”

“Now, Watson, make an effort, throw your mind  back. Can you see those tracks upon the path?” “Yes, I can.” “Can you recall that the tracks  were sometimes like that,   Watson,”—he arranged a number of breadcrumbs  in this fashion—: : : : :—“and sometimes  

Like this”—: . : . : . : .—“and occasionally  like this”—.・.・.・. “Can you remember that?” “No, I cannot.” “But I can. I could swear to it.  However, we will go back at our   leisure and verify it. What a blind beetle  I have been, not to draw my conclusion.” “And what is your conclusion?”

“Only that it is a remarkable cow which walks,  canters, and gallops. By George! Watson, it was   no brain of a country publican that thought out  such a blind as that. The coast seems to be clear,   save for that lad in the smithy. Let  us slip out and see what we can see.”

There were two rough-haired, unkempt  horses in the tumble-down stable.   Holmes raised the hind leg of  one of them and laughed aloud. “Old shoes, but newly shod—old shoes,   but new nails. This case deserves to be a  classic. Let us go across to the smithy.”

The lad continued his work without regarding us.  I saw Holmes’s eye darting to right and left among   the litter of iron and wood which was scattered  about the floor. Suddenly, however, we heard   a step behind us, and there was the landlord,  his heavy eyebrows drawn over his savage eyes,  

His swarthy features convulsed with passion. He  held a short, metal-headed stick in his hand,   and he advanced in so menacing a fashion that I  was right glad to feel the revolver in my pocket. “You infernal spies!” the man  cried. “What are you doing there?” “Why, Mr. Reuben Hayes,” said Holmes,  

Coolly, “one might think that you were  afraid of our finding something out.” The man mastered himself with a violent effort,   and his grim mouth loosened into a false  laugh, which was more menacing than his frown. “You’re welcome to all you can find out  in my smithy,” said he. “But look here,  

Mister, I don’t care for folk poking  about my place without my leave,   so the sooner you pay your score and get  out of this the better I shall be pleased.” “All right, Mr. Hayes, no harm meant,”  said Holmes. “We have been having a look  

At your horses, but I think I’ll walk,  after all. It’s not far, I believe.” “Not more than two miles to the  Hall gates. That’s the road to   the left.” He watched us with sullen  eyes until we had left his premises. We did not go very far along the road,  

For Holmes stopped the instant that the  curve hid us from the landlord’s view. “We were warm, as the children say,  at that inn,” said he. “I seem to grow   colder every step that I take away from  it. No, no, I can’t possibly leave it.”

“I am convinced,” said I, “that  this Reuben Hayes knows all about   it. A more self-evident villain I never saw.” “Oh! he impressed you in that  way, did he? There are the horses,   there is the smithy. Yes,  it is an interesting place,  

This Fighting Cock. I think we shall have  another look at it in an unobtrusive way.” A long, sloping hillside, dotted  with grey limestone boulders,   stretched behind us. We had turned off the  road, and were making our way up the hill,  

When, looking in the direction of Holdernesse  Hall, I saw a cyclist coming swiftly along. “Get down, Watson!” cried Holmes, with a  heavy hand upon my shoulder. We had hardly   sunk from view when the man flew past us  on the road. Amid a rolling cloud of dust,  

I caught a glimpse of a pale, agitated  face—a face with horror in every lineament,   the mouth open, the eyes staring  wildly in front. It was like some   strange caricature of the dapper James  Wilder whom we had seen the night before. “The Duke’s secretary!” cried Holmes.  “Come, Watson, let us see what he does.”

We scrambled from rock to rock, until in a few  moments we had made our way to a point from which   we could see the front door of the inn. Wilder’s  bicycle was leaning against the wall beside it. No  

One was moving about the house, nor could we  catch a glimpse of any faces at the windows.   Slowly the twilight crept down as the sun sank  behind the high towers of Holdernesse Hall. Then,   in the gloom, we saw the two side-lamps of a  trap light up in the stable-yard of the inn,  

And shortly afterwards heard the rattle of hoofs,   as it wheeled out into the road and tore off at  a furious pace in the direction of Chesterfield. “What do you make of that,  Watson?” Holmes whispered. “It looks like a flight.” “A single man in a dog-cart,  so far as I could see. Well,  

It certainly was not Mr. James  Wilder, for there he is at the door.” A red square of light had sprung out of  the darkness. In the middle of it was the   black figure of the secretary, his head  advanced, peering out into the night. It  

Was evident that he was expecting someone.  Then at last there were steps in the road,   a second figure was visible for an  instant against the light, the door shut,   and all was black once more. Five minutes later  a lamp was lit in a room upon the first floor.

“It seems to be a curious class of custom that  is done by the Fighting Cock,” said Holmes. “The bar is on the other side.” “Quite so. These are what one may call the private  guests. Now, what in the world is Mr. James Wilder  

Doing in that den at this hour of night, and who  is the companion who comes to meet him there?   Come, Watson, we must really take a risk and  try to investigate this a little more closely.” Together we stole down to the road and crept  across to the door of the inn. The bicycle  

Still leaned against the wall. Holmes struck  a match and held it to the back wheel, and I   heard him chuckle as the light fell upon a patched  Dunlop tire. Up above us was the lighted window. “I must have a peep through  that, Watson. If you bend your  

Back and support yourself upon the  wall, I think that I can manage.” An instant later, his feet were on my shoulders,  but he was hardly up before he was down again. “Come, my friend,” said he, “our day’s work has  been quite long enough. I think that we have  

Gathered all that we can. It’s a long walk to the  school, and the sooner we get started the better.” He hardly opened his lips during  that weary trudge across the moor,   nor would he enter the school when he  reached it, but went on to Mackleton Station,  

Whence he could send some telegrams. Late  at night I heard him consoling Dr. Huxtable,   prostrated by the tragedy of his master’s death,  and later still he entered my room as alert and   vigorous as he had been when he started in  the morning. “All goes well, my friend,” said  

He. “I promise that before to-morrow evening we  shall have reached the solution of the mystery.” At eleven o’clock next morning my friend and  I were walking up the famous yew avenue of   Holdernesse Hall. We were ushered through the  magnificent Elizabethan doorway and into his  

Grace’s study. There we found Mr. James Wilder,  demure and courtly, but with some trace of that   wild terror of the night before still lurking in  his furtive eyes and in his twitching features. “You have come to see his Grace? I am sorry,  but the fact is that the Duke is far from  

Well. He has been very much upset by the  tragic news. We received a telegram from   Dr. Huxtable yesterday afternoon,  which told us of your discovery.” “I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder.” “But he is in his room.” “Then I must go to his room.” “I believe he is in his bed.”

“I will see him there.” Holmes’s cold and inexorable manner showed the  secretary that it was useless to argue with him. “Very good, Mr. Holmes, I will  tell him that you are here.” After an hour’s delay, the great nobleman  appeared. His face was more cadaverous than ever,  

His shoulders had rounded, and he seemed  to me to be an altogether older man than   he had been the morning before. He  greeted us with a stately courtesy   and seated himself at his desk, his  red beard streaming down on the table. “Well, Mr. Holmes?” said he.

But my friend’s eyes were fixed upon the  secretary, who stood by his master’s chair. “I think, your Grace, that I could speak  more freely in Mr. Wilder’s absence.” The man turned a shade paler and  cast a malignant glance at Holmes. “If your Grace wishes——”

“Yes, yes, you had better go. Now,  Mr. Holmes, what have you to say?” My friend waited until the door had  closed behind the retreating secretary. “The fact is, your Grace,” said  he, “that my colleague, Dr. Watson,   and myself had an assurance from Dr.  Huxtable that a reward had been offered  

In this case. I should like to have  this confirmed from your own lips.” “Certainly, Mr. Holmes.” “It amounted, if I am correctly informed,   to five thousand pounds to anyone  who will tell you where your son is?” “Exactly.”

“And another thousand to the man who will name  the person or persons who keep him in custody?” “Exactly.” “Under the latter heading is included, no  doubt, not only those who may have taken   him away, but also those who conspire  to keep him in his present position?”

“Yes, yes,” cried the Duke, impatiently. “If  you do your work well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,   you will have no reason to  complain of niggardly treatment.” My friend rubbed his thin hands  together with an appearance of   avidity which was a surprise to  me, who knew his frugal tastes.

“I fancy that I see your Grace’s check-book  upon the table,” said he. “I should be   glad if you would make me out a check for six  thousand pounds. It would be as well, perhaps,   for you to cross it. The Capital and Counties  Bank, Oxford Street branch are my agents.”

His Grace sat very stern and upright in  his chair and looked stonily at my friend. “Is this a joke, Mr. Holmes? It is  hardly a subject for pleasantry.” “Not at all, your Grace. I was  never more earnest in my life.” “What do you mean, then?”

“I mean that I have earned the  reward. I know where your son is,   and I know some, at least, of  those who are holding him.” The Duke’s beard had turned more aggressively  red than ever against his ghastly white face. “Where is he?” he gasped.

“He is, or was last night, at the Fighting  Cock Inn, about two miles from your park gate.” The Duke fell back in his chair. “And whom do you accuse?” Sherlock Holmes’s answer was an astounding   one. He stepped swiftly forward and  touched the Duke upon the shoulder.

“I accuse you,” said he. “And now, your  Grace, I’ll trouble you for that check.” Never shall I forget the Duke’s appearance  as he sprang up and clawed with his hands,   like one who is sinking into an abyss. Then,  with an extraordinary effort of aristocratic  

Self-command, he sat down and sank his face in  his hands. It was some minutes before he spoke. “How much do you know?” he asked  at last, without raising his head. “I saw you together last night.” “Does anyone else beside your friend know?” “I have spoken to no one.”

The Duke took a pen in his quivering  fingers and opened his check-book. “I shall be as good as my word, Mr. Holmes. I am  about to write your check, however unwelcome the   information which you have gained may be to me.  When the offer was first made, I little thought  

The turn which events might take. But you and  your friend are men of discretion, Mr. Holmes?” “I hardly understand your Grace.” “I must put it plainly, Mr. Holmes. If only you  two know of this incident, there is no reason why  

It should go any farther. I think twelve thousand  pounds is the sum that I owe you, is it not?” But Holmes smiled and shook his head. “I fear, your Grace, that matters can hardly be   arranged so easily. There is the death of  this schoolmaster to be accounted for.”

“But James knew nothing of that. You  cannot hold him responsible for that.   It was the work of this brutal ruffian  whom he had the misfortune to employ.” “I must take the view, your Grace,  that when a man embarks upon a crime,  

He is morally guilty of any other  crime which may spring from it.” “Morally, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right.  But surely not in the eyes of the law. A man   cannot be condemned for a murder at which he was  not present, and which he loathes and abhors as  

Much as you do. The instant that he heard of it  he made a complete confession to me, so filled   was he with horror and remorse. He lost not an  hour in breaking entirely with the murderer. Oh,  

Mr. Holmes, you must save him—you must save him!  I tell you that you must save him!” The Duke had   dropped the last attempt at self-command, and  was pacing the room with a convulsed face and   with his clenched hands raving in the air. At  last he mastered himself and sat down once more  

At his desk. “I appreciate your conduct  in coming here before you spoke to anyone   else,” said he. “At least, we may take counsel  how far we can minimize this hideous scandal.” “Exactly,” said Holmes. “I think, your  Grace, that this can only be done by  

Absolute frankness between us. I am disposed  to help your Grace to the best of my ability,   but, in order to do so, I must understand  to the last detail how the matter stands. I   realize that your words applied to Mr. James  Wilder, and that he is not the murderer.”

“No, the murderer has escaped.” Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely. “Your Grace can hardly have heard of  any small reputation which I possess,   or you would not imagine that it is so easy  to escape me. Mr. Reuben Hayes was arrested   at Chesterfield, on my information,  at eleven o’clock last night. I had a  

Telegram from the head of the local police  before I left the school this morning.” The Duke leaned back in his chair and  stared with amazement at my friend. “You seem to have powers that are hardly  human,” said he. “So Reuben Hayes is  

Taken? I am right glad to hear it, if it  will not react upon the fate of James.” “Your secretary?” “No, sir, my son.” It was Holmes’s turn to look astonished. “I confess that this is entirely new to me,  your Grace. I must beg you to be more explicit.”

“I will conceal nothing from you. I  agree with you that complete frankness,   however painful it may be to me, is the best  policy in this desperate situation to which   James’s folly and jealousy have reduced us.  When I was a very young man, Mr. Holmes,  

I loved with such a love as comes only once  in a lifetime. I offered the lady marriage,   but she refused it on the grounds that such  a match might mar my career. Had she lived,   I would certainly never have married anyone else.  She died, and left this one child, whom for her  

Sake I have cherished and cared for. I could  not acknowledge the paternity to the world,   but I gave him the best of educations, and since  he came to manhood I have kept him near my person.   He surmised my secret, and has presumed ever  since upon the claim which he has upon me,  

And upon his power of provoking a scandal  which would be abhorrent to me. His presence   had something to do with the unhappy issue of my  marriage. Above all, he hated my young legitimate   heir from the first with a persistent hatred. You  may well ask me why, under these circumstances,  

I still kept James under my roof. I answer that it  was because I could see his mother’s face in his,   and that for her dear sake there was no end  to my long-suffering. All her pretty ways  

Too—there was not one of them which he could  not suggest and bring back to my memory. I   could not send him away. But I feared so  much lest he should do Arthur—that is,   Lord Saltire—a mischief, that I dispatched  him for safety to Dr. Huxtable’s school.

“James came into contact with this fellow Hayes,  because the man was a tenant of mine, and James   acted as agent. The fellow was a rascal from the  beginning, but, in some extraordinary way, James   became intimate with him. He had always a taste  for low company. When James determined to kidnap  

Lord Saltire, it was of this man’s service that  he availed himself. You remember that I wrote to   Arthur upon that last day. Well, James opened the  letter and inserted a note asking Arthur to meet  

Him in a little wood called the Ragged Shaw, which  is near to the school. He used the Duchess’s name,   and in that way got the boy to come. That evening  James bicycled over—I am telling you what he has  

Himself confessed to me—and he told Arthur, whom  he met in the wood, that his mother longed to see   him, that she was awaiting him on the moor,  and that if he would come back into the wood  

At midnight he would find a man with a horse, who  would take him to her. Poor Arthur fell into the   trap. He came to the appointment, and found this  fellow Hayes with a led pony. Arthur mounted,   and they set off together. It appears—though this  James only heard yesterday—that they were pursued,  

That Hayes struck the pursuer with his stick, and  that the man died of his injuries. Hayes brought   Arthur to his public-house, the Fighting Cock,  where he was confined in an upper room, under   the care of Mrs. Hayes, who is a kindly woman, but  entirely under the control of her brutal husband.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, that was the state of  affairs when I first saw you two days ago.   I had no more idea of the truth than you. You  will ask me what was James’s motive in doing   such a deed. I answer that there was a great  deal which was unreasoning and fanatical in  

The hatred which he bore my heir. In his view he  should himself have been heir of all my estates,   and he deeply resented those social laws  which made it impossible. At the same time,   he had a definite motive also. He was  eager that I should break the entail,  

And he was of opinion that it lay in my power to  do so. He intended to make a bargain with me—to   restore Arthur if I would break the entail, and  so make it possible for the estate to be left to  

Him by will. He knew well that I should never  willingly invoke the aid of the police against   him. I say that he would have proposed such a  bargain to me, but he did not actually do so,  

For events moved too quickly for him, and he  had not time to put his plans into practice. “What brought all his wicked scheme to wreck  was your discovery of this man Heidegger’s   dead body. James was seized with horror at  the news. It came to us yesterday, as we sat  

Together in this study. Dr. Huxtable had sent a  telegram. James was so overwhelmed with grief and   agitation that my suspicions, which had never been  entirely absent, rose instantly to a certainty,   and I taxed him with the deed. He made a complete  voluntary confession. Then he implored me to  

Keep his secret for three days longer, so as to  give his wretched accomplice a chance of saving   his guilty life. I yielded—as I have always  yielded—to his prayers, and instantly James   hurried off to the Fighting Cock to warn Hayes  and give him the means of flight. I could not  

Go there by daylight without provoking comment,  but as soon as night fell I hurried off to see   my dear Arthur. I found him safe and well, but  horrified beyond expression by the dreadful deed   he had witnessed. In deference to my promise,  and much against my will, I consented to leave  

Him there for three days, under the charge  of Mrs. Hayes, since it was evident that it   was impossible to inform the police where he was  without telling them also who was the murderer,   and I could not see how that murderer could be  punished without ruin to my unfortunate James.  

You asked for frankness, Mr. Holmes, and I have  taken you at your word, for I have now told you   everything without an attempt at circumlocution or  concealment. Do you in turn be as frank with me.” “I will,” said Holmes. “In the first place,  your Grace, I am bound to tell you that you  

Have placed yourself in a most serious position in  the eyes of the law. You have condoned a felony,   and you have aided the escape of a murderer,  for I cannot doubt that any money which was   taken by James Wilder to aid his accomplice  in his flight came from your Grace’s purse.”

The Duke bowed his assent. “This is, indeed, a most serious matter.  Even more culpable in my opinion, your Grace,   is your attitude towards your younger son.  You leave him in this den for three days.” “Under solemn promises——”

“What are promises to such people as these?  You have no guarantee that he will not be   spirited away again. To humour your guilty  elder son, you have exposed your innocent   younger son to imminent and unnecessary  danger. It was a most unjustifiable action.”

The proud lord of Holdernesse was not  accustomed to be so rated in his own   ducal hall. The blood flushed into his high  forehead, but his conscience held him dumb. “I will help you, but on one condition only. It  

Is that you ring for the footman and  let me give such orders as I like.” Without a word, the Duke pressed the  electric bell. A servant entered. “You will be glad to hear,” said Holmes, “that  your young master is found. It is the Duke’s  

Desire that the carriage shall go at once to the  Fighting Cock Inn to bring Lord Saltire home. “Now,” said Holmes, when the rejoicing lackey had  disappeared, “having secured the future, we can   afford to be more lenient with the past. I am not  in an official position, and there is no reason,  

So long as the ends of justice are served, why  I should disclose all that I know. As to Hayes,   I say nothing. The gallows awaits him, and I  would do nothing to save him from it. What he  

Will divulge I cannot tell, but I have no doubt  that your Grace could make him understand that   it is to his interest to be silent. From the  police point of view he will have kidnapped the  

Boy for the purpose of ransom. If they do not  themselves find it out, I see no reason why I   should prompt them to take a broader point  of view. I would warn your Grace, however,   that the continued presence of Mr. James Wilder  in your household can only lead to misfortune.”

“I understand that, Mr. Holmes,  and it is already settled that   he shall leave me forever, and go  to seek his fortune in Australia.” “In that case, your Grace, since you have yourself  stated that any unhappiness in your married life  

Was caused by his presence, I would suggest that  you make such amends as you can to the Duchess,   and that you try to resume those relations  which have been so unhappily interrupted.” “That also I have arranged, Mr. Holmes.  I wrote to the Duchess this morning.”

“In that case,” said Holmes, rising, “I think that  my friend and I can congratulate ourselves upon   several most happy results from our little visit  to the North. There is one other small point upon   which I desire some light. This fellow Hayes had  shod his horses with shoes which counterfeited  

The tracks of cows. Was it from Mr. Wilder  that he learned so extraordinary a device?” The Duke stood in thought for a moment,  with a look of intense surprise on his   face. Then he opened a door and showed  us into a large room furnished as a  

Museum. He led the way to a glass case in  a corner, and pointed to the inscription. “These shoes,” it ran, “were dug up in the  moat of Holdernesse Hall. They are for the   use of horses, but they are shaped  below with a cloven foot of iron,  

So as to throw pursuers off the track.  They are supposed to have belonged to   some of the marauding Barons of  Holdernesse in the Middle Ages.” Holmes opened the case, and moistening  his finger he passed it along the shoe.   A thin film of recent mud was left upon his skin.

“Thank you,” said he, as he replaced  the glass. “It is the second most   interesting object that I have seen in the North.” “And the first?” Holmes folded up his check and placed it carefully  in his notebook. “I am a poor man,” said he,  

As he patted it affectionately, and thrust  it into the depths of his inner pocket. END OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER I have never known my friend to be in  better form, both mental and physical,  

Than in the year ’95. His increasing fame  had brought with it an immense practice,   and I should be guilty of an indiscretion if I  were even to hint at the identity of some of the   illustrious clients who crossed our humble  threshold in Baker Street. Holmes, however,  

Like all great artists, lived for his art’s sake,  and, save in the case of the Duke of Holdernesse,   I have seldom known him claim any large reward  for his inestimable services. So unworldly was   he—or so capricious—that he frequently refused  his help to the powerful and wealthy where the  

Problem made no appeal to his sympathies,  while he would devote weeks of most intense   application to the affairs of some humble  client whose case presented those strange   and dramatic qualities which appealed to his  imagination and challenged his ingenuity. In this memorable year ’95, a curious  and incongruous succession of cases  

Had engaged his attention, ranging from  his famous investigation of the sudden   death of Cardinal Tosca—an inquiry which was  carried out by him at the express desire of   His Holiness the Pope—down to his arrest  of Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer,  

Which removed a plague-spot from the East  End of London. Close on the heels of these   two famous cases came the tragedy of Woodman’s  Lee, and the very obscure circumstances which   surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey.  No record of the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes  

Would be complete which did not include  some account of this very unusual affair. During the first week of July, my friend  had been absent so often and so long from   our lodgings that I knew he had something  on hand. The fact that several rough-looking  

Men called during that time and inquired for  Captain Basil made me understand that Holmes   was working somewhere under one of the numerous  disguises and names with which he concealed his   own formidable identity. He had at least five  small refuges in different parts of London,  

In which he was able to change his personality.  He said nothing of his business to me,   and it was not my habit to force a confidence.  The first positive sign which he gave me of   the direction which his investigation was  taking was an extraordinary one. He had  

Gone out before breakfast, and I had sat  down to mine when he strode into the room,   his hat upon his head and a huge barbed-headed  spear tucked like an umbrella under his arm. “Good gracious, Holmes!” I cried.  “You don’t mean to say that you   have been walking about London with that thing?”

“I drove to the butcher’s and back.” “The butcher’s?” “And I return with an excellent appetite.  There can be no question, my dear Watson,   of the value of exercise before  breakfast. But I am prepared to   bet that you will not guess the  form that my exercise has taken.” “I will not attempt it.”

He chuckled as he poured out the coffee. “If you could have looked into Allardyce’s back  shop, you would have seen a dead pig swung from   a hook in the ceiling, and a gentleman in his  shirt sleeves furiously stabbing at it with  

This weapon. I was that energetic person, and  I have satisfied myself that by no exertion   of my strength can I transfix the pig with a  single blow. Perhaps you would care to try?” “Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?”

“Because it seemed to me to have an indirect  bearing upon the mystery of Woodman’s Lee. Ah,   Hopkins, I got your wire last night, and I  have been expecting you. Come and join us.” Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty  years of age, dressed in a quiet tweed suit,  

But retaining the erect bearing of one who was  accustomed to official uniform. I recognized   him at once as Stanley Hopkins, a young police  inspector, for whose future Holmes had high hopes,   while he in turn professed the admiration and  respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of  

The famous amateur. Hopkins’s brow was clouded,  and he sat down with an air of deep dejection. “No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before  I came round. I spent the night in town,   for I came up yesterday to report.” “And what had you to report?” “Failure, sir, absolute failure.” “You have made no progress?”

“None.” “Dear me! I must have a look at the matter.” “I wish to heavens that you would,  Mr. Holmes. It’s my first big chance,   and I am at my wits’ end. For goodness’  sake, come down and lend me a hand.”

“Well, well, it just happens that I have  already read all the available evidence,   including the report of the inquest, with  some care. By the way, what do you make of   that tobacco pouch, found on the scene  of the crime? Is there no clue there?” Hopkins looked surprised.

“It was the man’s own pouch, sir.  His initials were inside it. And   it was of sealskin,—and he was an old sealer.” “But he had no pipe.” “No, sir, we could find no pipe. Indeed,   he smoked very little, and yet he might  have kept some tobacco for his friends.”

“No doubt. I only mention it because,  if I had been handling the case,   I should have been inclined to make that the  starting-point of my investigation. However,   my friend, Dr. Watson, knows nothing of this  matter, and I should be none the worse for  

Hearing the sequence of events once more. Just  give us some short sketches of the essentials.” Stanley Hopkins drew a slip  of paper from his pocket. “I have a few dates here which will give you the  career of the dead man, Captain Peter Carey. He  

Was born in ’45—fifty years of age. He was a most  daring and successful seal and whale fisher. In   1883 he commanded the steam sealer Sea Unicorn, of  Dundee. He had then had several successful voyages   in succession, and in the following year, 1884, he  retired. After that he travelled for some years,  

And finally he bought a small place  called Woodman’s Lee, near Forest Row,   in Sussex. There he has lived for six years,  and there he died just a week ago to-day. “There were some most singular points  about the man. In ordinary life,  

He was a strict Puritan—a silent, gloomy fellow.  His household consisted of his wife, his daughter,   aged twenty, and two female servants.  These last were continually changing,   for it was never a very cheery situation, and  sometimes it became past all bearing. The man  

Was an intermittent drunkard, and when he had  the fit on him he was a perfect fiend. He has   been known to drive his wife and daughter out  of doors in the middle of the night and flog   them through the park until the whole village  outside the gates was aroused by their screams.

“He was summoned once for a savage assault  upon the old vicar, who had called upon him   to remonstrate with him upon his conduct. In  short, Mr. Holmes, you would go far before   you found a more dangerous man than Peter Carey,  and I have heard that he bore the same character  

When he commanded his ship. He was known in the  trade as Black Peter, and the name was given him,   not only on account of his swarthy features and  the colour of his huge beard, but for the humours  

Which were the terror of all around him. I need  not say that he was loathed and avoided by every   one of his neighbours, and that I have not heard  one single word of sorrow about his terrible end. “You must have read in the account of the  inquest about the man’s cabin, Mr. Holmes,  

But perhaps your friend here has not heard of it.  He had built himself a wooden outhouse—he always   called it the ‘cabin’—a few hundred yards from his  house, and it was here that he slept every night.   It was a little, single-roomed hut, sixteen  feet by ten. He kept the key in his pocket,  

Made his own bed, cleaned it himself, and allowed  no other foot to cross the threshold. There are   small windows on each side, which were covered  by curtains and never opened. One of these   windows was turned towards the high road, and  when the light burned in it at night the folk  

Used to point it out to each other and wonder what  Black Peter was doing in there. That’s the window,   Mr. Holmes, which gave us one of the few bits of  positive evidence that came out at the inquest. “You remember that a stonemason, named Slater,  walking from Forest Row about one o’clock in the  

Morning—two days before the murder—stopped as  he passed the grounds and looked at the square   of light still shining among the trees. He swears  that the shadow of a man’s head turned sideways   was clearly visible on the blind, and that this  shadow was certainly not that of Peter Carey,  

Whom he knew well. It was that of a bearded  man, but the beard was short and bristled   forward in a way very different from that  of the captain. So he says, but he had been   two hours in the public-house, and it is some  distance from the road to the window. Besides,  

This refers to the Monday, and the  crime was done upon the Wednesday. “On the Tuesday, Peter Carey was  in one of his blackest moods,   flushed with drink and as savage as a dangerous  wild beast. He roamed about the house, and the  

Women ran for it when they heard him coming.  Late in the evening, he went down to his own   hut. About two o’clock the following morning,  his daughter, who slept with her window open,   heard a most fearful yell from that direction,  but it was no unusual thing for him to bawl  

And shout when he was in drink, so no  notice was taken. On rising at seven,   one of the maids noticed that the door of the hut  was open, but so great was the terror which the   man caused that it was midday before anyone  would venture down to see what had become  

Of him. Peeping into the open door, they saw a  sight which sent them flying, with white faces,   into the village. Within an hour, I was  on the spot and had taken over the case.

“Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know,  Mr. Holmes, but I give you my word, that I got a   shake when I put my head into that little house.  It was droning like a harmonium with the flies and  

Bluebottles, and the floor and walls were like  a slaughter-house. He had called it a cabin,   and a cabin it was, sure enough, for you would  have thought that you were in a ship. There was  

A bunk at one end, a sea-chest, maps and charts, a  picture of the Sea Unicorn, a line of logbooks on   a shelf, all exactly as one would expect to find  it in a captain’s room. And there, in the middle  

Of it, was the man himself—his face twisted like a  lost soul in torment, and his great brindled beard   stuck upward in his agony. Right through his broad  breast a steel harpoon had been driven, and it had  

Sunk deep into the wood of the wall behind him. He  was pinned like a beetle on a card. Of course, he   was quite dead, and had been so from the instant  that he had uttered that last yell of agony.

“I know your methods, sir, and I applied  them. Before I permitted anything to be moved,   I examined most carefully the ground outside,   and also the floor of the  room. There were no footmarks.” “Meaning that you saw none?” “I assure you, sir, that there were none.” “My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes,  

But I have never yet seen one which was  committed by a flying creature. As long   as the criminal remains upon two legs so long  must there be some indentation, some abrasion,   some trifling displacement which can be detected  by the scientific searcher. It is incredible  

That this blood-bespattered room contained no  trace which could have aided us. I understand,   however, from the inquest that there were  some objects which you failed to overlook?” The young inspector winced at my  companion’s ironical comments.

“I was a fool not to call you in at the time Mr.  Holmes. However, that’s past praying for now. Yes,   there were several objects in the room which  called for special attention. One was the   harpoon with which the deed was committed.  It had been snatched down from a rack on  

The wall. Two others remained there, and  there was a vacant place for the third.   On the stock was engraved ‘SS. Sea Unicorn,  Dundee.’ This seemed to establish that the   crime had been done in a moment of fury, and  that the murderer had seized the first weapon  

Which came in his way. The fact that the  crime was committed at two in the morning,   and yet Peter Carey was fully dressed, suggested  that he had an appointment with the murderer,   which is borne out by the fact that a bottle of  rum and two dirty glasses stood upon the table.”

“Yes,” said Holmes; “I think that  both inferences are permissible.   Was there any other spirit but rum in the room?” “Yes, there was a tantalus containing brandy and  whisky on the sea-chest. It is of no importance   to us, however, since the decanters were  full, and it had therefore not been used.”

“For all that, its presence has some  significance,” said Holmes. “However,   let us hear some more about the objects  which do seem to you to bear upon the case.” “There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table.” “What part of the table?” “It lay in the middle. It was of coarse  sealskin—the straight-haired skin,  

With a leather thong to bind  it. Inside was ‘P.C.’ on the   flap. There was half an ounce  of strong ship’s tobacco in it.” “Excellent! What more?” Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a  drab-covered notebook. The outside was   rough and worn, the leaves discoloured. On the  first page were written the initials “J.H.N.”  

And the date “1883.” Holmes laid it on the  table and examined it in his minute way,   while Hopkins and I gazed over each shoulder.  On the second page were the printed letters   “C.P.R.,” and then came several sheets of  numbers. Another heading was “Argentine,”  

Another “Costa Rica,” and another “San Paulo,”  each with pages of signs and figures after it. “What do you make of these?” asked Holmes. “They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange  securities. I thought that ‘J.H.N.’ were   the initials of a broker, and that  ‘C.P.R.’ may have been his client.”

“Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes. Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth,  and struck his thigh with his clenched hand. “What a fool I have been!” he cried. “Of  course, it is as you say. Then ‘J.H.N.’   are the only initials we have to solve. I have  already examined the old Stock Exchange lists,  

And I can find no one in 1883, either in  the house or among the outside brokers,   whose initials correspond with these. Yet I  feel that the clue is the most important one   that I hold. You will admit, Mr. Holmes, that  there is a possibility that these initials are  

Those of the second person who was present—in  other words, of the murderer. I would also   urge that the introduction into the case  of a document relating to large masses of   valuable securities gives us for the first time  some indication of a motive for the crime.”

Sherlock Holmes’s face showed that he was  thoroughly taken aback by this new development. “I must admit both your points,” said  he. “I confess that this notebook,   which did not appear at the inquest,  modifies any views which I may have  

Formed. I had come to a theory of the  crime in which I can find no place   for this. Have you endeavoured to trace  any of the securities here mentioned?” “Inquiries are now being made at  the offices, but I fear that the  

Complete register of the stockholders of these  South American concerns is in South America,   and that some weeks must elapse  before we can trace the shares.” Holmes had been examining the cover of  the notebook with his magnifying lens. “Surely there is some  discolouration here,” said he.

“Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told  you that I picked the book off the floor.” “Was the blood-stain above or below?” “On the side next the boards.” “Which proves, of course, that the book  was dropped after the crime was committed.” “Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated  that point, and I conjectured that  

It was dropped by the murderer in his  hurried flight. It lay near the door.” “I suppose that none of these securities have  been found among the property of the dead man?” “No, sir.” “Have you any reason to suspect robbery?” “No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”

“Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting  case. Then there was a knife, was there not?” “A sheath-knife, still in its sheath.  It lay at the feet of the dead man.   Mrs. Carey has identified it as  being her husband’s property.” Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

“Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall  have to come out and have a look at it.” Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy. “Thank you, sir. That will,  indeed, be a weight off my mind.” Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

“It would have been an easier task a  week ago,” said he. “But even now my   visit may not be entirely fruitless.  Watson, if you can spare the time,   I should be very glad of your company.  If you will call a four-wheeler,  

Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for  Forest Row in a quarter of an hour.” Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove  for some miles through the remains of widespread   woods, which were once part of that great forest  which for so long held the Saxon invaders at  

Bay—the impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years  the bulwark of Britain. Vast sections of it   have been cleared, for this is the seat of the  first iron-works of the country, and the trees   have been felled to smelt the ore. Now the richer  fields of the North have absorbed the trade, and  

Nothing save these ravaged groves and great scars  in the earth show the work of the past. Here, in   a clearing upon the green slope of a hill, stood  a long, low, stone house, approached by a curving   drive running through the fields. Nearer the road,  and surrounded on three sides by bushes, was a  

Small outhouse, one window and the door facing  in our direction. It was the scene of the murder. Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where  he introduced us to a haggard, grey-haired woman,   the widow of the murdered man, whose gaunt and  deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror  

In the depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of  the years of hardship and ill-usage which she   had endured. With her was her daughter, a pale,  fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly   at us as she told us that she was glad that her  father was dead, and that she blessed the hand  

Which had struck him down. It was a terrible  household that Black Peter Carey had made for   himself, and it was with a sense of relief that  we found ourselves in the sunlight again and   making our way along a path which had been worn  across the fields by the feet of the dead man.

The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings,  wooden-walled, shingle-roofed, one window   beside the door and one on the farther side.  Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket   and had stooped to the lock, when he paused with  a look of attention and surprise upon his face. “Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.

There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork  was cut, and the scratches showed white through   the paint, as if they had been that instant  done. Holmes had been examining the window. “Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it  

Was has failed to make his way in. He  must have been a very poor burglar.” “This is a most extraordinary  thing,” said the inspector,   “I could swear that these marks  were not here yesterday evening.” “Some curious person from the  village, perhaps,” I suggested.

“Very unlikely. Few of them would  dare to set foot in the grounds,   far less try to force their way into the  cabin. What do you think of it, Mr. Holmes?” “I think that fortune is very kind to us.” “You mean that the person will come again?”

“It is very probable. He came expecting  to find the door open. He tried to get   in with the blade of a very small penknife.  He could not manage it. What would he do?” “Come again next night with a more useful tool.”

“So I should say. It will be our fault if  we are not there to receive him. Meanwhile,   let me see the inside of the cabin.” The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but  the furniture within the little room still stood  

As it had been on the night of the crime. For  two hours, with most intense concentration,   Holmes examined every object in turn,  but his face showed that his quest was   not a successful one. Once only he  paused in his patient investigation. “Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”

“No, I have moved nothing.” “Something has been taken. There is less  dust in this corner of the shelf than   elsewhere. It may have been a book lying  on its side. It may have been a box. Well,   well, I can do nothing more. Let  us walk in these beautiful woods,  

Watson, and give a few hours to the birds and the  flowers. We shall meet you here later, Hopkins,   and see if we can come to closer quarters with the  gentleman who has paid this visit in the night.” It was past eleven o’clock when we formed our  little ambuscade. Hopkins was for leaving the  

Door of the hut open, but Holmes was of the  opinion that this would rouse the suspicions   of the stranger. The lock was a perfectly simple  one, and only a strong blade was needed to push it   back. Holmes also suggested that we should  wait, not inside the hut, but outside it,  

Among the bushes which grew round the farther  window. In this way we should be able to watch   our man if he struck a light, and see what his  object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit. It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet  brought with it something of the thrill which  

The hunter feels when he lies beside the  water-pool, and waits for the coming of the   thirsty beast of prey. What savage creature was it  which might steal upon us out of the darkness? Was   it a fierce tiger of crime, which could only be  taken fighting hard with flashing fang and claw,  

Or would it prove to be some skulking jackal,  dangerous only to the weak and unguarded? In absolute silence we crouched amongst the  bushes, waiting for whatever might come. At first   the steps of a few belated villagers, or the sound  of voices from the village, lightened our vigil,  

But one by one these interruptions died  away, and an absolute stillness fell upon us,   save for the chimes of the distant church,  which told us of the progress of the night,   and for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain  falling amid the foliage which roofed us in.

Half-past two had chimed, and it was the  darkest hour which precedes the dawn,   when we all started as a low but sharp click  came from the direction of the gate. Someone had   entered the drive. Again there was a long silence,  and I had begun to fear that it was a false alarm,  

When a stealthy step was heard upon the other  side of the hut, and a moment later a metallic   scraping and clinking. The man was trying to force  the lock. This time his skill was greater or his  

Tool was better, for there was a sudden snap and  the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck,   and next instant the steady light from  a candle filled the interior of the   hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes  were all riveted upon the scene within.

The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and  thin, with a black moustache, which intensified   the deadly pallor of his face. He could not have  been much above twenty years of age. I have never   seen any human being who appeared to be in such  a pitiable fright, for his teeth were visibly  

Chattering, and he was shaking in every limb. He  was dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket   and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his  head. We watched him staring round with frightened   eyes. Then he laid the candle-end upon the table  and disappeared from our view into one of the  

Corners. He returned with a large book, one of  the logbooks which formed a line upon the shelves.   Leaning on the table, he rapidly turned over the  leaves of this volume until he came to the entry   which he sought. Then, with an angry gesture of  his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced  

It in the corner, and put out the light. He had  hardly turned to leave the hut when Hopkin’s hand   was on the fellow’s collar, and I heard his loud  gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken.  

The candle was relit, and there was our wretched  captive, shivering and cowering in the grasp of   the detective. He sank down upon the sea-chest,  and looked helplessly from one of us to the other. “Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins,  “who are you, and what do you want here?”

The man pulled himself together, and  faced us with an effort at self-composure. “You are detectives, I suppose?” said  he. “You imagine I am connected with   the death of Captain Peter Carey.  I assure you that I am innocent.” “We’ll see about that,” said Hopkins.  “First of all, what is your name?”

“It is John Hopley Neligan.” I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance. “What are you doing here?” “Can I speak confidentially?” “No, certainly not.” “Why should I tell you?” “If you have no answer, it may  go badly with you at the trial.” The young man winced.

“Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why  should I not? And yet I hate to think of   this old scandal gaining a new lease of life.  Did you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?” I could see, from Hopkins’s face, that he  never had, but Holmes was keenly interested.

“You mean the West Country bankers,”  said he. “They failed for a million,   ruined half the county families of  Cornwall, and Neligan disappeared.” “Exactly. Neligan was my father.” At last we were getting something  positive, and yet it seemed a long   gap between an absconding banker and  Captain Peter Carey pinned against the  

Wall with one of his own harpoons. We all  listened intently to the young man’s words. “It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson  had retired. I was only ten years of age at the  

Time, but I was old enough to feel the shame and  horror of it all. It has always been said that my   father stole all the securities and fled. It is  not true. It was his belief that if he were given  

Time in which to realize them, all would be well  and every creditor paid in full. He started in his   little yacht for Norway just before the warrant  was issued for his arrest. I can remember that  

Last night when he bade farewell to my mother. He  left us a list of the securities he was taking,   and he swore that he would come back with his  honour cleared, and that none who had trusted  

Him would suffer. Well, no word was ever heard  from him again. Both the yacht and he vanished   utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he  and it, with the securities that he had taken  

With him, were at the bottom of the sea. We had a  faithful friend, however, who is a business man,   and it was he who discovered some time ago  that some of the securities which my father   had with him had reappeared on the London  market. You can imagine our amazement. I  

Spent months in trying to trace them, and at  last, after many doubtings and difficulties,   I discovered that the original seller had been  Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut. “Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man.  I found that he had been in command of a whaler  

Which was due to return from the Arctic  seas at the very time when my father was   crossing to Norway. The autumn of that year was  a stormy one, and there was a long succession of   southerly gales. My father’s yacht may well  have been blown to the north, and there met  

By Captain Peter Carey’s ship. If that were so,  what had become of my father? In any case, if I   could prove from Peter Carey’s evidence how these  securities came on the market it would be a proof  

That my father had not sold them, and that he  had no view to personal profit when he took them. “I came down to Sussex with the intention of  seeing the captain, but it was at this moment   that his terrible death occurred. I read  at the inquest a description of his cabin,  

In which it stated that the old logbooks of his  vessel were preserved in it. It struck me that if   I could see what occurred in the month of August,  1883, on board the Sea Unicorn, I might settle the  

Mystery of my father’s fate. I tried last night  to get at these logbooks, but was unable to open   the door. To-night I tried again and succeeded,  but I find that the pages which deal with that  

Month have been torn from the book. It was at that  moment I found myself a prisoner in your hands.” “Is that all?” asked Hopkins. “Yes, that is all.” His  eyes shifted as he said it. “You have nothing else to tell us?” He hesitated. “No, there is nothing.”

“You have not been here before last night?” “No. “Then how do you account for that?” cried  Hopkins, as he held up the damning notebook,   with the initials of our prisoner on the  first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.

The wretched man collapsed. He sank his  face in his hands, and trembled all over. “Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not  know. I thought I had lost it at the hotel.” “That is enough,” said Hopkins,  sternly. “Whatever else you have to say,  

You must say in court. You will walk down with  me now to the police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes,   I am very much obliged to you and to your friend  for coming down to help me. As it turns out your  

Presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought  the case to this successful issue without you,   but, none the less, I am grateful. Rooms have  been reserved for you at the Brambletye Hotel,   so we can all walk down to the village together.”

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked  Holmes, as we travelled back next morning. “I can see that you are not satisfied.” “Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly  satisfied. At the same time, Stanley   Hopkins’s methods do not commend themselves  to me. I am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins.  

I had hoped for better things from him. One  should always look for a possible alternative,   and provide against it. It is the  first rule of criminal investigation.” “What, then, is the alternative?” “The line of investigation which  I have myself been pursuing. It  

May give us nothing. I cannot tell. But  at least I shall follow it to the end.” Several letters were waiting for Holmes at  Baker Street. He snatched one of them up,   opened it, and burst out into a  triumphant chuckle of laughter.

“Excellent, Watson! The alternative develops.  Have you telegraph forms? Just write a couple   of messages for me: ‘Sumner, Shipping  Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on,   to arrive ten to-morrow morning.—Basil.’  That’s my name in those parts. The other is:   ‘Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord  Street, Brixton. Come breakfast to-morrow  

At nine-thirty. Important. Wire if unable  to come.—Sherlock Holmes.’ There, Watson,   this infernal case has haunted me for ten  days. I hereby banish it completely from   my presence. To-morrow, I trust that  we shall hear the last of it forever.” Sharp at the hour named Inspector  Stanley Hopkins appeared,  

And we sat down together to the excellent  breakfast which Mrs. Hudson had prepared.   The young detective was in  high spirits at his success. “You really think that your solution  must be correct?” asked Holmes. “I could not imagine a more complete case.” “It did not seem to me conclusive.”

“You astonish me, Mr. Holmes.  What more could one ask for?” “Does your explanation cover every point?” “Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived  at the Brambletye Hotel on the very day of the   crime. He came on the pretence of playing  golf. His room was on the ground-floor,  

And he could get out when he liked. That  very night he went down to Woodman’s Lee,   saw Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with  him, and killed him with the harpoon. Then,   horrified by what he had done, he fled out  of the hut, dropping the notebook which he  

Had brought with him in order to question Peter  Carey about these different securities. You may   have observed that some of them were marked with  ticks, and the others—the great majority—were   not. Those which are ticked have been traced on  the London market, but the others, presumably,  

Were still in the possession of Carey, and  young Neligan, according to his own account,   was anxious to recover them in order to do the  right thing by his father’s creditors. After his   flight he did not dare to approach the hut again  for some time, but at last he forced himself to  

Do so in order to obtain the information which he  needed. Surely that is all simple and obvious?” Holmes smiled and shook his head. “It seems to me to have only one drawback,  Hopkins, and that is that it is intrinsically  

Impossible. Have you tried to drive a harpoon  through a body? No? Tut, tut my dear sir, you must   really pay attention to these details. My friend  Watson could tell you that I spent a whole morning   in that exercise. It is no easy matter, and  requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow  

Was delivered with such violence that the head of  the weapon sank deep into the wall. Do you imagine   that this anæmic youth was capable of so frightful  an assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed in rum and  

Water with Black Peter in the dead of the night?  Was it his profile that was seen on the blind two   nights before? No, no, Hopkins, it is another and  more formidable person for whom we must seek.” The detective’s face had grown longer and  longer during Holmes’s speech. His hopes and  

His ambitions were all crumbling about him. But he  would not abandon his position without a struggle. “You can’t deny that Neligan  was present that night,   Mr. Holmes. The book will prove that. I fancy  that I have evidence enough to satisfy a jury,  

Even if you are able to pick a  hole in it. Besides, Mr. Holmes,   I have laid my hand upon my man. As to this  terrible person of yours, where is he?” “I rather fancy that he is on the stair,”  said Holmes, serenely. “I think, Watson,  

That you would do well to put that  revolver where you can reach it.”   He rose and laid a written paper upon a  side-table. “Now we are ready,” said he. There had been some talking in gruff  voices outside, and now Mrs. Hudson  

Opened the door to say that there were  three men inquiring for Captain Basil. “Show them in one by one,” said Holmes. “The first who entered was a little  Ribston pippin of a man, with ruddy   cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers.  Holmes had drawn a letter from his pocket. “What name?” he asked. “James Lancaster.”

“I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is  full. Here is half a sovereign for your   trouble. Just step into this room  and wait there for a few minutes.” The second man was a long, dried-up creature,  with lank hair and sallow cheeks. His name was  

Hugh Pattins. He also received his dismissal,  his half-sovereign, and the order to wait. The third applicant was a man of  remarkable appearance. A fierce   bull-dog face was framed in  a tangle of hair and beard,   and two bold, dark eyes gleamed behind the  cover of thick, tufted, overhung eyebrows.  

He saluted and stood sailor-fashion,  turning his cap round in his hands. “Your name?” asked Holmes. “Patrick Cairns.” “Harpooner?” “Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages.” “Dundee, I suppose?” “Yes, sir.” “And ready to start with an exploring ship?” “Yes, sir.” “What wages?” “Eight pounds a month.” “Could you start at once?”

“As soon as I get my kit.” “Have you your papers?” “Yes, sir.” He took a sheaf of worn and   greasy forms from his pocket. Holmes  glanced over them and returned them. “You are just the man I want,”  said he. “Here’s the agreement  

On the side-table. If you sign it  the whole matter will be settled.” The seaman lurched across  the room and took up the pen. “Shall I sign here?” he asked,  stooping over the table. Holmes leaned over his shoulder and  passed both hands over his neck. “This will do,” said he.

I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an  enraged bull. The next instant Holmes and the   seaman were rolling on the ground together.  He was a man of such gigantic strength that,   even with the handcuffs which Holmes  had so deftly fastened upon his wrists,  

He would have very quickly overpowered my friend  had Hopkins and I not rushed to his rescue. Only   when I pressed the cold muzzle of the revolver  to his temple did he at last understand that   resistance was vain. We lashed his ankles with  cord, and rose breathless from the struggle.

“I must really apologize, Hopkins,” said  Sherlock Holmes. “I fear that the scrambled   eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the rest  of your breakfast all the better, will you not,   for the thought that you have brought  your case to a triumphant conclusion.” Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Holmes,” he  blurted out at last, with a very red face.   “It seems to me that I have been making a fool  of myself from the beginning. I understand now,   what I should never have forgotten, that I  am the pupil and you are the master. Even  

Now I see what you have done, but I don’t  know how you did it or what it signifies.” “Well, well,” said Holmes, good-humouredly.  “We all learn by experience, and your lesson   this time is that you should never lose sight of  the alternative. You were so absorbed in young  

Neligan that you could not spare a thought to  Patrick Cairns, the true murderer of Peter Carey.” The hoarse voice of the seaman  broke in on our conversation. “See here, mister,” said he, “I make no  complaint of being man-handled in this fashion,  

But I would have you call things by their  right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey,   I say I killed Peter Carey, and  there’s all the difference. Maybe   you don’t believe what I say. Maybe you  think I am just slinging you a yarn.”

“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Let  us hear what you have to say.” “It’s soon told, and, by the Lord, every  word of it is truth. I knew Black Peter,   and when he pulled out his knife I  whipped a harpoon through him sharp,  

For I knew that it was him or me. That’s  how he died. You can call it murder. Anyhow,   I’d as soon die with a rope round my neck  as with Black Peter’s knife in my heart.” “How came you there?” asked Holmes.

“I’ll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit  me up a little, so as I can speak easy. It was   in ’83 that it happened—August of that year.  Peter Carey was master of the Sea Unicorn,  

And I was spare harpooner. We were coming out of  the ice-pack on our way home, with head winds and   a week’s southerly gale, when we picked up a  little craft that had been blown north. There   was one man on her—a landsman. The crew had  thought she would founder and had made for the  

Norwegian coast in the dinghy. I guess they were  all drowned. Well, we took him on board, this man,   and he and the skipper had some long talks in  the cabin. All the baggage we took off with him  

Was one tin box. So far as I know, the man’s name  was never mentioned, and on the second night he   disappeared as if he had never been. It was given  out that he had either thrown himself overboard  

Or fallen overboard in the heavy weather that we  were having. Only one man knew what had happened   to him, and that was me, for, with my own eyes, I  saw the skipper tip up his heels and put him over  

The rail in the middle watch of a dark night, two  days before we sighted the Shetland Lights. Well,   I kept my knowledge to myself, and waited to  see what would come of it. When we got back   to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and nobody  asked any questions. A stranger died by accident  

And it was nobody’s business to inquire.  Shortly after Peter Carey gave up the sea,   and it was long years before I could find where  he was. I guessed that he had done the deed for  

The sake of what was in that tin box, and that  he could afford now to pay me well for keeping   my mouth shut. I found out where he was through  a sailor man that had met him in London, and  

Down I went to squeeze him. The first night he was  reasonable enough, and was ready to give me what   would make me free of the sea for life. We were to  fix it all two nights later. When I came, I found  

Him three parts drunk and in a vile temper. We sat  down and we drank and we yarned about old times,   but the more he drank the less I liked the look  on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the wall,  

And I thought I might need it before I was  through. Then at last he broke out at me,   spitting and cursing, with murder in his eyes  and a great clasp-knife in his hand. He had  

Not time to get it from the sheath before I had  the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a yell he   gave! and his face gets between me and my sleep.  I stood there, with his blood splashing round me,  

And I waited for a bit, but all was quiet,  so I took heart once more. I looked round,   and there was the tin box on the shelf. I had  as much right to it as Peter Carey, anyhow,  

So I took it with me and left the hut. Like  a fool I left my baccy-pouch upon the table. “Now I’ll tell you the queerest part of the whole  story. I had hardly got outside the hut when I  

Heard someone coming, and I hid among the bushes.  A man came slinking along, went into the hut,   gave a cry as if he had seen a ghost, and legged  it as hard as he could run until he was out  

Of sight. Who he was or what he wanted is more  than I can tell. For my part I walked ten miles,   got a train at Tunbridge Wells, and so  reached London, and no one the wiser. “Well, when I came to examine the  box I found there was no money in it,  

And nothing but papers that I would not  dare to sell. I had lost my hold on Black   Peter and was stranded in London without a  shilling. There was only my trade left. I   saw these advertisements about harpooners, and  high wages, so I went to the shipping agents,  

And they sent me here. That’s all I know,  and I say again that if I killed Black Peter,   the law should give me thanks, for I  saved them the price of a hempen rope.” “A very clear statement said Holmes,” rising  and lighting his pipe. “I think, Hopkins,  

That you should lose no time in conveying your  prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not   well adapted for a cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns  occupies too large a proportion of our carpet.” “Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins, “I do not know how to  

Express my gratitude. Even now I do not  understand how you attained this result.” “Simply by having the good fortune to  get the right clue from the beginning.   It is very possible if I had known about this  notebook it might have led away my thoughts,  

As it did yours. But all I heard pointed  in the one direction. The amazing strength,   the skill in the use of the harpoon, the rum  and water, the sealskin tobacco-pouch with the   coarse tobacco—all these pointed to a seaman,  and one who had been a whaler. I was convinced  

That the initials ‘P.C.’ upon the pouch were  a coincidence, and not those of Peter Carey,   since he seldom smoked, and no pipe was found  in his cabin. You remember that I asked whether   whisky and brandy were in the cabin. You said  they were. How many landsmen are there who  

Would drink rum when they could get these other  spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman.” “And how did you find him?” “My dear sir, the problem had become a  very simple one. If it were a seaman,  

It could only be a seaman who had been with  him on the Sea Unicorn. So far as I could   learn he had sailed in no other ship.  I spent three days in wiring to Dundee,  

And at the end of that time I had ascertained  the names of the crew of the Sea Unicorn in   1883. When I found Patrick Cairns among the  harpooners, my research was nearing its end.   I argued that the man was probably in London,  and that he would desire to leave the country  

For a time. I therefore spent some days in  the East End, devised an Arctic expedition,   put forth tempting terms for harpooners who would  serve under Captain Basil—and behold the result!” “Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!” “You must obtain the release of young Neligan  as soon as possible,” said Holmes. “I confess  

That I think you owe him some apology.  The tin box must be returned to him, but,   of course, the securities which Peter Carey  has sold are lost forever. There’s the cab,   Hopkins, and you can remove your  man. If you want me for the trial,  

My address and that of Watson will be somewhere  in Norway—I’ll send particulars later.” END OF THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER THE ADVENTURE OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON It is years since the incidents of which I speak  took place, and yet it is with diffidence that  

I allude to them. For a long time, even  with the utmost discretion and reticence,   it would have been impossible to make the  facts public, but now the principal person   concerned is beyond the reach of human law,  and with due suppression the story may be  

Told in such fashion as to injure no one.  It records an absolutely unique experience   in the career both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes  and of myself. The reader will excuse me   if I conceal the date or any other fact by  which he might trace the actual occurrence.

We had been out for one of our  evening rambles, Holmes and I,   and had returned about six o’clock on a cold,  frosty winter’s evening. As Holmes turned up   the lamp the light fell upon a card on  the table. He glanced at it, and then,  

With an ejaculation of disgust, threw it  on the floor. I picked it up and read: CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON, Appledore Towers,  Hampstead. Agent. “Who is he?” I asked. “The worst man in London,” Holmes answered,   as he sat down and stretched his legs before  the fire. “Is anything on the back of the card?”

I turned it over. “Will call at 6:30—C.A.M.,” I read. “Hum! He’s about due. Do you feel a creeping,  shrinking sensation, Watson, when you stand before   the serpents in the Zoo, and see the slithery,  gliding, venomous creatures, with their deadly  

Eyes and wicked, flattened faces? Well, that’s how  Milverton impresses me. I’ve had to do with fifty   murderers in my career, but the worst of them  never gave me the repulsion which I have for this   fellow. And yet I can’t get out of doing business  with him—indeed, he is here at my invitation.”

“But who is he?” “I’ll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the  blackmailers. Heaven help the man, and still more   the woman, whose secret and reputation come into  the power of Milverton! With a smiling face and  

A heart of marble, he will squeeze and squeeze  until he has drained them dry. The fellow is a   genius in his way, and would have made his mark in  some more savoury trade. His method is as follows:  

He allows it to be known that he is prepared to  pay very high sums for letters which compromise   people of wealth and position. He receives these  wares not only from treacherous valets or maids,   but frequently from genteel ruffians, who have  gained the confidence and affection of trusting  

Women. He deals with no niggard hand. I happen  to know that he paid seven hundred pounds to a   footman for a note two lines in length,  and that the ruin of a noble family was   the result. Everything which is in the  market goes to Milverton, and there are  

Hundreds in this great city who turn white at  his name. No one knows where his grip may fall,   for he is far too rich and far too cunning  to work from hand to mouth. He will hold a  

Card back for years in order to play it at the  moment when the stake is best worth winning. I   have said that he is the worst man in London, and  I would ask you how could one compare the ruffian,  

Who in hot blood bludgeons his mate, with this  man, who methodically and at his leisure tortures   the soul and wrings the nerves in order  to add to his already swollen money-bags?” I had seldom heard my friend speak  with such intensity of feeling.

“But surely,” said I, “the fellow  must be within the grasp of the law?” “Technically, no doubt, but practically not.  What would it profit a woman, for example,   to get him a few months’ imprisonment if her  own ruin must immediately follow? His victims  

Dare not hit back. If ever he blackmailed an  innocent person, then indeed we should have him,   but he is as cunning as the Evil One. No,  no, we must find other ways to fight him.” “And why is he here?”

“Because an illustrious client has placed her  piteous case in my hands. It is the Lady Eva   Blackwell, the most beautiful débutante  of last season. She is to be married in a   fortnight to the Earl of Dovercourt. This fiend  has several imprudent letters—imprudent, Watson,  

Nothing worse—which were written to an impecunious  young squire in the country. They would suffice   to break off the match. Milverton will send  the letters to the Earl unless a large sum   of money is paid him. I have been commissioned  to meet him, and—to make the best terms I can.”

At that instant there was a clatter and a  rattle in the street below. Looking down   I saw a stately carriage and pair,  the brilliant lamps gleaming on the   glossy haunches of the noble chestnuts.  A footman opened the door, and a small,  

Stout man in a shaggy astrakhan overcoat  descended. A minute later he was in the room. Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty,  with a large, intellectual head, a round, plump,   hairless face, a perpetual frozen smile, and two  keen grey eyes, which gleamed brightly from behind  

Broad, gold-rimmed glasses. There was something  of Mr. Pickwick’s benevolence in his appearance,   marred only by the insincerity of the  fixed smile and by the hard glitter of   those restless and penetrating eyes. His voice  was as smooth and suave as his countenance,  

As he advanced with a plump little hand  extended, murmuring his regret for having   missed us at his first visit. Holmes disregarded  the outstretched hand and looked at him with a   face of granite. Milverton’s smile broadened,  he shrugged his shoulders removed his overcoat,  

Folded it with great deliberation over  the back of a chair, and then took a seat. “This gentleman?” said he, with a wave in  my direction. “Is it discreet? Is it right?” “Dr. Watson is my friend and partner.” “Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only  in your client’s interests that I  

Protested. The matter is so very delicate——” “Dr. Watson has already heard of it.” “Then we can proceed to business. You say that you   are acting for Lady Eva. Has she  empowered you to accept my terms?” “What are your terms?” “Seven thousand pounds.” “And the alternative?”

“My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it,  but if the money is not paid on the 14th, there   certainly will be no marriage on the 18th.” His  insufferable smile was more complacent than ever. Holmes thought for a little.

“You appear to me,” he said, at last, “to be  taking matters too much for granted. I am,   of course, familiar with the  contents of these letters. My   client will certainly do what I may  advise. I shall counsel her to tell   her future husband the whole story  and to trust to his generosity.”

Milverton chuckled. “You evidently do not know the Earl,” said he. From the baffled look upon Holmes’s  face, I could see clearly that he did. “What harm is there in the letters?” he asked. “They are sprightly—very sprightly,” Milverton  answered. “The lady was a charming correspondent.  

But I can assure you that the Earl of Dovercourt  would fail to appreciate them. However,   since you think otherwise, we will let it rest  at that. It is purely a matter of business. If   you think that it is in the best interests  of your client that these letters should be  

Placed in the hands of the Earl, then  you would indeed be foolish to pay so   large a sum of money to regain them.”  He rose and seized his astrakhan coat. Holmes was grey with anger and mortification. “Wait a little,” he said. “You go too  fast. We should certainly make every  

Effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter.” Milverton relapsed into his chair. “I was sure that you would see  it in that light,” he purred. “At the same time,” Holmes continued, “Lady  Eva is not a wealthy woman. I assure you that  

Two thousand pounds would be a drain upon her  resources, and that the sum you name is utterly   beyond her power. I beg, therefore, that you  will moderate your demands, and that you will   return the letters at the price I indicate, which  is, I assure you, the highest that you can get.”

Milverton’s smile broadened and  his eyes twinkled humorously. “I am aware that what you say is true about  the lady’s resources,” said he. “At the same   time you must admit that the occasion of a  lady’s marriage is a very suitable time for  

Her friends and relatives to make some  little effort upon her behalf. They may   hesitate as to an acceptable wedding present.  Let me assure them that this little bundle of   letters would give more joy than all the  candelabra and butter-dishes in London.” “It is impossible,” said Holmes.

“Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!” cried  Milverton, taking out a bulky pocketbook. “I   cannot help thinking that ladies are ill-advised  in not making an effort. Look at this!” He   held up a little note with a coat-of-arms  upon the envelope. “That belongs to—well,  

Perhaps it is hardly fair to tell the name until  to-morrow morning. But at that time it will be in   the hands of the lady’s husband. And all because  she will not find a beggarly sum which she could  

Get by turning her diamonds into paste. It is such  a pity! Now, you remember the sudden end of the   engagement between the Honourable Miss Miles and  Colonel Dorking? Only two days before the wedding,   there was a paragraph in the Morning Post  to say that it was all off. And why? It  

Is almost incredible, but the absurd sum of  twelve hundred pounds would have settled the   whole question. Is it not pitiful? And here I  find you, a man of sense, boggling about terms,   when your client’s future and honour are  at stake. You surprise me, Mr. Holmes.”

“What I say is true,” Holmes answered.  “The money cannot be found. Surely it   is better for you to take the  substantial sum which I offer   than to ruin this woman’s career,  which can profit you in no way?” “There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes.  An exposure would profit me indirectly  

To a considerable extent. I have eight  or ten similar cases maturing. If it   was circulated among them that I had  made a severe example of the Lady Eva,   I should find all of them much more  open to reason. You see my point?” Holmes sprang from his chair.

“Get behind him, Watson! Don’t let him out! Now,  sir, let us see the contents of that notebook.” Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side   of the room and stood with  his back against the wall. “Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes,” he said,  turning the front of his coat and  

Exhibiting the butt of a large revolver,  which projected from the inside pocket. “I   have been expecting you to do something  original. This has been done so often,   and what good has ever come from it? I  assure you that I am armed to the teeth,  

And I am perfectly prepared to use my weapons,  knowing that the law will support me. Besides,   your supposition that I would bring the letters  here in a notebook is entirely mistaken. I would   do nothing so foolish. And now, gentlemen, I  have one or two little interviews this evening,  

And it is a long drive to Hampstead.” He stepped  forward, took up his coat, laid his hand on his   revolver, and turned to the door. I picked up  a chair, but Holmes shook his head, and I laid  

It down again. With bow, a smile, and a twinkle,  Milverton was out of the room, and a few moments   after we heard the slam of the carriage door  and the rattle of the wheels as he drove away. Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his  hands buried deep in his trouser pockets,  

His chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes  fixed upon the glowing embers. For half an   hour he was silent and still. Then, with the  gesture of a man who has taken his decision,   he sprang to his feet and passed into his  bedroom. A little later a rakish young workman,  

With a goatee beard and a swagger, lit his  clay pipe at the lamp before descending   into the street. “I’ll be back some time,  Watson,” said he, and vanished into the   night. I understood that he had opened his  campaign against Charles Augustus Milverton,  

But I little dreamed the strange shape  which that campaign was destined to take. For some days Holmes came and  went at all hours in this attire,   but beyond a remark that his time was spent  at Hampstead, and that it was not wasted,  

I knew nothing of what he was doing. At last,  however, on a wild, tempestuous evening,   when the wind screamed and rattled against the  windows, he returned from his last expedition, and   having removed his disguise he sat before the fire  and laughed heartily in his silent inward fashion.

“You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?” “No, indeed!” “You’ll be interested to hear that I’m engaged.” “My dear fellow! I congrat——” “To Milverton’s housemaid.” “Good heavens, Holmes!” “I wanted information, Watson.” “Surely you have gone too far?” “It was a most necessary step. I am a  plumber with a rising business, Escott,  

By name. I have walked out with her each evening,  and I have talked with her. Good heavens, those   talks! However, I have got all I wanted. I know  Milverton’s house as I know the palm of my hand.” “But the girl, Holmes?” He shrugged his shoulders.

“You can’t help it, my dear Watson. You  must play your cards as best you can when   such a stake is on the table. However, I  rejoice to say that I have a hated rival,   who will certainly cut me out the instant that  my back is turned. What a splendid night it is!”

“You like this weather?” “It suits my purpose. Watson, I mean  to burgle Milverton’s house to-night.” I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went  cold at the words, which were slowly uttered in a   tone of concentrated resolution. As a flash of  lightning in the night shows up in an instant  

Every detail of a wild landscape, so at one  glance I seemed to see every possible result of   such an action—the detection, the capture, the  honoured career ending in irreparable failure   and disgrace, my friend himself lying  at the mercy of the odious Milverton. “For heaven’s sake, Holmes, think  what you are doing,” I cried.

“My dear fellow, I have given it every  consideration. I am never precipitate in   my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and,  indeed, so dangerous a course, if any other were   possible. Let us look at the matter clearly  and fairly. I suppose that you will admit  

That the action is morally justifiable, though  technically criminal. To burgle his house is no   more than to forcibly take his pocketbook—an  action in which you were prepared to aid me.” I turned it over in my mind. “Yes,” I said, “it is morally  justifiable so long as our  

Object is to take no articles save those  which are used for an illegal purpose.” “Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable,   I have only to consider the question  of personal risk. Surely a gentleman   should not lay much stress upon this, when a  lady is in most desperate need of his help?”

“You will be in such a false position.” “Well, that is part of the risk. There is no  other possible way of regaining these letters.   The unfortunate lady has not the money, and  there are none of her people in whom she could  

Confide. To-morrow is the last day of grace,  and unless we can get the letters to-night,   this villain will be as good as his word and  will bring about her ruin. I must, therefore,   abandon my client to her fate or I must  play this last card. Between ourselves,  

Watson, it’s a sporting duel between this fellow  Milverton and me. He had, as you saw, the best   of the first exchanges, but my self-respect and my  reputation are concerned to fight it to a finish.” “Well, I don’t like it, but I suppose  it must be,” said I. “When do we start?”

“You are not coming.” “Then you are not going,” said I. “I give  you my word of honour—and I never broke it   in my life—that I will take a cab straight  to the police-station and give you away,   unless you let me share this adventure with you.” “You can’t help me.”

“How do you know that? You can’t  tell what may happen. Anyway,   my resolution is taken. Other people besides  you have self-respect, and even reputations.” Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow  cleared, and he clapped me on the shoulder.

“Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We  have shared this same room for some years,   and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing  the same cell. You know, Watson, I don’t mind   confessing to you that I have always had an  idea that I would have made a highly efficient  

Criminal. This is the chance of my lifetime in  that direction. See here!” He took a neat little   leather case out of a drawer, and opening it he  exhibited a number of shining instruments. “This   is a first-class, up-to-date burgling kit, with  nickel-plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter,  

Adaptable keys, and every modern improvement  which the march of civilization demands. Here,   too, is my dark lantern. Everything is in  order. Have you a pair of silent shoes?” “I have rubber-soled tennis shoes.” “Excellent! And a mask?” “I can make a couple out of black silk.”

“I can see that you have a strong, natural turn  for this sort of thing. Very good, do you make the   masks. We shall have some cold supper before we  start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we shall  

Drive as far as Church Row. It is a quarter of  an hour’s walk from there to Appledore Towers.   We shall be at work before midnight. Milverton  is a heavy sleeper, and retires punctually at   ten-thirty. With any luck we should be back here  by two, with the Lady Eva’s letters in my pocket.”

Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so  that we might appear to be two theatre-goers   homeward bound. In Oxford Street we picked up  a hansom and drove to an address in Hampstead.   Here we paid off our cab, and with our great  coats buttoned up, for it was bitterly cold,  

And the wind seemed to blow through us,  we walked along the edge of the heath. “It’s a business that needs delicate treatment,”  said Holmes. “These documents are contained in a   safe in the fellow’s study, and the study is the  ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other hand,  

Like all these stout, little  men who do themselves well,   he is a plethoric sleeper. Agatha—that’s my  fiancée—says it is a joke in the servants’   hall that it’s impossible to wake the master. He  has a secretary who is devoted to his interests,  

And never budges from the study all day. That’s  why we are going at night. Then he has a beast   of a dog which roams the garden. I met Agatha  late the last two evenings, and she locks the  

Brute up so as to give me a clear run. This is the  house, this big one in its own grounds. Through   the gate—now to the right among the laurels. We  might put on our masks here, I think. You see,  

There is not a glimmer of light in any of the  windows, and everything is working splendidly.” With our black silk face-coverings, which  turned us into two of the most truculent   figures in London, we stole up to the  silent, gloomy house. A sort of tiled  

Veranda extended along one side of it,  lined by several windows and two doors. “That’s his bedroom,” Holmes whispered.  “This door opens straight into the study.   It would suit us best, but it is bolted as  well as locked, and we should make too much  

Noise getting in. Come round here. There’s a  greenhouse which opens into the drawing-room.” The place was locked, but Holmes removed a  circle of glass and turned the key from the   inside. An instant afterwards he had closed  the door behind us, and we had become felons  

In the eyes of the law. The thick, warm  air of the conservatory and the rich,   choking fragrance of exotic plants took us by the  throat. He seized my hand in the darkness and led   me swiftly past banks of shrubs which brushed  against our faces. Holmes had remarkable powers,  

Carefully cultivated, of seeing in the dark. Still  holding my hand in one of his, he opened a door,   and I was vaguely conscious that we had entered  a large room in which a cigar had been smoked not  

Long before. He felt his way among the furniture,  opened another door, and closed it behind us.   Putting out my hand I felt several coats hanging  from the wall, and I understood that I was in a   passage. We passed along it and Holmes very gently  opened a door upon the right-hand side. Something  

Rushed out at us and my heart sprang into my  mouth, but I could have laughed when I realized   that it was the cat. A fire was burning in this  new room, and again the air was heavy with tobacco  

Smoke. Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to  follow, and then very gently closed the door. We   were in Milverton’s study, and a portière at the  farther side showed the entrance to his bedroom. It was a good fire, and the room was  illuminated by it. Near the door I  

Saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it  was unnecessary, even if it had been safe,   to turn it on. At one side of the fireplace was a  heavy curtain which covered the bay window we had  

Seen from outside. On the other side was the door  which communicated with the veranda. A desk stood   in the centre, with a turning-chair of shining  red leather. Opposite was a large bookcase,   with a marble bust of Athene on the top. In  the corner, between the bookcase and the wall,  

There stood a tall, green safe, the firelight  flashing back from the polished brass knobs   upon its face. Holmes stole across and looked  at it. Then he crept to the door of the bedroom,   and stood with slanting head listening intently.  No sound came from within. Meanwhile it had struck  

Me that it would be wise to secure our retreat  through the outer door, so I examined it. To my   amazement, it was neither locked nor bolted.  I touched Holmes on the arm, and he turned   his masked face in that direction. I saw him  start, and he was evidently as surprised as I.

“I don’t like it,” he whispered, putting his lips   to my very ear. “I can’t quite make it  out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose.” “Can I do anything?” “Yes, stand by the door. If you hear  anyone come, bolt it on the inside,  

And we can get away as we came. If they come  the other way, we can get through the door if   our job is done, or hide behind these window  curtains if it is not. Do you understand?” I nodded, and stood by the door. My  first feeling of fear had passed away,  

And I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had  ever enjoyed when we were the defenders of the   law instead of its defiers. The high object of our  mission, the consciousness that it was unselfish   and chivalrous, the villainous character of our  opponent, all added to the sporting interest of  

The adventure. Far from feeling guilty, I rejoiced  and exulted in our dangers. With a glow of   admiration I watched Holmes unrolling his case of  instruments and choosing his tool with the calm,   scientific accuracy of a surgeon who performs  a delicate operation. I knew that the opening  

Of safes was a particular hobby with him,  and I understood the joy which it gave him   to be confronted with this green and gold  monster, the dragon which held in its maw   the reputations of many fair ladies. Turning up  the cuffs of his dress-coat—he had placed his  

Overcoat on a chair—Holmes laid out two drills, a  jemmy, and several skeleton keys. I stood at the   centre door with my eyes glancing at each of the  others, ready for any emergency, though, indeed,   my plans were somewhat vague as to what I should  do if we were interrupted. For half an hour,  

Holmes worked with concentrated energy,  laying down one tool, picking up another,   handling each with the strength and delicacy of  the trained mechanic. Finally I heard a click,   the broad green door swung open, and inside I had  a glimpse of a number of paper packets, each tied,  

Sealed, and inscribed. Holmes picked one out, but  it was as hard to read by the flickering fire,   and he drew out his little dark lantern, for  it was too dangerous, with Milverton in the   next room, to switch on the electric light.  Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently,  

And then in an instant he had swung the door  of the safe to, picked up his coat, stuffed his   tools into the pockets, and darted behind the  window curtain, motioning me to do the same. It was only when I had joined him there that  I heard what had alarmed his quicker senses.  

There was a noise somewhere within the house. A  door slammed in the distance. Then a confused,   dull murmur broke itself into the measured thud of  heavy footsteps rapidly approaching. They were in   the passage outside the room. They paused at  the door. The door opened. There was a sharp  

Snick as the electric light was turned on. The  door closed once more, and the pungent reek of   a strong cigar was borne to our nostrils. Then  the footsteps continued backward and forward,   backward and forward, within a few yards of  us. Finally there was a creak from a chair,  

And the footsteps ceased. Then a key clicked  in a lock, and I heard the rustle of papers. So far I had not dared to look out, but now I  gently parted the division of the curtains in  

Front of me and peeped through. From the pressure  of Holmes’s shoulder against mine, I knew that he   was sharing my observations. Right in front of  us, and almost within our reach, was the broad,   rounded back of Milverton. It was evident that  we had entirely miscalculated his movements,  

That he had never been to his bedroom, but  that he had been sitting up in some smoking   or billiard room in the farther wing of the house,  the windows of which we had not seen. His broad,   grizzled head, with its shining patch of  baldness, was in the immediate foreground of  

Our vision. He was leaning far back in the red  leather chair, his legs outstretched, a long,   black cigar projecting at an angle from his  mouth. He wore a semi-military smoking jacket,   claret-coloured, with a black velvet collar. In  his hand he held a long, legal document which  

He was reading in an indolent fashion, blowing  rings of tobacco smoke from his lips as he did   so. There was no promise of a speedy departure in  his composed bearing and his comfortable attitude. I felt Holmes’s hand steal into mine and give  me a reassuring shake, as if to say that the  

Situation was within his powers, and that he was  easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had   seen what was only too obvious from my position,  that the door of the safe was imperfectly closed,  

And that Milverton might at any moment observe  it. In my own mind I had determined that if I   were sure, from the rigidity of his gaze, that it  had caught his eye, I would at once spring out,  

Throw my great coat over his head, pinion him,  and leave the rest to Holmes. But Milverton   never looked up. He was languidly interested by  the papers in his hand, and page after page was   turned as he followed the argument of the lawyer.  At least, I thought, when he has finished the  

Document and the cigar he will go to his room,  but before he had reached the end of either,   there came a remarkable development, which  turned our thoughts into quite another channel. Several times I had observed that Milverton looked  at his watch, and once he had risen and sat down  

Again, with a gesture of impatience. The idea,  however, that he might have an appointment at   so strange an hour never occurred to me until  a faint sound reached my ears from the veranda   outside. Milverton dropped his papers and sat  rigid in his chair. The sound was repeated,  

And then there came a gentle tap at  the door. Milverton rose and opened it. “Well,” said he, curtly, “you  are nearly half an hour late.” So this was the explanation of the unlocked door  and of the nocturnal vigil of Milverton. There  

Was the gentle rustle of a woman’s dress.  I had closed the slit between the curtains   as Milverton’s face had turned in our direction,  but now I ventured very carefully to open it once   more. He had resumed his seat, the cigar still  projecting at an insolent angle from the corner  

Of his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare  of the electric light, there stood a tall, slim,   dark woman, a veil over her face, a mantle drawn  round her chin. Her breath came quick and fast,   and every inch of the lithe figure  was quivering with strong emotion.

“Well,” said Milverton, “you  made me lose a good night’s rest,   my dear. I hope you’ll prove worth it.  You couldn’t come any other time—eh?” The woman shook her head. “Well, if you couldn’t you couldn’t. If the  Countess is a hard mistress, you have your  

Chance to get level with her now. Bless the girl,  what are you shivering about? That’s right. Pull   yourself together. Now, let us get down to  business.” He took a notebook from the drawer   of his desk. “You say that you have five letters  which compromise the Countess d’Albert. You want  

To sell them. I want to buy them. So far so good.  It only remains to fix a price. I should want   to inspect the letters, of course. If they are  really good specimens—Great heavens, is it you?”

The woman, without a word, had raised her veil and  dropped the mantle from her chin. It was a dark,   handsome, clear-cut face which confronted  Milverton—a face with a curved nose,   strong, dark eyebrows shading hard,  glittering eyes, and a straight,   thin-lipped mouth set in a dangerous smile.

“It is I,” she said, “the woman  whose life you have ruined.” Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in  his voice. “You were so very obstinate,”   said he. “Why did you drive me to such  extremities? I assure you I wouldn’t   hurt a fly of my own accord,  but every man has his business,  

And what was I to do? I put the price well  within your means. You would not pay.” “So you sent the letters to my husband, and  he—the noblest gentleman that ever lived,   a man whose boots I was never worthy to lace—he  broke his gallant heart and died. You remember  

That last night, when I came through that  door, I begged and prayed you for mercy,   and you laughed in my face as you are trying to  laugh now, only your coward heart cannot keep your   lips from twitching. Yes, you never thought to see  me here again, but it was that night which taught  

Me how I could meet you face to face, and alone.  Well, Charles Milverton, what have you to say?” “Don’t imagine that you can bully me,” said  he, rising to his feet. “I have only to raise   my voice and I could call my servants and  have you arrested. But I will make allowance  

For your natural anger. Leave the room at  once as you came, and I will say no more.” The woman stood with her hand buried in her  bosom, and the same deadly smile on her thin lips. “You will ruin no more lives as you  have ruined mine. You will wring no  

More hearts as you wrung mine. I will free  the world of a poisonous thing. Take that,   you hound—and that!—and that!—and that!” She had drawn a little gleaming revolver, and  emptied barrel after barrel into Milverton’s body,  

The muzzle within two feet of his shirt front. He  shrank away and then fell forward upon the table,   coughing furiously and clawing among the  papers. Then he staggered to his feet,   received another shot, and rolled upon  the floor. “You’ve done me,” he cried,  

And lay still. The woman looked at him  intently, and ground her heel into his   upturned face. She looked again, but there was  no sound or movement. I heard a sharp rustle,   the night air blew into the heated  room, and the avenger was gone.

No interference upon our part could have saved the  man from his fate, but, as the woman poured bullet   after bullet into Milverton’s shrinking body I was  about to spring out, when I felt Holmes’s cold,   strong grasp upon my wrist. I understood the whole  argument of that firm, restraining grip—that it  

Was no affair of ours, that justice had overtaken  a villain, that we had our own duties and our own   objects, which were not to be lost sight of.  But hardly had the woman rushed from the room  

When Holmes, with swift, silent steps, was over at  the other door. He turned the key in the lock. At   the same instant we heard voices in the house  and the sound of hurrying feet. The revolver   shots had roused the household. With perfect  coolness Holmes slipped across to the safe,  

Filled his two arms with bundles of letters,  and poured them all into the fire. Again and   again he did it, until the safe was empty.  Someone turned the handle and beat upon the   outside of the door. Holmes looked swiftly round.  The letter which had been the messenger of death  

For Milverton lay, all mottled with his blood,  upon the table. Holmes tossed it in among the   blazing papers. Then he drew the key from the  outer door, passed through after me, and locked   it on the outside. “This way, Watson,” said he,  “we can scale the garden wall in this direction.”

I could not have believed that an alarm  could have spread so swiftly. Looking back,   the huge house was one blaze of light. The front  door was open, and figures were rushing down the   drive. The whole garden was alive with people, and  one fellow raised a view-halloa as we emerged from  

The veranda and followed hard at our heels.  Holmes seemed to know the grounds perfectly,   and he threaded his way swiftly among a plantation  of small trees, I close at his heels, and our   foremost pursuer panting behind us. It was a  six-foot wall which barred our path, but he sprang  

To the top and over. As I did the same I felt  the hand of the man behind me grab at my ankle,   but I kicked myself free and scrambled over a  grass-strewn coping. I fell upon my face among  

Some bushes, but Holmes had me on my feet in an  instant, and together we dashed away across the   huge expanse of Hampstead Heath. We had run two  miles, I suppose, before Holmes at last halted and   listened intently. All was absolute silence behind  us. We had shaken off our pursuers and were safe.

We had breakfasted and were smoking  our morning pipe on the day after   the remarkable experience which I  have recorded, when Mr. Lestrade,   of Scotland Yard, very solemn and impressive,  was ushered into our modest sitting-room. “Good-morning, Mr. Holmes,” said he;   “good-morning. May I ask if  you are very busy just now?”

“Not too busy to listen to you.” “I thought that, perhaps, if you had  nothing particular on hand, you might   care to assist us in a most remarkable case,  which occurred only last night at Hampstead.” “Dear me!” said Holmes. “What was that?”

“A murder—a most dramatic and remarkable murder.  I know how keen you are upon these things,   and I would take it as a great favour if  you would step down to Appledore Towers,   and give us the benefit of your advice. It  is no ordinary crime. We have had our eyes  

Upon this Mr. Milverton for some time, and,  between ourselves, he was a bit of a villain.   He is known to have held papers which he used  for blackmailing purposes. These papers have   all been burned by the murderers. No article  of value was taken, as it is probable that  

The criminals were men of good position, whose  sole object was to prevent social exposure.” “Criminals?” said Holmes. “Plural?” “Yes, there were two of them.  They were as nearly as possible   captured red-handed. We have their  footmarks, we have their description,  

It’s ten to one that we trace them. The first  fellow was a bit too active, but the second   was caught by the under-gardener, and only got  away after a struggle. He was a middle-sized,   strongly built man—square jaw, thick  neck, moustache, a mask over his eyes.”

“That’s rather vague,” said Sherlock Holmes.  “My, it might be a description of Watson!” “It’s true,” said the inspector, with amusement.  “It might be a description of Watson.” “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Lestrade,”  said Holmes. “The fact is that I knew this  

Fellow Milverton, that I considered him  one of the most dangerous men in London,   and that I think there are certain crimes which  the law cannot touch, and which therefore,   to some extent, justify private revenge. No,  it’s no use arguing. I have made up my mind.  

My sympathies are with the criminals rather than  with the victim, and I will not handle this case.” Holmes had not said one word to me about  the tragedy which we had witnessed, but I   observed all the morning that he was in his most  thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression,  

From his vacant eyes and his abstracted manner,  of a man who is striving to recall something to   his memory. We were in the middle of our lunch,  when he suddenly sprang to his feet. “By Jove,  

Watson, I’ve got it!” he cried. “Take your hat!  Come with me!” He hurried at his top speed down   Baker Street and along Oxford Street, until  we had almost reached Regent Circus. Here, on   the left hand, there stands a shop window filled  with photographs of the celebrities and beauties  

Of the day. Holmes’s eyes fixed themselves upon  one of them, and following his gaze I saw the   picture of a regal and stately lady in Court  dress, with a high diamond tiara upon her noble   head. I looked at that delicately curved nose,  at the marked eyebrows, at the straight mouth,  

And the strong little chin beneath it. Then I  caught my breath as I read the time-honoured   title of the great nobleman and statesman whose  wife she had been. My eyes met those of Holmes,   and he put his finger to his lips  as we turned away from the window.

END OF THE ADVENTURE OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of  Scotland Yard, to look in upon us of an evening,   and his visits were welcome to Sherlock Holmes,  for they enabled him to keep in touch with all  

That was going on at the police headquarters. In  return for the news which Lestrade would bring,   Holmes was always ready to listen with  attention to the details of any case upon   which the detective was engaged, and was able  occasionally, without any active interference,  

To give some hint or suggestion drawn from  his own vast knowledge and experience. On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken  of the weather and the newspapers. Then he had   fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully at  his cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him. “Anything remarkable on hand?” he asked. “Oh, no, Mr. Holmes—nothing very particular.”

“Then tell me about it.” Lestrade laughed. “Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that  there is something on my mind. And yet it is   such an absurd business, that I hesitated  to bother you about it. On the other hand,  

Although it is trivial, it is undoubtedly queer,  and I know that you have a taste for all that is   out of the common. But, in my opinion, it  comes more in Dr. Watson’s line than ours.” “Disease?” said I. “Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness,  

Too. You wouldn’t think there was anyone  living at this time of day who had such a   hatred of Napoleon the First that he would  break any image of him that he could see.” Holmes sank back in his chair. “That’s no business of mine,” said he.

“Exactly. That’s what I said. But then, when  the man commits burglary in order to break   images which are not his own, that brings it  away from the doctor and on to the policeman.” Holmes sat up again. “Burglary! This is more interesting.  Let me hear the details.”

Lestrade took out his official notebook  and refreshed his memory from its pages. “The first case reported was four days ago,” said  he. “It was at the shop of Morse Hudson, who has a   place for the sale of pictures and statues in the  Kennington Road. The assistant had left the front  

Shop for an instant, when he heard a crash, and  hurrying in he found a plaster bust of Napoleon,   which stood with several other works of art upon  the counter, lying shivered into fragments. He   rushed out into the road, but, although several  passers-by declared that they had noticed a man  

Run out of the shop, he could neither see anyone  nor could he find any means of identifying the   rascal. It seemed to be one of those senseless  acts of hooliganism which occur from time to time,  

And it was reported to the constable on the beat  as such. The plaster cast was not worth more than   a few shillings, and the whole affair appeared to  be too childish for any particular investigation. “The second case, however, was more serious, and  also more singular. It occurred only last night.

“In Kennington Road, and within a few  hundred yards of Morse Hudson’s shop,   there lives a well-known medical practitioner,  named Dr. Barnicot, who has one of the largest   practices upon the south side of the Thames. His  residence and principal consulting-room is at  

Kennington Road, but he has a branch surgery and  dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away.   This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer  of Napoleon, and his house is full of books,   pictures, and relics of the French Emperor. Some  little time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson  

Two duplicate plaster casts of the famous  head of Napoleon by the French sculptor,   Devine. One of these he placed in his  hall in the house at Kennington Road,   and the other on the mantelpiece of the surgery at  Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot came down  

This morning he was astonished to find that his  house had been burgled during the night, but that   nothing had been taken save the plaster head from  the hall. It had been carried out and had been   dashed savagely against the garden wall, under  which its splintered fragments were discovered.” Holmes rubbed his hands.

“This is certainly very novel,” said he. “I thought it would please you. But I have  not got to the end yet. Dr. Barnicot was due   at his surgery at twelve o’clock, and you can  imagine his amazement when, on arriving there,  

He found that the window had been opened in  the night and that the broken pieces of his   second bust were strewn all over the room.  It had been smashed to atoms where it stood.   In neither case were there any signs which  could give us a clue as to the criminal or  

Lunatic who had done the mischief. Now,  Mr. Holmes, you have got the facts.” “They are singular, not to say  grotesque,” said Holmes. “May I   ask whether the two busts smashed  in Dr. Barnicot’s rooms were the   exact duplicates of the one which was  destroyed in Morse Hudson’s shop?”

“They were taken from the same mould.” “Such a fact must tell against the theory that  the man who breaks them is influenced by any   general hatred of Napoleon. Considering  how many hundreds of statues of the great   Emperor must exist in London, it is too  much to suppose such a coincidence as  

That a promiscuous iconoclast should chance to  begin upon three specimens of the same bust.” “Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade. “On  the other hand, this Morse Hudson is the purveyor   of busts in that part of London, and these  three were the only ones which had been in  

His shop for years. So, although, as you say,  there are many hundreds of statues in London,   it is very probable that these three were  the only ones in that district. Therefore,   a local fanatic would begin with  them. What do you think, Dr. Watson?”

“There are no limits to the possibilities of  monomania,” I answered. “There is the condition   which the modern French psychologists have called  the idée fixe, which may be trifling in character,   and accompanied by complete sanity in every other  way. A man who had read deeply about Napoleon,  

Or who had possibly received some hereditary  family injury through the great war, might   conceivably form such an idée fixe and under its  influence be capable of any fantastic outrage.” “That won’t do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes,  shaking his head, “for no amount of idée fixe  

Would enable your interesting monomaniac to  find out where these busts were situated.” “Well, how do you explain it?” “I don’t attempt to do so. I would only  observe that there is a certain method in   the gentleman’s eccentric proceedings.  For example, in Dr. Barnicot’s hall,  

Where a sound might arouse the family, the  bust was taken outside before being broken,   whereas in the surgery, where there was less  danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it   stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, and  yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect  

That some of my most classic cases have had the  least promising commencement. You will remember,   Watson, how the dreadful business of the  Abernetty family was first brought to my   notice by the depth which the parsley had sunk  into the butter upon a hot day. I can’t afford,  

Therefore, to smile at your three broken busts,  Lestrade, and I shall be very much obliged   to you if you will let me hear of any fresh  development of so singular a chain of events.” The development for which my friend had  asked came in a quicker and an infinitely  

More tragic form than he could have imagined. I  was still dressing in my bedroom next morning,   when there was a tap at the door and Holmes  entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud: “Come instantly, 131, Pitt  Street, Kensington.—LESTRADE.” “What is it, then?” I asked.

“Don’t know—may be anything. But I suspect it  is the sequel of the story of the statues. In   that case our friend the image-breaker  has begun operations in another quarter   of London. There’s coffee on the table,  Watson, and I have a cab at the door.”

In half an hour we had reached Pitt  Street, a quiet little backwater just   beside one of the briskest currents of  London life. No. 131 was one of a row,   all flat-chested, respectable, and most  unromantic dwellings. As we drove up,  

We found the railings in front of the house  lined by a curious crowd. Holmes whistled. “By George! It’s attempted murder at the  least. Nothing less will hold the London   message-boy. There’s a deed of violence indicated  in that fellow’s round shoulders and outstretched  

Neck. What’s this, Watson? The top steps swilled  down and the other ones dry. Footsteps enough,   anyhow! Well, well, there’s Lestrade at the front  window, and we shall soon know all about it.” The official received us with a very grave  face and showed us into a sitting-room,  

Where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated  elderly man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown,   was pacing up and down. He was  introduced to us as the owner   of the house—Mr. Horace Harker,  of the Central Press Syndicate. “It’s the Napoleon bust business again,” said  Lestrade. “You seemed interested last night,  

Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps you would be glad   to be present now that the affair  has taken a very much graver turn.” “What has it turned to, then?” “To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell  these gentlemen exactly what has occurred?”

The man in the dressing-gown turned  upon us with a most melancholy face. “It’s an extraordinary thing,” said he,  “that all my life I have been collecting   other people’s news, and now that a real  piece of news has come my own way I am so  

Confused and bothered that I can’t put two words  together. If I had come in here as a journalist,   I should have interviewed myself and had two  columns in every evening paper. As it is,   I am giving away valuable copy by telling my story  over and over to a string of different people,  

And I can make no use of it myself. However,  I’ve heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if   you’ll only explain this queer business, I shall  be paid for my trouble in telling you the story.” Holmes sat down and listened.

“It all seems to centre round that bust of  Napoleon which I bought for this very room   about four months ago. I picked it up cheap from  Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street   Station. A great deal of my journalistic work is  done at night, and I often write until the early  

Morning. So it was to-day. I was sitting in my  den, which is at the back of the top of the house,   about three o’clock, when I was convinced that  I heard some sounds downstairs. I listened,   but they were not repeated, and I concluded that  they came from outside. Then suddenly, about five  

Minutes later, there came a most horrible yell—the  most dreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I   heard. It will ring in my ears as long as I live.  I sat frozen with horror for a minute or two. Then  

I seized the poker and went downstairs. When I  entered this room I found the window wide open,   and I at once observed that the bust was gone from  the mantelpiece. Why any burglar should take such   a thing passes my understanding, for it was only  a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.

“You can see for yourself that anyone going  out through that open window could reach   the front doorstep by taking a long stride.  This was clearly what the burglar had done,   so I went round and opened the door. Stepping  out into the dark, I nearly fell over a dead man,  

Who was lying there. I ran back for a light and  there was the poor fellow, a great gash in his   throat and the whole place swimming in blood. He  lay on his back, his knees drawn up, and his mouth  

Horribly open. I shall see him in my dreams. I had  just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I   must have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I  found the policeman standing over me in the hall.” “Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.

“There’s nothing to show who he was,” said  Lestrade. “You shall see the body at the mortuary,   but we have made nothing of it up to now.  He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful,   not more than thirty. He is poorly dressed,  and yet does not appear to be a labourer. A  

Horn-handled clasp knife was lying in  a pool of blood beside him. Whether it   was the weapon which did the deed, or  whether it belonged to the dead man,   I do not know. There was no name on his  clothing, and nothing in his pockets save  

An apple, some string, a shilling map of  London, and a photograph. Here it is.” It was evidently taken by a snapshot from  a small camera. It represented an alert,   sharp-featured simian man, with  thick eyebrows and a very peculiar   projection of the lower part of the  face, like the muzzle of a baboon.

“And what became of the bust?” asked Holmes,  after a careful study of this picture. “We had news of it just before you  came. It has been found in the front   garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It  

Was broken into fragments. I am going  round now to see it. Will you come?” “Certainly. I must just take one look round.”  He examined the carpet and the window. “The   fellow had either very long legs or was a most  active man,” said he. “With an area beneath,  

It was no mean feat to reach that window  ledge and open that window. Getting back   was comparatively simple. Are you coming with  us to see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?” The disconsolate journalist had  seated himself at a writing-table. “I must try and make something of it,” said he,  

“though I have no doubt that the first editions  of the evening papers are out already with full   details. It’s like my luck! You remember  when the stand fell at Doncaster? Well,   I was the only journalist in the stand, and my  journal the only one that had no account of it,  

For I was too shaken to write it. And now I’ll be  too late with a murder done on my own doorstep.” As we left the room, we heard his pen  travelling shrilly over the foolscap.

The spot where the fragments of the bust had been  found was only a few hundred yards away. For the   first time our eyes rested upon this presentment  of the great emperor, which seemed to raise such   frantic and destructive hatred in the mind of the  unknown. It lay scattered, in splintered shards,  

Upon the grass. Holmes picked up several of them  and examined them carefully. I was convinced,   from his intent face and his purposeful  manner, that at last he was upon a clue. “Well?” asked Lestrade. Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “And  yet—and yet—well, we have some suggestive facts to   act upon. The possession of this trifling bust was  worth more, in the eyes of this strange criminal,   than a human life. That is one point. Then  there is the singular fact that he did not  

Break it in the house, or immediately outside  the house, if to break it was his sole object.” “He was rattled and bustled by meeting this  other fellow. He hardly knew what he was doing.” “Well, that’s likely enough. But I wish  to call your attention very particularly  

To the position of this house, in the  garden of which the bust was destroyed.” Lestrade looked about him. “It was an empty house, and so he knew that  he would not be disturbed in the garden.” “Yes, but there is another empty house  farther up the street which he must have  

Passed before he came to this one. Why  did he not break it there, since it is   evident that every yard that he carried it  increased the risk of someone meeting him?” “I give it up,” said Lestrade. Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

“He could see what he was doing here, and  he could not there. That was his reason.” “By Jove! that’s true,” said the detective. “Now  that I come to think of it, Dr. Barnicot’s bust   was broken not far from his red lamp. Well,  Mr. Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?”

“To remember it—to docket it. We may  come on something later which will   bear upon it. What steps do you  propose to take now, Lestrade?” “The most practical way of getting at it,  in my opinion, is to identify the dead man.  

There should be no difficulty about that. When we  have found who he is and who his associates are,   we should have a good start in learning what he  was doing in Pitt Street last night, and who it  

Was who met him and killed him on the doorstep  of Mr. Horace Harker. Don’t you think so?” “No doubt; and yet it is not quite the  way in which I should approach the case.” “What would you do then?”

“Oh, you must not let me influence you in any  way. I suggest that you go on your line and I   on mine. We can compare notes afterwards,  and each will supplement the other.” “Very good,” said Lestrade.

“If you are going back to Pitt Street, you  might see Mr. Horace Harker. Tell him for me   that I have quite made up my mind, and that it  is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic,   with Napoleonic delusions, was in his house  last night. It will be useful for his article.” Lestrade stared.

“You don’t seriously believe that?” Holmes smiled. “Don’t I? Well, perhaps I don’t. But I am sure  that it will interest Mr. Horace Harker and the   subscribers of the Central Press Syndicate. Now,  Watson, I think that we shall find that we have a  

Long and rather complex day’s work before us.  I should be glad, Lestrade, if you could make   it convenient to meet us at Baker Street at six  o’clock this evening. Until then I should like   to keep this photograph, found in the dead  man’s pocket. It is possible that I may have  

To ask your company and assistance upon a small  expedition which will have be undertaken to-night,   if my chain of reasoning should prove to be  correct. Until then good-bye and good luck!” Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to  the High Street, where we stopped at the  

Shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had  been purchased. A young assistant informed   us that Mr. Harding would be absent until  afternoon, and that he was himself a newcomer,   who could give us no information. Holmes’s  face showed his disappointment and annoyance.

“Well, well, we can’t expect to have  it all our own way, Watson,” he said,   at last. “We must come back in the afternoon, if  Mr. Harding will not be here until then. I am,   as you have no doubt surmised, endeavouring to  trace these busts to their source, in order to  

Find if there is not something peculiar which may  account for their remarkable fate. Let us make   for Mr. Morse Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and  see if he can throw any light upon the problem.” A drive of an hour brought us to the  picture-dealer’s establishment. He  

Was a small, stout man with a  red face and a peppery manner. “Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir,” said he.  “What we pay rates and taxes for I don’t know,   when any ruffian can come in and break one’s  goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot  

His two statues. Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist  plot—that’s what I make it. No one but an   anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red  republicans—that’s what I call ’em. Who did I   get the statues from? I don’t see what that has  to do with it. Well, if you really want to know,  

I got them from Gelder & Co., in Church Street,  Stepney. They are a well-known house in the trade,   and have been this twenty years. How many had I?  Three—two and one are three—two of Dr. Barnicot’s,   and one smashed in broad daylight on my own  counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I don’t.  

Yes, I do, though. Why, it’s Beppo. He was a kind  of Italian piece-work man, who made himself useful   in the shop. He could carve a bit, and gild and  frame, and do odd jobs. The fellow left me last  

Week, and I’ve heard nothing of him since. No, I  don’t know where he came from nor where he went   to. I had nothing against him while he was here.  He was gone two days before the bust was smashed.” “Well, that’s all we could reasonably expect  from Morse Hudson,” said Holmes, as we emerged  

From the shop. “We have this Beppo as a common  factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington,   so that is worth a ten-mile drive. Now, Watson,  let us make for Gelder & Co., of Stepney,   the source and origin of the busts. I shall be  surprised if we don’t get some help down there.”

In rapid succession we passed through  the fringe of fashionable London,   hotel London, theatrical London, literary  London, commercial London, and, finally,   maritime London, till we came to a riverside city  of a hundred thousand souls, where the tenement   houses swelter and reek with the outcasts  of Europe. Here, in a broad thoroughfare,  

Once the abode of wealthy City merchants,  we found the sculpture works for which we   searched. Outside was a considerable yard full  of monumental masonry. Inside was a large room   in which fifty workers were carving or moulding.  The manager, a big blond German, received us  

Civilly and gave a clear answer to all Holmes’s  questions. A reference to his books showed that   hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble  copy of Devine’s head of Napoleon, but that the  

Three which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year  or so before had been half of a batch of six,   the other three being sent to Harding Brothers,  of Kensington. There was no reason why those six   should be different from any of the other casts.  He could suggest no possible cause why anyone  

Should wish to destroy them—in fact, he laughed at  the idea. Their wholesale price was six shillings,   but the retailer would get twelve or more. The  cast was taken in two moulds from each side of   the face, and then these two profiles of plaster  of Paris were joined together to make the complete  

Bust. The work was usually done by Italians, in  the room we were in. When finished, the busts   were put on a table in the passage to dry, and  afterwards stored. That was all he could tell us. But the production of the photograph had  a remarkable effect upon the manager. His  

Face flushed with anger, and his brows  knotted over his blue Teutonic eyes. “Ah, the rascal!” he cried. “Yes, indeed,  I know him very well. This has always been   a respectable establishment, and the only time  that we have ever had the police in it was over  

This very fellow. It was more than a year ago  now. He knifed another Italian in the street,   and then he came to the works  with the police on his heels,   and he was taken here. Beppo was his name—his  second name I never knew. Serve me right for  

Engaging a man with such a face. But  he was a good workman—one of the best.” “What did he get?” “The man lived and he got off with a year. I have  no doubt he is out now, but he has not dared to  

Show his nose here. We have a cousin of his here,  and I daresay he could tell you where he is.” “No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a  word to the cousin—not a word,   I beg of you. The matter is very important, and  the farther I go with it, the more important  

It seems to grow. When you referred in your  ledger to the sale of those casts I observed   that the date was June 3rd of last year. Could  you give me the date when Beppo was arrested?” “I could tell you roughly by the pay-list,”  the manager answered. “Yes,” he continued,  

After some turning over of pages,  “he was paid last on May 20th.” “Thank you,” said Holmes. “I don’t  think that I need intrude upon your   time and patience any more.” With a  last word of caution that he should   say nothing as to our researches, we  turned our faces westward once more.

The afternoon was far advanced before we were  able to snatch a hasty luncheon at a restaurant.   A news-bill at the entrance announced “Kensington  Outrage. Murder by a Madman,” and the contents of   the paper showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got  his account into print after all. Two columns  

Were occupied with a highly sensational and  flowery rendering of the whole incident. Holmes   propped it against the cruet-stand and read  it while he ate. Once or twice he chuckled. “This is all right, Watson,”  said he. “Listen to this:

“It is satisfactory to know that there can  be no difference of opinion upon this case,   since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most experienced  members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock   Holmes, the well-known consulting expert, have  each come to the conclusion that the grotesque  

Series of incidents, which have ended in so  tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy rather   than from deliberate crime. No explanation  save mental aberration can cover the facts. “The Press, Watson, is a  most valuable institution,   if you only know how to use it. And now, if  you have quite finished, we will hark back  

To Kensington and see what the manager of  Harding Brothers has to say on the matter.” The founder of that great emporium proved  to be a brisk, crisp little person,   very dapper and quick, with a  clear head and a ready tongue.

“Yes, sir, I have already read the account  in the evening papers. Mr. Horace Harker   is a customer of ours. We supplied him  with the bust some months ago. We ordered   three busts of that sort from Gelder & Co., of  Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh,  

I daresay by consulting our sales book we could  very easily tell you. Yes, we have the entries   here. One to Mr. Harker you see, and one to Mr.  Josiah Brown, of Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale,   Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of Lower  Grove Road, Reading. No, I have never seen this  

Face which you show me in the photograph.  You would hardly forget it, would you,   sir, for I’ve seldom seen an uglier. Have we any  Italians on the staff? Yes, sir, we have several   among our workpeople and cleaners. I daresay  they might get a peep at that sales book if  

They wanted to. There is no particular reason for  keeping a watch upon that book. Well, well, it’s   a very strange business, and I hope that you will  let me know if anything comes of your inquiries.” Holmes had taken several notes during Mr.  Harding’s evidence, and I could see that  

He was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which  affairs were taking. He made no remark, however,   save that, unless we hurried, we should be late  for our appointment with Lestrade. Sure enough,   when we reached Baker Street the detective was  already there, and we found him pacing up and down  

In a fever of impatience. His look of importance  showed that his day’s work had not been in vain. “Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?” “We have had a very busy day, and  not entirely a wasted one,” my   friend explained. “We have seen both  the retailers and also the wholesale  

Manufacturers. I can trace each of  the busts now from the beginning.” “The busts,” cried Lestrade. “Well,  well, you have your own methods,   Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not  for me to say a word against them,  

But I think I have done a better day’s work  than you. I have identified the dead man.” “You don’t say so?” “And found a cause for the crime.” “Splendid!” “We have an inspector who makes a specialty  of Saffron Hill and the Italian Quarter. Well,  

This dead man had some Catholic emblem round  his neck, and that, along with his colour,   made me think he was from the South. Inspector  Hill knew him the moment he caught sight of him.   His name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is  one of the greatest cut-throats in London. He is  

Connected with the Mafia, which, as you know, is  a secret political society, enforcing its decrees   by murder. Now, you see how the affair begins  to clear up. The other fellow is probably an   Italian also, and a member of the Mafia. He has  broken the rules in some fashion. Pietro is set  

Upon his track. Probably the photograph we found  in his pocket is the man himself, so that he may   not knife the wrong person. He dogs the fellow, he  sees him enter a house, he waits outside for him,   and in the scuffle he receives his own  death-wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

Holmes clapped his hands approvingly. “Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I   didn’t quite follow your explanation  of the destruction of the busts.” “The busts! You never can get those busts  out of your head. After all, that is nothing;  

Petty larceny, six months at the most. It is  the murder that we are really investigating,   and I tell you that I am gathering  all the threads into my hands.” “And the next stage?” “Is a very simple one. I shall go down with  Hill to the Italian Quarter, find the man  

Whose photograph we have got, and arrest him on  the charge of murder. Will you come with us?” “I think not. I fancy we can attain our end  in a simpler way. I can’t say for certain,   because it all depends—well, it all depends  upon a factor which is completely outside our  

Control. But I have great hopes—in fact,  the betting is exactly two to one—that if   you will come with us to-night I shall be  able to help you to lay him by the heels.” “In the Italian Quarter?”

“No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is  more likely to find him. If you will come with   me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade, I’ll promise  to go to the Italian Quarter with you to-morrow,  

And no harm will be done by the delay. And now  I think that a few hours’ sleep would do us all   good, for I do not propose to leave before eleven  o’clock, and it is unlikely that we shall be back  

Before morning. You’ll dine with us, Lestrade,  and then you are welcome to the sofa until it   is time for us to start. In the meantime, Watson,  I should be glad if you would ring for an express  

Messenger, for I have a letter to send and  it is important that it should go at once.” Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the  files of the old daily papers with which one of   our lumber-rooms was packed. When at last he  descended, it was with triumph in his eyes,  

But he said nothing to either of us as to the  result of his researches. For my own part,   I had followed step by step the methods by which  he had traced the various windings of this complex   case, and, though I could not yet perceive the  goal which we would reach, I understood clearly  

That Holmes expected this grotesque criminal to  make an attempt upon the two remaining busts,   one of which, I remembered, was at Chiswick.  No doubt the object of our journey was to catch   him in the very act, and I could not but admire  the cunning with which my friend had inserted a  

Wrong clue in the evening paper, so as to give  the fellow the idea that he could continue his   scheme with impunity. I was not surprised when  Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver   with me. He had himself picked up the loaded  hunting-crop, which was his favourite weapon.

A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and  in it we drove to a spot at the other side of   Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was directed  to wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded  

Road fringed with pleasant houses, each standing  in its own grounds. In the light of a street lamp   we read “Laburnum Villa” upon the gate-post  of one of them. The occupants had evidently   retired to rest, for all was dark save for  a fanlight over the hall door, which shed a  

Single blurred circle on to the garden path.  The wooden fence which separated the grounds   from the road threw a dense black shadow upon  the inner side, and here it was that we crouched. “I fear that you’ll have a long wait,” Holmes  whispered. “We may thank our stars that it  

Is not raining. I don’t think we can even  venture to smoke to pass the time. However,   it’s a two to one chance that we get  something to pay us for our trouble.” It proved, however, that our vigil was not to  be so long as Holmes had led us to fear, and it  

Ended in a very sudden and singular fashion. In  an instant, without the least sound to warn us   of his coming, the garden gate swung open, and a  lithe, dark figure, as swift and active as an ape,  

Rushed up the garden path. We saw it whisk past  the light thrown from over the door and disappear   against the black shadow of the house. There was  a long pause, during which we held our breath,   and then a very gentle creaking sound came to  our ears. The window was being opened. The noise  

Ceased, and again there was a long silence. The  fellow was making his way into the house. We saw   the sudden flash of a dark lantern inside the  room. What he sought was evidently not there,   for again we saw the flash through  another blind, and then through another.

“Let us get to the open window. We will nab  him as he climbs out,” Lestrade whispered. But before we could move, the man had emerged  again. As he came out into the glimmering patch   of light, we saw that he carried something white  under his arm. He looked stealthily all round him.  

The silence of the deserted street reassured him.  Turning his back upon us he laid down his burden,   and the next instant there was the sound  of a sharp tap, followed by a clatter and   rattle. The man was so intent upon what he  was doing that he never heard our steps as  

We stole across the grass plot. With the  bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back,   and an instant later Lestrade and I had him  by either wrist, and the handcuffs had been   fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous,  sallow face, with writhing, furious features,  

Glaring up at us, and I knew that it was indeed  the man of the photograph whom we had secured. But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was  giving his attention. Squatted on the doorstep,   he was engaged in most carefully examining  that which the man had brought from the  

House. It was a bust of Napoleon, like  the one which we had seen that morning,   and it had been broken into similar fragments.  Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to   the light, but in no way did it differ from  any other shattered piece of plaster. He had  

Just completed his examination when the  hall lights flew up, the door opened,   and the owner of the house, a jovial, rotund  figure in shirt and trousers, presented himself. “Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes. “Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock  Holmes? I had the note which you sent by the  

Express messenger, and I did exactly what you  told me. We locked every door on the inside   and awaited developments. Well, I’m very glad  to see that you have got the rascal. I hope,   gentlemen, that you will come  in and have some refreshment.” However, Lestrade was anxious to  get his man into safe quarters,  

So within a few minutes our cab had been summoned  and we were all four upon our way to London. Not   a word would our captive say, but he glared at  us from the shadow of his matted hair, and once,  

When my hand seemed within his reach, he snapped  at it like a hungry wolf. We stayed long enough   at the police-station to learn that a search  of his clothing revealed nothing save a few   shillings and a long sheath knife, the handle  of which bore copious traces of recent blood.

“That’s all right,” said Lestrade, as  we parted. “Hill knows all these gentry,   and he will give a name to him. You’ll  find that my theory of the Mafia will   work out all right. But I’m sure I am  exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Holmes,  

For the workmanlike way in which you laid hands  upon him. I don’t quite understand it all yet.” “I fear it is rather too late an hour for  explanations,” said Holmes. “Besides, there are   one or two details which are not finished off, and  it is one of those cases which are worth working  

Out to the very end. If you will come round once  more to my rooms at six o’clock to-morrow, I think   I shall be able to show you that even now you have  not grasped the entire meaning of this business,   which presents some features which make it  absolutely original in the history of crime.  

If ever I permit you to chronicle any more of  my little problems, Watson, I foresee that you   will enliven your pages by an account of the  singular adventure of the Napoleonic busts.” When we met again next evening, Lestrade was  furnished with much information concerning our  

Prisoner. His name, it appeared, was Beppo, second  name unknown. He was a well-known ne’er-do-well   among the Italian colony. He had once been a  skilful sculptor and had earned an honest living,   but he had taken to evil courses and had twice  already been in jail—once for a petty theft,  

And once, as we had already heard, for  stabbing a fellow-countryman. He could   talk English perfectly well. His reasons  for destroying the busts were still unknown,   and he refused to answer any questions upon the  subject, but the police had discovered that these  

Same busts might very well have been made by his  own hands, since he was engaged in this class of   work at the establishment of Gelder & Co. To all  this information, much of which we already knew,   Holmes listened with polite attention, but  I, who knew him so well, could clearly see  

That his thoughts were elsewhere, and I  detected a mixture of mingled uneasiness   and expectation beneath that mask which he was  wont to assume. At last he started in his chair,   and his eyes brightened. There had been a  ring at the bell. A minute later we heard  

Steps upon the stairs, and an elderly red-faced  man with grizzled side-whiskers was ushered in.   In his right hand he carried an old-fashioned  carpet-bag, which he placed upon the table. “Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?” My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr.  Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?” said he.

“Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late,   but the trains were awkward. You wrote to  me about a bust that is in my possession.” “Exactly.” “I have your letter here. You said, ‘I desire  to possess a copy of Devine’s Napoleon,  

And am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the  one which is in your possession.’ Is that right?” “Certainly.” “I was very much surprised at your letter,   for I could not imagine how you  knew that I owned such a thing.”

“Of course you must have been surprised, but  the explanation is very simple. Mr. Harding,   of Harding Brothers, said that they had sold you  their last copy, and he gave me your address.” “Oh, that was it, was it? Did  he tell you what I paid for it?” “No, he did not.”

“Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich  one. I only gave fifteen shillings for the bust,   and I think you ought to know that  before I take ten pounds from you. “I am sure the scruple does you honour,  

Mr. Sandeford. But I have named that  price, so I intend to stick to it.” “Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr.  Holmes. I brought the bust up with me,   as you asked me to do. Here it is!” He opened  his bag, and at last we saw placed upon our  

Table a complete specimen of that bust which we  had already seen more than once in fragments. Holmes took a paper from his pocket and  laid a ten-pound note upon the table. “You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford,  in the presence of these witnesses. It is simply  

To say that you transfer every possible right  that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a   methodical man, you see, and you never know what  turn events might take afterwards. Thank you,   Mr. Sandeford; here is your money,  and I wish you a very good evening.”

When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock  Holmes’s movements were such as to rivet our   attention. He began by taking a clean white cloth  from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then   he placed his newly acquired bust in the centre of  the cloth. Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop  

And struck Napoleon a sharp blow on the top  of the head. The figure broke into fragments,   and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered  remains. Next instant, with a loud shout of   triumph he held up one splinter, in which a round,  dark object was fixed like a plum in a pudding.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you  to the famous black pearl of the Borgias.” Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment,  and then, with a spontaneous impulse,   we both broke at clapping, as at the well-wrought  crisis of a play. A flush of colour sprang to  

Holmes’s pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like  the master dramatist who receives the homage   of his audience. It was at such moments that for  an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine,   and betrayed his human love for admiration  and applause. The same singularly proud  

And reserved nature which turned away  with disdain from popular notoriety   was capable of being moved to its depths by  spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend. “Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “it is the most  famous pearl now existing in the world,  

And it has been my good fortune, by a connected  chain of inductive reasoning, to trace it from   the Prince of Colonna’s bedroom at the Dacre  Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of this,   the last of the six busts of Napoleon which were  manufactured by Gelder & Co., of Stepney. You  

Will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by  the disappearance of this valuable jewel and the   vain efforts of the London police to recover  it. I was myself consulted upon the case,   but I was unable to throw any light upon it.  Suspicion fell upon the maid of the Princess,  

Who was an Italian, and it was proved that  she had a brother in London, but we failed   to trace any connection between them. The maid’s  name was Lucretia Venucci, and there is no doubt   in my mind that this Pietro who was murdered two  nights ago was the brother. I have been looking  

Up the dates in the old files of the paper, and  I find that the disappearance of the pearl was   exactly two days before the arrest of Beppo, for  some crime of violence—an event which took place   in the factory of Gelder & Co., at the very  moment when these busts were being made. Now  

You clearly see the sequence of events, though  you see them, of course, in the inverse order   to the way in which they presented themselves  to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession.   He may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have  been Pietro’s confederate, he may have been the  

Go-between of Pietro and his sister. It is of no  consequence to us which is the correct solution. “The main fact is that he had the pearl, and  at that moment, when it was on his person,   he was pursued by the police. He made  for the factory in which he worked,  

And he knew that he had only a few minutes in  which to conceal this enormously valuable prize,   which would otherwise be found on him when he  was searched. Six plaster casts of Napoleon were   drying in the passage. One of them was still  soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful workman,  

Made a small hole in the wet plaster, dropped  in the pearl, and with a few touches covered   over the aperture once more. It was an admirable  hiding-place. No one could possibly find it. But   Beppo was condemned to a year’s imprisonment, and  in the meanwhile his six busts were scattered over  

London. He could not tell which contained his  treasure. Only by breaking them could he see.   Even shaking would tell him nothing, for as the  plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl   would adhere to it—as, in fact, it has done. Beppo  did not despair, and he conducted his search with  

Considerable ingenuity and perseverance.  Through a cousin who works with Gelder,   he found out the retail firms who had bought  the busts. He managed to find employment with   Morse Hudson, and in that way tracked down  three of them. The pearl was not there. Then,  

With the help of some Italian employee, he  succeeded in finding out where the other   three busts had gone. The first was at Harker’s.  There he was dogged by his confederate, who held   Beppo responsible for the loss of the pearl, and  he stabbed him in the scuffle which followed.”

“If he was his confederate, why should  he carry his photograph?” I asked. “As a means of tracing him, if he wished to  inquire about him from any third person. That   was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder  I calculated that Beppo would probably hurry  

Rather than delay his movements. He would  fear that the police would read his secret,   and so he hastened on before they  should get ahead of him. Of course,   I could not say that he had not found the pearl  in Harker’s bust. I had not even concluded  

For certain that it was the pearl, but it was  evident to me that he was looking for something,   since he carried the bust past the other  houses in order to break it in the garden   which had a lamp overlooking it. Since Harker’s  bust was one in three, the chances were exactly  

As I told you—two to one against the pearl  being inside it. There remained two busts,   and it was obvious that he would go for the London  one first. I warned the inmates of the house,   so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went  down, with the happiest results. By that time,  

Of course, I knew for certain that it was the  Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the   murdered man linked the one event with the other.  There only remained a single bust—the Reading   one—and the pearl must be there. I bought it in  your presence from the owner—and there it lies.”

We sat in silence for a moment. “Well,” said Lestrade, “I’ve seen you handle a  good many cases, Mr. Holmes, but I don’t know   that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than that.  We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No,  

Sir, we are very proud of you, and if you  come down to-morrow, there’s not a man, from   the oldest inspector to the youngest constable,  who wouldn’t be glad to shake you by the hand.” “Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as  he turned away, it seemed to me that he was  

More nearly moved by the softer human emotions  than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was   the cold and practical thinker once more. “Put  the pearl in the safe, Watson,” said he, “and   get out the papers of the Conk-Singleton forgery  case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If any little problem  

Comes your way, I shall be happy, if I can,  to give you a hint or two as to its solution.” END OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE STUDENTS It was in the year ’95 that a combination  of events, into which I need not enter,  

Caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend  some weeks in one of our great university towns,   and it was during this time that the small  but instructive adventure which I am about   to relate befell us. It will be obvious that any  details which would help the reader exactly to  

Identify the college or the criminal would  be injudicious and offensive. So painful   a scandal may well be allowed to die out. With  due discretion the incident itself may, however,   be described, since it serves to illustrate  some of those qualities for which my friend  

Was remarkable. I will endeavour, in  my statement, to avoid such terms as   would serve to limit the events to any particular  place, or give a clue as to the people concerned. We were residing at the time in furnished  lodgings close to a library where Sherlock Holmes  

Was pursuing some laborious researches in early  English charters—researches which led to results   so striking that they may be the subject of one of  my future narratives. Here it was that one evening   we received a visit from an acquaintance, Mr.  Hilton Soames, tutor and lecturer at the College  

Of St. Luke’s. Mr. Soames was a tall, spare  man, of a nervous and excitable temperament.   I had always known him to be restless in his  manner, but on this particular occasion he was   in such a state of uncontrollable agitation that  it was clear something very unusual had occurred.

“I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare  me a few hours of your valuable time. We   have had a very painful incident at  St. Luke’s, and really, but for the   happy chance of your being in town, I  should have been at a loss what to do.”

“I am very busy just now, and I  desire no distractions,” my friend   answered. “I should much prefer that  you called in the aid of the police.” “No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly  impossible. When once the law is evoked it  

Cannot be stayed again, and this is just one of  those cases where, for the credit of the college,   it is most essential to avoid scandal. Your  discretion is as well-known as your powers,  

And you are the one man in the world who can help  me. I beg you, Mr. Holmes, to do what you can.” My friend’s temper had not improved since he  had been deprived of the congenial surroundings   of Baker Street. Without his scrapbooks,  his chemicals, and his homely untidiness,  

He was an uncomfortable man. He shrugged  his shoulders in ungracious acquiescence,   while our visitor in hurried words and with much  excitable gesticulation poured forth his story. “I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow  is the first day of the examination for the  

Fortescue Scholarship. I am one of the examiners.  My subject is Greek, and the first of the papers   consists of a large passage of Greek translation  which the candidate has not seen. This passage   is printed on the examination paper, and it would  naturally be an immense advantage if the candidate  

Could prepare it in advance. For this reason,  great care is taken to keep the paper secret. “To-day, about three o’clock, the proofs of this  paper arrived from the printers. The exercise   consists of half a chapter of Thucydides. I had  to read it over carefully, as the text must be  

Absolutely correct. At four-thirty my task was not  yet completed. I had, however, promised to take   tea in a friend’s rooms, so I left the proof upon  my desk. I was absent rather more than an hour. “You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college  doors are double—a green baize one within and  

A heavy oak one without. As I approached my  outer door, I was amazed to see a key in it.   For an instant I imagined that I had left  my own there, but on feeling in my pocket   I found that it was all right. The only  duplicate which existed, so far as I knew,  

Was that which belonged to my servant, Bannister—a  man who has looked after my room for ten years,   and whose honesty is absolutely above suspicion.  I found that the key was indeed his, that he had   entered my room to know if I wanted tea, and  that he had very carelessly left the key in  

The door when he came out. His visit to my room  must have been within a very few minutes of my   leaving it. His forgetfulness about the key would  have mattered little upon any other occasion,   but on this one day it has produced  the most deplorable consequences.

“The moment I looked at my table, I was aware  that someone had rummaged among my papers. The   proof was in three long slips. I had left them all  together. Now, I found that one of them was lying  

On the floor, one was on the side table near the  window, and the third was where I had left it.” Holmes stirred for the first time. “The first page on the floor, the second in the  window, the third where you left it,” said he.

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me.  How could you possibly know that?” “Pray continue your very interesting statement.” “For an instant I imagined that  Bannister had taken the unpardonable   liberty of examining my papers. He denied  it, however, with the utmost earnestness,  

And I am convinced that he was speaking the  truth. The alternative was that someone passing   had observed the key in the door, had known  that I was out, and had entered to look at   the papers. A large sum of money is at stake,  for the scholarship is a very valuable one,  

And an unscrupulous man might very well run a risk  in order to gain an advantage over his fellows. “Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He  had nearly fainted when we found that the papers   had undoubtedly been tampered with. I gave him a  little brandy and left him collapsed in a chair,  

While I made a most careful examination of  the room. I soon saw that the intruder had   left other traces of his presence besides  the rumpled papers. On the table in the   window were several shreds from a pencil which  had been sharpened. A broken tip of lead was  

Lying there also. Evidently the rascal  had copied the paper in a great hurry,   had broken his pencil, and had been  compelled to put a fresh point to it.” “Excellent!” said Holmes, who was  recovering his good-humour as his   attention became more engrossed by the  case. “Fortune has been your friend.”

“This was not all. I have a new writing-table  with a fine surface of red leather. I am prepared   to swear, and so is Bannister, that it was  smooth and unstained. Now I found a clean   cut in it about three inches long—not a mere  scratch, but a positive cut. Not only this,  

But on the table I found a small ball of black  dough or clay, with specks of something which   looks like sawdust in it. I am convinced  that these marks were left by the man who   rifled the papers. There were no footmarks and  no other evidence as to his identity. I was at  

My wits’ end, when suddenly the happy thought  occurred to me that you were in the town,   and I came straight round to put the  matter into your hands. Do help me,   Mr. Holmes. You see my dilemma. Either I must  find the man or else the examination must be  

Postponed until fresh papers are prepared, and  since this cannot be done without explanation,   there will ensue a hideous scandal, which  will throw a cloud not only on the college,   but on the university. Above all things, I desire  to settle the matter quietly and discreetly.”

“I shall be happy to look into it and to  give you such advice as I can,” said Holmes,   rising and putting on his overcoat.  “The case is not entirely devoid   of interest. Had anyone visited you in  your room after the papers came to you?” “Yes, young Daulat Ras, an Indian student,  

Who lives on the same stair, came in to ask  me some particulars about the examination.” “For which he was entered?” “Yes.” “And the papers were on your table?” “To the best of my belief, they were rolled up.” “But might be recognized as proofs?” “Possibly.” “No one else in your room?” “No.”

“Did anyone know that these  proofs would be there?” “No one save the printer.” “Did this man Bannister know?” “No, certainly not. No one knew.” “Where is Bannister now?” “He was very ill, poor fellow. I  left him collapsed in the chair.   I was in such a hurry to come to you.”

“You left your door open?” “I locked up the papers first.” “Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames: that,   unless the Indian student recognized the  roll as being proofs, the man who tampered   with them came upon them accidentally  without knowing that they were there.” “So it seems to me.” Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.

“Well,” said he, “let us go round.  Not one of your cases, Watson—mental,   not physical. All right; come if you want  to. Now, Mr. Soames—at your disposal!” The sitting-room of our client opened by a  long, low, latticed window on to the ancient  

Lichen-tinted court of the old college. A Gothic  arched door led to a worn stone staircase. On   the ground floor was the tutor’s room. Above were  three students, one on each story. It was already   twilight when we reached the scene of our problem.  Holmes halted and looked earnestly at the window.  

Then he approached it, and, standing on tiptoe  with his neck craned, he looked into the room. “He must have entered through  the door. There is no opening   except the one pane,” said our learned guide. “Dear me!” said Holmes, and he smiled  in a singular way as he glanced at our  

Companion. “Well, if there is nothing to  be learned here, we had best go inside.” The lecturer unlocked the outer door  and ushered us into his room. We   stood at the entrance while Holmes  made an examination of the carpet.

“I am afraid there are no signs here,” said he.  “One could hardly hope for any upon so dry a   day. Your servant seems to have quite recovered.  You left him in a chair, you say. Which chair?” “By the window there.”

“I see. Near this little table. You can come  in now. I have finished with the carpet. Let   us take the little table first. Of course, what  has happened is very clear. The man entered and   took the papers, sheet by sheet, from the central  table. He carried them over to the window table,  

Because from there he could see if you came across  the courtyard, and so could effect an escape.” “As a matter of fact, he could not,” said  Soames, “for I entered by the side door.” “Ah, that’s good! Well, anyhow, that was  in his mind. Let me see the three strips.  

No finger impressions—no! Well, he carried  over this one first, and he copied it. How   long would it take him to do that, using every  possible contraction? A quarter of an hour,   not less. Then he tossed it down and  seized the next. He was in the midst  

Of that when your return caused him to  make a very hurried retreat—very hurried,   since he had not time to replace the papers  which would tell you that he had been there.   You were not aware of any hurrying feet on  the stair as you entered the outer door?” “No, I can’t say I was.”

“Well, he wrote so furiously that he  broke his pencil, and had, as you observe,   to sharpen it again. This is of interest,  Watson. The pencil was not an ordinary   one. It was above the usual size, with a  soft lead, the outer colour was dark blue,  

The maker’s name was printed in silver  lettering, and the piece remaining is only   about an inch and a half long. Look for such  a pencil, Mr. Soames, and you have got your   man. When I add that he possesses a large and  very blunt knife, you have an additional aid.”

Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed  by this flood of information. “I can   follow the other points,” said he, “but  really, in this matter of the length——” Holmes held out a small chip with the letters  NN and a space of clear wood after them. “You see?” “No, I fear that even now——”

“Watson, I have always done you an injustice.  There are others. What could this NN be? It is   at the end of a word. You are aware that Johann  Faber is the most common maker’s name. Is it not  

Clear that there is just as much of the pencil  left as usually follows the Johann?” He held   the small table sideways to the electric  light. “I was hoping that if the paper on   which he wrote was thin, some trace of it might  come through upon this polished surface. No,  

I see nothing. I don’t think there is  anything more to be learned here. Now   for the central table. This small pellet is,  I presume, the black, doughy mass you spoke   of. Roughly pyramidal in shape and hollowed  out, I perceive. As you say, there appear to  

Be grains of sawdust in it. Dear me, this is  very interesting. And the cut—a positive tear,   I see. It began with a thin scratch and ended  in a jagged hole. I am much indebted to you   for directing my attention to this case,  Mr. Soames. Where does that door lead to?” “To my bedroom.”

“Have you been in it since your adventure?” “No, I came straight away for you.” “I should like to have a glance round. What a  charming, old-fashioned room! Perhaps you will   kindly wait a minute, until I have examined the  floor. No, I see nothing. What about this curtain?  

You hang your clothes behind it. If anyone were  forced to conceal himself in this room he must   do it there, since the bed is too low and the  wardrobe too shallow. No one there, I suppose?” As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware,  from some little rigidity and alertness  

Of his attitude, that he was prepared  for an emergency. As a matter of fact,   the drawn curtain disclosed nothing  but three or four suits of clothes   hanging from a line of pegs. Holmes turned  away, and stooped suddenly to the floor. “Halloa! What’s this?” said he.

It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like  stuff, exactly like the one upon the table of   the study. Holmes held it out on his open  palm in the glare of the electric light. “Your visitor seems to have left traces in your   bedroom as well as in your  sitting-room, Mr. Soames.”

“What could he have wanted there?” “I think it is clear enough. You  came back by an unexpected way,   and so he had no warning until you were at  the very door. What could he do? He caught   up everything which would betray him, and he  rushed into your bedroom to conceal himself.”

“Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to  tell me that, all the time I was talking   to Bannister in this room, we had the  man prisoner if we had only known it?” “So I read it.” “Surely there is another alternative,   Mr. Holmes. I don’t know whether  you observed my bedroom window?”

“Lattice-paned, lead framework,   three separate windows, one swinging on  hinge, and large enough to admit a man.” “Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the  courtyard so as to be partly invisible. The   man might have effected his entrance there,  left traces as he passed through the bedroom,  

And finally, finding the door  open, have escaped that way.” Holmes shook his head impatiently. “Let us be practical,” said he. “I  understand you to say that there are   three students who use this stair, and  are in the habit of passing your door?” “Yes, there are.” “And they are all in for this examination?”

“Yes.” “Have you any reason to suspect any  one of them more than the others?” Soames hesitated. “It is a very delicate question,” said he. “One   hardly likes to throw suspicion  where there are no proofs.” “Let us hear the suspicions.  I will look after the proofs.”

“I will tell you, then, in a few words the  character of the three men who inhabit these   rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist, a fine  scholar and athlete, plays in the Rugby team and  

The cricket team for the college, and got his Blue  for the hurdles and the long jump. He is a fine,   manly fellow. His father was the notorious Sir  Jabez Gilchrist, who ruined himself on the turf.   My scholar has been left very poor, but he is  hard-working and industrious. He will do well.

“The second floor is inhabited by  Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a quiet,   inscrutable fellow; as most of those  Indians are. He is well up in his work,   though his Greek is his weak  subject. He is steady and methodical.

“The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren.  He is a brilliant fellow when he chooses to   work—one of the brightest intellects of the  university; but he is wayward, dissipated,   and unprincipled. He was nearly expelled  over a card scandal in his first year. He  

Has been idling all this term, and he must  look forward with dread to the examination.” “Then it is he whom you suspect?” “I dare not go so far as that. But, of the  three, he is perhaps the least unlikely.” “Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have  a look at your servant, Bannister.”

He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven,  grizzly-haired fellow of fifty. He was still   suffering from this sudden disturbance of  the quiet routine of his life. His plump   face was twitching with his nervousness,  and his fingers could not keep still. “We are investigating this unhappy  business, Bannister,” said his master. “Yes, sir.”

“I understand,” said Holmes, “that  you left your key in the door?” “Yes, sir.” “Was it not very extraordinary  that you should do this on the   very day when there were these papers inside?” “It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have  occasionally done the same thing at other times.”

“When did you enter the room?” “It was about half-past four.  That is Mr. Soames’ tea time.” “How long did you stay?” “When I saw that he was  absent, I withdrew at once.” “Did you look at these papers on the table?” “No, sir—certainly not.” “How came you to leave the key in the door?”

“I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I  would come back for the key. Then I forgot.” “Has the outer door a spring lock?” “No, sir.” “Then it was open all the time?” “Yes, sir.” “Anyone in the room could get out?” “Yes, sir.”

“When Mr. Soames returned and called  for you, you were very much disturbed?” “Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during   the many years that I have been  here. I nearly fainted, sir.” “So I understand. Where were  you when you began to feel bad?” “Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door.”

“That is singular, because you sat  down in that chair over yonder near   the corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?” “I don’t know, sir, it didn’t  matter to me where I sat.” “I really don’t think he knew much about it, Mr.  Holmes. He was looking very bad—quite ghastly.”

“You stayed here when your master left?” “Only for a minute or so. Then I  locked the door and went to my room.” “Whom do you suspect?” “Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I  don’t believe there is any gentleman in  

This university who is capable of profiting by  such an action. No, sir, I’ll not believe it.” “Thank you, that will do,” said Holmes.  “Oh, one more word. You have not mentioned   to any of the three gentlemen whom  you attend that anything is amiss?” “No, sir—not a word.” “You haven’t seen any of them?”

“No, sir.” “Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take  a walk in the quadrangle, if you please.” Three yellow squares of light shone  above us in the gathering gloom. “Your three birds are all in  their nests,” said Holmes,   looking up. “Halloa! What’s that?  One of them seems restless enough.”

It was the Indian, whose dark  silhouette appeared suddenly   upon his blind. He was pacing  swiftly up and down his room. “I should like to have a peep at each  of them,” said Holmes. “Is it possible?” “No difficulty in the world,” Soames  answered. “This set of rooms is quite  

The oldest in the college, and  it is not unusual for visitors   to go over them. Come along, and  I will personally conduct you.” “No names, please!” said Holmes, as we knocked  at Gilchrist’s door. A tall, flaxen-haired,   slim young fellow opened it, and made us welcome  when he understood our errand. There were some  

Really curious pieces of mediæval domestic  architecture within. Holmes was so charmed with   one of them that he insisted on drawing it in his  notebook, broke his pencil, had to borrow one from   our host and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen  his own. The same curious accident happened  

To him in the rooms of the Indian—a silent,  little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us askance,   and was obviously glad when Holmes’s architectural  studies had come to an end. I could not see that   in either case Holmes had come upon the clue for  which he was searching. Only at the third did our  

Visit prove abortive. The outer door would not  open to our knock, and nothing more substantial   than a torrent of bad language came from behind  it. “I don’t care who you are. You can go to   blazes!” roared the angry voice. “Tomorrow’s  the exam, and I won’t be drawn by anyone.”

“A rude fellow,” said our guide, flushing with  anger as we withdrew down the stair. “Of course,   he did not realize that it was I who  was knocking, but none the less his   conduct was very uncourteous, and, indeed,  under the circumstances rather suspicious.” Holmes’s response was a curious one.

“Can you tell me his exact height?” he asked. “Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake  to say. He is taller than the Indian,   not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose  five foot six would be about it.” “That is very important,” said Holmes. “And  now, Mr. Soames, I wish you good-night.”

Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment  and dismay. “Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, you   are surely not going to leave me in this abrupt  fashion! You don’t seem to realize the position.   To-morrow is the examination. I must take some  definite action to-night. I cannot allow the  

Examination to be held if one of the papers has  been tampered with. The situation must be faced.” “You must leave it as it is. I shall drop  round early to-morrow morning and chat the   matter over. It is possible that I may  be in a position then to indicate some  

Course of action. Meanwhile, you  change nothing—nothing at all.” “Very good, Mr. Holmes.” “You can be perfectly easy in your mind.  We shall certainly find some way out of   your difficulties. I will take the black clay  with me, also the pencil cuttings. Good-bye.”

When we were out in the darkness of  the quadrangle, we again looked up   at the windows. The Indian still paced  his room. The others were invisible. “Well, Watson, what do you think of it?”  Holmes asked, as we came out into the main  

Street. “Quite a little parlour game—sort  of three-card trick, is it not? There are   your three men. It must be one of them.  You take your choice. Which is yours?” “The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He  is the one with the worst record. And  

Yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why  should he be pacing his room all the time?” “There is nothing in that. Many men do it when  they are trying to learn anything by heart.” “He looked at us in a queer way.”

“So would you, if a flock of strangers came in  on you when you were preparing for an examination   next day, and every moment was of value.  No, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too,   and knives—all was satisfactory.  But that fellow does puzzle me.” “Who?”

“Why, Bannister, the servant.  What’s his game in the matter?” “He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man.” “So he did me. That’s the puzzling part.  Why should a perfectly honest man—well,   well, here’s a large stationer’s.  We shall begin our researches here.” There were only four stationers  of any consequences in the town,  

And at each Holmes produced his pencil chips,  and bid high for a duplicate. All were agreed   that one could be ordered, but that it  was not a usual size of pencil and that   it was seldom kept in stock. My friend did  not appear to be depressed by his failure,  

But shrugged his shoulders  in half-humorous resignation. “No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and  only final clue, has run to nothing. But,   indeed, I have little doubt that we can build up  a sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear  

Fellow, it is nearly nine, and the landlady  babbled of green peas at seven-thirty. What   with your eternal tobacco, Watson, and your  irregularity at meals, I expect that you will   get notice to quit, and that I shall share your  downfall—not, however, before we have solved  

The problem of the nervous tutor, the careless  servant, and the three enterprising students.” Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that  day, though he sat lost in thought for a long time   after our belated dinner. At eight in the morning,  he came into my room just as I finished my toilet.

“Well, Watson,” said he, “it is time we went down  to St. Luke’s. Can you do without breakfast?” “Certainly.” “Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until  we are able to tell him something positive.” “Have you anything positive to tell him?” “I think so.” “You have formed a conclusion?”

“Yes, my dear Watson, I have solved the mystery.” “But what fresh evidence could you have got?” “Aha! It is not for nothing that I have  turned myself out of bed at the untimely   hour of six. I have put in two hours’  hard work and covered at least five miles,  

With something to show for it. Look at that!” He held out his hand. On the palm were  three little pyramids of black, doughy clay. “Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday.” “And one more this morning. It is a fair  argument that wherever No. 3 came from is  

Also the source of Nos. 1 and 2. Eh, Watson? Well,  come along and put friend Soames out of his pain.” The unfortunate tutor was certainly  in a state of pitiable agitation when   we found him in his chambers. In a few  hours the examination would commence,  

And he was still in the dilemma between making the  facts public and allowing the culprit to compete   for the valuable scholarship. He could hardly  stand still so great was his mental agitation,   and he ran towards Holmes with  two eager hands outstretched. “Thank heaven that you have  come! I feared that you had  

Given it up in despair. What am I to  do? Shall the examination proceed?” “Yes, let it proceed, by all means.” “But this rascal?—” “He shall not compete.” “You know him?” “I think so. If this matter is not to become  public, we must give ourselves certain powers  

And resolve ourselves into a small private  court-martial. You there, if you please,   Soames! Watson, you here! I’ll take the  armchair in the middle. I think that we   are now sufficiently imposing to strike terror  into a guilty breast. Kindly ring the bell!”

Bannister entered, and shrank back in evident  surprise and fear at our judicial appearance. “You will kindly close the  door,” said Holmes. “Now,   Bannister, will you please tell us  the truth about yesterday’s incident?” The man turned white to the roots of his hair. “I have told you everything, sir.” “Nothing to add?”

“Nothing at all, sir.” “Well, then, I must make some suggestions to  you. When you sat down on that chair yesterday,   did you do so in order to conceal some object  which would have shown who had been in the room?” Bannister’s face was ghastly. “No, sir, certainly not.”

“It is only a suggestion,” said  Holmes, suavely. “I frankly admit   that I am unable to prove it. But it seems  probable enough, since the moment that Mr.   Soames’s back was turned, you released  the man who was hiding in that bedroom.” Bannister licked his dry lips. “There was no man, sir.”

“Ah, that’s a pity, Bannister. Up to  now you may have spoken the truth,   but now I know that you have lied.” The man’s face set in sullen defiance. “There was no man, sir.” “Come, come, Bannister!” “No, sir, there was no one.”

“In that case, you can give us no further  information. Would you please remain in the   room? Stand over there near the bedroom door. Now,  Soames, I am going to ask you to have the great   kindness to go up to the room of young Gilchrist,  and to ask him to step down into yours.”

An instant later the tutor returned,  bringing with him the student. He was   a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and  agile, with a springy step and a pleasant,   open face. His troubled blue  eyes glanced at each of us,  

And finally rested with an expression of blank  dismay upon Bannister in the farther corner. “Just close the door,” said Holmes. “Now,  Mr. Gilchrist, we are all quite alone here,   and no one need ever know one word  of what passes between us. We can  

Be perfectly frank with each other. We  want to know, Mr. Gilchrist, how you,   an honourable man, ever came to commit  such an action as that of yesterday?” The unfortunate young man staggered back, and cast  a look full of horror and reproach at Bannister.

“No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir, I never said  a word—never one word!” cried the servant. “No, but you have now,” said Holmes. “Now,  sir, you must see that after Bannister’s words   your position is hopeless, and that your  only chance lies in a frank confession.”

For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand,  tried to control his writhing features.   The next he had thrown himself  on his knees beside the table,   and burying his face in his hands, he had  burst into a storm of passionate sobbing.

“Come, come,” said Holmes, kindly, “it is  human to err, and at least no one can accuse   you of being a callous criminal. Perhaps it  would be easier for you if I were to tell   Mr. Soames what occurred, and you can check  me where I am wrong. Shall I do so? Well,  

Well, don’t trouble to answer. Listen,  and see that I do you no injustice. “From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you  said to me that no one, not even Bannister,   could have told that the papers were  in your room, the case began to take  

A definite shape in my mind. The printer one  could, of course, dismiss. He could examine   the papers in his own office. The Indian I also  thought nothing of. If the proofs were in a roll,   he could not possibly know what they were. On the  other hand, it seemed an unthinkable coincidence  

That a man should dare to enter the room, and  that by chance on that very day the papers were on   the table. I dismissed that. The man who entered  knew that the papers were there. How did he know? “When I approached your room, I examined  the window. You amused me by supposing that  

I was contemplating the possibility  of someone having in broad daylight,   under the eyes of all these opposite rooms,  forced himself through it. Such an idea was   absurd. I was measuring how tall a man would  need to be in order to see, as he passed,  

What papers were on the central table. I am six  feet high, and I could do it with an effort. No   one less than that would have a chance. Already  you see I had reason to think that, if one of your  

Three students was a man of unusual height,  he was the most worth watching of the three. “I entered, and I took you into my confidence  as to the suggestions of the side table. Of the   centre table I could make nothing, until in  your description of Gilchrist you mentioned  

That he was a long-distance jumper. Then  the whole thing came to me in an instant,   and I only needed certain corroborative  proofs, which I speedily obtained. “What happened was this. This young fellow had  employed his afternoon at the athletic grounds,   where he had been practising the jump.  He returned carrying his jumping-shoes,  

Which are provided, as you are aware, with several  sharp spikes. As he passed your window he saw,   by means of his great height, these proofs  upon your table, and conjectured what they   were. No harm would have been done had  it not been that, as he passed your door,  

He perceived the key which had been left by  the carelessness of your servant. A sudden   impulse came over him to enter, and see if  they were indeed the proofs. It was not a   dangerous exploit for he could always pretend  that he had simply looked in to ask a question.

“Well, when he saw that they were indeed  the proofs, it was then that he yielded to   temptation. He put his shoes on the table. What  was it you put on that chair near the window?” “Gloves,” said the young man.

Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. “He put  his gloves on the chair, and he took the proofs,   sheet by sheet, to copy them. He thought the tutor  must return by the main gate and that he would see  

Him. As we know, he came back by the side gate.  Suddenly he heard him at the very door. There was   no possible escape. He forgot his gloves but he  caught up his shoes and darted into the bedroom.  

You observe that the scratch on that table is  slight at one side, but deepens in the direction   of the bedroom door. That in itself is enough  to show us that the shoe had been drawn in that  

Direction, and that the culprit had taken refuge  there. The earth round the spike had been left on   the table, and a second sample was loosened and  fell in the bedroom. I may add that I walked out   to the athletic grounds this morning, saw that  tenacious black clay is used in the jumping-pit  

And carried away a specimen of it, together  with some of the fine tan or sawdust which   is strewn over it to prevent the athlete from  slipping. Have I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?” The student had drawn himself erect. “Yes, sir, it is true,” said he.

“Good heavens! have you  nothing to add?” cried Soames. “Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this  disgraceful exposure has bewildered me. I   have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I wrote  to you early this morning in the middle of a  

Restless night. It was before I knew that my  sin had found me out. Here it is, sir. You   will see that I have said, ‘I have determined  not to go in for the examination. I have been   offered a commission in the Rhodesian Police,  and I am going out to South Africa at once.’”

“I am indeed pleased to hear that  you did not intend to profit by   your unfair advantage,” said Soames.  “But why did you change your purpose?” Gilchrist pointed to Bannister. “There is the man who set me  in the right path,” said he.

“Come now, Bannister,” said Holmes. “It  will be clear to you, from what I have said,   that only you could have let this young man out,  since you were left in the room, and must have   locked the door when you went out. As to his  escaping by that window, it was incredible.  

Can you not clear up the last point in this  mystery, and tell us the reasons for your action?” “It was simple enough, sir, if you only  had known, but, with all your cleverness,   it was impossible that you could know. Time was,  sir, when I was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist,  

This young gentleman’s father. When he was  ruined I came to the college as servant,   but I never forgot my old employer because he  was down in the world. I watched his son all   I could for the sake of the old days. Well,  sir, when I came into this room yesterday,  

When the alarm was given, the very first thing  I saw was Mr. Gilchrist’s tan gloves a-lying   in that chair. I knew those gloves well, and I  understood their message. If Mr. Soames saw them,   the game was up. I flopped down into that  chair, and nothing would budge me until Mr.  

Soames he went for you. Then out came my poor  young master, whom I had dandled on my knee,   and confessed it all to me. Wasn’t it  natural, sir, that I should save him,   and wasn’t it natural also that I should try to  speak to him as his dead father would have done,  

And make him understand that he could not  profit by such a deed? Could you blame me, sir?” “No, indeed,” said Holmes, heartily,  springing to his feet. “Well, Soames,   I think we have cleared your little problem  up, and our breakfast awaits us at home. Come,  

Watson! As to you, sir, I trust that a  bright future awaits you in Rhodesia.   For once you have fallen low. Let us see,  in the future, how high you can rise.” END OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE STUDENTS THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ

When I look at the three massive manuscript  volumes which contain our work for the year 1894,   I confess that it is very difficult for  me, out of such a wealth of material,   to select the cases which are most interesting in  themselves, and at the same time most conducive  

To a display of those peculiar powers for which  my friend was famous. As I turn over the pages,   I see my notes upon the repulsive story of the  red leech and the terrible death of Crosby,   the banker. Here also I find an account of the  Addleton tragedy, and the singular contents of the  

Ancient British barrow. The famous Smith-Mortimer  succession case comes also within this period,   and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret,  the Boulevard assassin—an exploit which won for   Holmes an autograph letter of thanks from  the French President and the Order of the  

Legion of Honour. Each of these would furnish  a narrative, but on the whole I am of opinion   that none of them unites so many singular points  of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place,   which includes not only the lamentable  death of young Willoughby Smith,  

But also those subsequent developments which threw  so curious a light upon the causes of the crime. It was a wild, tempestuous night, towards the  close of November. Holmes and I sat together   in silence all the evening, he engaged with a  powerful lens deciphering the remains of the  

Original inscription upon a palimpsest, I deep in  a recent treatise upon surgery. Outside the wind   howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat  fiercely against the windows. It was strange   there, in the very depths of the town, with ten  miles of man’s handiwork on every side of us,  

To feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be  conscious that to the huge elemental forces   all London was no more than the molehills  that dot the fields. I walked to the window,   and looked out on the deserted street. The  occasional lamps gleamed on the expanse of  

Muddy road and shining pavement. A single cab  was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end. “Well, Watson, it’s as well we have not to  turn out to-night,” said Holmes, laying aside   his lens and rolling up the palimpsest. “I’ve  done enough for one sitting. It is trying work  

For the eyes. So far as I can make out, it is  nothing more exciting than an Abbey’s accounts   dating from the second half of the fifteenth  century. Halloa! halloa! halloa! What’s this?” Amid the droning of the wind there had come the  stamping of a horse’s hoofs, and the long grind  

Of a wheel as it rasped against the curb. The  cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door. “What can he want?” I ejaculated,  as a man stepped out of it. “Want? He wants us. And we, my poor Watson,  want overcoats and cravats and goloshes,  

And every aid that man ever invented to fight  the weather. Wait a bit, though! There’s the   cab off again! There’s hope yet. He’d have  kept it if he had wanted us to come. Run down,   my dear fellow, and open the door, for  all virtuous folk have been long in bed.”

When the light of the hall lamp  fell upon our midnight visitor,   I had no difficulty in recognizing him. It was  young Stanley Hopkins, a promising detective,   in whose career Holmes had several  times shown a very practical interest. “Is he in?” he asked, eagerly. “Come up, my dear sir,” said Holmes’s voice from  

Above. “I hope you have no designs  upon us such a night as this.” The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp  gleamed upon his shining waterproof. I helped   him out of it, while Holmes knocked  a blaze out of the logs in the grate.

“Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm  your toes,” said he. “Here’s a cigar,   and the doctor has a prescription containing hot  water and a lemon, which is good medicine on a   night like this. It must be something important  which has brought you out in such a gale.”

“It is indeed, Mr. Holmes.  I’ve had a bustling afternoon,   I promise you. Did you see anything of  the Yoxley case in the latest editions?” “I’ve seen nothing later than  the fifteenth century to-day.” “Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at  that, so you have not missed anything. I haven’t  

Let the grass grow under my feet. It’s down in  Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from   the railway line. I was wired for at 3:15, reached  Yoxley Old Place at 5, conducted my investigation,   was back at Charing Cross by the last  train, and straight to you by cab.”

“Which means, I suppose, that you  are not quite clear about your case?” “It means that I can make neither head  nor tail of it. So far as I can see,   it is just as tangled a business as ever  I handled, and yet at first it seemed so  

Simple that one couldn’t go wrong. There’s  no motive, Mr. Holmes. That’s what bothers   me—I can’t put my hand on a motive. Here’s  a man dead—there’s no denying that—but,   so far as I can see, no reason on  earth why anyone should wish him harm.” Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

“Let us hear about it,” said he. “I’ve got my facts pretty clear,” said Stanley  Hopkins. “All I want now is to know what they   all mean. The story, so far as I can make it out,  is like this. Some years ago this country house,  

Yoxley Old Place, was taken by an elderly man,  who gave the name of Professor Coram. He was   an invalid, keeping his bed half the time, and  the other half hobbling round the house with a   stick or being pushed about the grounds by the  gardener in a Bath chair. He was well liked by  

The few neighbours who called upon him, and he has  the reputation down there of being a very learned   man. His household used to consist of an elderly  housekeeper, Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan   Tarlton. These have both been with him since his  arrival, and they seem to be women of excellent  

Character. The professor is writing a learned  book, and he found it necessary, about a year ago,   to engage a secretary. The first two that he  tried were not successes, but the third, Mr.   Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from  the university, seems to have been just what his  

Employer wanted. His work consisted in writing all  the morning to the professor’s dictation, and he   usually spent the evening in hunting up references  and passages which bore upon the next day’s work.   This Willoughby Smith has nothing against him,  either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young man  

At Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials,  and from the first he was a decent, quiet,   hard-working fellow, with no weak spot in him  at all. And yet this is the lad who has met his   death this morning in the professor’s study under  circumstances which can point only to murder.”

The wind howled and screamed at the windows.  Holmes and I drew closer to the fire,   while the young inspector slowly and point  by point developed his singular narrative. “If you were to search all England,” said  he, “I don’t suppose you could find a  

Household more self-contained or freer from  outside influences. Whole weeks would pass,   and not one of them go past the garden gate. The  professor was buried in his work and existed for   nothing else. Young Smith knew nobody in  the neighbourhood, and lived very much as  

His employer did. The two women had nothing to  take them from the house. Mortimer, the gardener,   who wheels the Bath chair, is an army pensioner—an  old Crimean man of excellent character. He does   not live in the house, but in a three-roomed  cottage at the other end of the garden. Those  

Are the only people that you would find within  the grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time,   the gate of the garden is a hundred  yards from the main London to Chatham   road. It opens with a latch, and there is  nothing to prevent anyone from walking in.

“Now I will give you the evidence of Susan  Tarlton, who is the only person who can say   anything positive about the matter. It was in  the forenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was   engaged at the moment in hanging some curtains  in the upstairs front bedroom. Professor Coram  

Was still in bed, for when the weather is bad  he seldom rises before midday. The housekeeper   was busied with some work in the back of the  house. Willoughby Smith had been in his bedroom,   which he uses as a sitting-room, but the maid  heard him at that moment pass along the passage  

And descend to the study immediately below  her. She did not see him, but she says that   she could not be mistaken in his quick, firm  tread. She did not hear the study door close,  

But a minute or so later there was a dreadful cry  in the room below. It was a wild, hoarse scream,   so strange and unnatural that it might have come  either from a man or a woman. At the same instant  

There was a heavy thud, which shook the old house,  and then all was silence. The maid stood petrified   for a moment, and then, recovering her courage,  she ran downstairs. The study door was shut and   she opened it. Inside, young Mr. Willoughby Smith  was stretched upon the floor. At first she could  

See no injury, but as she tried to raise him she  saw that blood was pouring from the underside of   his neck. It was pierced by a very small but  very deep wound, which had divided the carotid   artery. The instrument with which the injury had  been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him.  

It was one of those small sealing-wax knives  to be found on old-fashioned writing-tables,   with an ivory handle and a stiff blade. It was  part of the fittings of the professor’s own desk. “At first the maid thought that young Smith was  already dead, but on pouring some water from the  

Carafe over his forehead he opened his eyes for  an instant. ‘The professor,’ he murmured—‘it was   she.’ The maid is prepared to swear that those  were the exact words. He tried desperately to   say something else, and he held his right  hand up in the air. Then he fell back dead.

“In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived  upon the scene, but she was just too late to catch   the young man’s dying words. Leaving Susan with  the body, she hurried to the professor’s room.   He was sitting up in bed, horribly agitated,  for he had heard enough to convince him that  

Something terrible had occurred. Mrs. Marker is  prepared to swear that the professor was still in   his night-clothes, and indeed it was impossible  for him to dress without the help of Mortimer,   whose orders were to come at twelve o’clock. The  professor declares that he heard the distant cry,  

But that he knows nothing more. He can give  no explanation of the young man’s last words,   ‘The professor—it was she,’ but imagines that  they were the outcome of delirium. He believes   that Willoughby Smith had not an enemy in the  world, and can give no reason for the crime. His  

First action was to send Mortimer, the gardener,  for the local police. A little later the chief   constable sent for me. Nothing was moved before  I got there, and strict orders were given that   no one should walk upon the paths leading to  the house. It was a splendid chance of putting  

Your theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock  Holmes. There was really nothing wanting.” “Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion,   with a somewhat bitter smile. “Well, let us hear  about it. What sort of a job did you make of it?” “I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes,  to glance at this rough plan,  

Which will give you a general idea of  the position of the professor’s study   and the various points of the case. It will  help you in following my investigation.” He unfolded the rough chart, which I here  reproduce, and he laid it across Holmes’s  

Knee. I rose and, standing behind  Holmes, studied it over his shoulder. “It is very rough, of course, and it only  deals with the points which seem to me to   be essential. All the rest you will see  later for yourself. Now, first of all,  

Presuming that the assassin entered the house, how  did he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the garden   path and the back door, from which there  is direct access to the study. Any other   way would have been exceedingly complicated. The  escape must have also been made along that line,  

For of the two other exits from the room one was  blocked by Susan as she ran downstairs and the   other leads straight to the professor’s bedroom.  I therefore directed my attention at once to the   garden path, which was saturated with recent  rain, and would certainly show any footmarks.

“My examination showed me that I was  dealing with a cautious and expert   criminal. No footmarks were to be found  on the path. There could be no question,   however, that someone had passed along  the grass border which lines the path,  

And that he had done so in order to  avoid leaving a track. I could not   find anything in the nature of a distinct  impression, but the grass was trodden down,   and someone had undoubtedly passed. It could only  have been the murderer, since neither the gardener  

Nor anyone else had been there that morning,  and the rain had only begun during the night.” “One moment,” said Holmes.  “Where does this path lead to?” “To the road.” “How long is it?” “A hundred yards or so.”

“At the point where the path passes through  the gate, you could surely pick up the tracks?” “Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point.” “Well, on the road itself?” “No, it was all trodden into mire.” “Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon  the grass, were they coming or going?”

“It was impossible to say.  There was never any outline.” “A large foot or a small?” “You could not distinguish.” Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience. “It has been pouring rain and blowing  a hurricane ever since,” said he. “It  

Will be harder to read now than that palimpsest.  Well, well, it can’t be helped. What did you do,   Hopkins, after you had made certain  that you had made certain of nothing?” “I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr.  Holmes. I knew that someone had entered the  

House cautiously from without. I next  examined the corridor. It is lined with   cocoanut matting and had taken no impression  of any kind. This brought me into the study   itself. It is a scantily furnished room. The  main article is a large writing-table with a  

Fixed bureau. This bureau consists of a double  column of drawers, with a central small cupboard   between them. The drawers were open, the cupboard  locked. The drawers, it seems, were always open,   and nothing of value was kept in them. There  were some papers of importance in the cupboard,  

But there were no signs that this had  been tampered with, and the professor   assures me that nothing was missing. It is  certain that no robbery has been committed. “I come now to the body of the young man. It was  found near the bureau, and just to the left of it,  

As marked upon that chart. The stab was on the  right side of the neck and from behind forward,   so that it is almost impossible that  it could have been self-inflicted.” “Unless he fell upon the knife,” said Holmes.

“Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we  found the knife some feet away from the body,   so that seems impossible. Then, of course, there  are the man’s own dying words. And, finally, there   was this very important piece of evidence which  was found clasped in the dead man’s right hand.”

From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a  small paper packet. He unfolded it and   disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two  broken ends of black silk cord dangling   from the end of it. “Willoughby Smith had  excellent sight,” he added. “There can be  

No question that this was snatched from  the face or the person of the assassin.” Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his  hand, and examined them with the utmost   attention and interest. He held them on  his nose, endeavoured to read through them,  

Went to the window and stared up the street  with them, looked at them most minutely in   the full light of the lamp, and finally,  with a chuckle, seated himself at the table   and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper,  which he tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

“That’s the best I can do for you,” said  he. “It may prove to be of some use.” The astonished detective read the  note aloud. It ran as follows: “Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a  lady. She has a remarkably thick nose, with eyes  

Which are set close upon either side of it. She  has a puckered forehead, a peering expression,   and probably rounded shoulders. There are  indications that she has had recourse to   an optician at least twice during the last few  months. As her glasses are of remarkable strength,  

And as opticians are not very numerous, there  should be no difficulty in tracing her.” Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins,  which must have been reflected upon my features.   “Surely my deductions are simplicity itself,”  said he. “It would be difficult to name any  

Articles which afford a finer field for inference  than a pair of glasses, especially so remarkable   a pair as these. That they belong to a woman I  infer from their delicacy, and also, of course,   from the last words of the dying man. As to her  being a person of refinement and well dressed,  

They are, as you perceive, handsomely mounted in  solid gold, and it is inconceivable that anyone   who wore such glasses could be slatternly in other  respects. You will find that the clips are too   wide for your nose, showing that the lady’s nose  was very broad at the base. This sort of nose is  

Usually a short and coarse one, but there is a  sufficient number of exceptions to prevent me from   being dogmatic or from insisting upon this point  in my description. My own face is a narrow one,  

And yet I find that I cannot get my eyes into the  centre, nor near the centre, of these glasses.   Therefore, the lady’s eyes are set very near  to the sides of the nose. You will perceive,   Watson, that the glasses are concave and of  unusual strength. A lady whose vision has been  

So extremely contracted all her life is sure to  have the physical characteristics of such vision,   which are seen in the forehead,  the eyelids, and the shoulders.” “Yes,” I said, “I can follow each of  your arguments. I confess, however,  

That I am unable to understand how you  arrive at the double visit to the optician.” Holmes took the glasses in his hand. “You will perceive,” he said, “that the clips  are lined with tiny bands of cork to soften  

The pressure upon the nose. One of these is  discoloured and worn to some slight extent,   but the other is new. Evidently one has  fallen off and been replaced. I should   judge that the older of them has not been there  more than a few months. They exactly correspond,  

So I gather that the lady went back to  the same establishment for the second.” “By George, it’s marvellous!” cried  Hopkins, in an ecstasy of admiration.   “To think that I had all that evidence in  my hand and never knew it! I had intended,   however, to go the round of the London opticians.”

“Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you  anything more to tell us about the case?” “Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you  know as much as I do now—probably more.   We have had inquiries made as to  any stranger seen on the country  

Roads or at the railway station. We have  heard of none. What beats me is the utter   want of all object in the crime. Not a  ghost of a motive can anyone suggest.” “Ah! there I am not in a position to help you.  But I suppose you want us to come out to-morrow?”

“If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes.  There’s a train from Charing Cross to Chatham   at six in the morning, and we should be at  Yoxley Old Place between eight and nine.” “Then we shall take it. Your case has  certainly some features of great interest,  

And I shall be delighted to look  into it. Well, it’s nearly one,   and we had best get a few hours’ sleep. I  daresay you can manage all right on the sofa   in front of the fire. I’ll light my spirit lamp,  and give you a cup of coffee before we start.”

The gale had blown itself out next day, but it  was a bitter morning when we started upon our   journey. We saw the cold winter sun rise over  the dreary marshes of the Thames and the long,   sullen reaches of the river, which I  shall ever associate with our pursuit of  

The Andaman Islander in the earlier days of  our career. After a long and weary journey,   we alighted at a small station some miles  from Chatham. While a horse was being put   into a trap at the local inn, we snatched a  hurried breakfast, and so we were all ready  

For business when we at last arrived at Yoxley  Old Place. A constable met us at the garden gate. “Well, Wilson, any news?” “No, sir—nothing.” “No reports of any stranger seen?” “No, sir. Down at the station they are certain  that no stranger either came or went yesterday.”

“Have you had inquiries  made at inns and lodgings?” “Yes, sir: there is no one  that we cannot account for.” “Well, it’s only a reasonable walk  to Chatham. Anyone might stay there   or take a train without being observed.  This is the garden path of which I spoke,  

Mr. Holmes. I’ll pledge my word  there was no mark on it yesterday.” “On which side were the marks on the grass?” “This side, sir. This narrow margin  of grass between the path and the   flower-bed. I can’t see the traces  now, but they were clear to me then.”

“Yes, yes: someone has passed along,” said  Holmes, stooping over the grass border. “Our   lady must have picked her steps carefully,  must she not, since on the one side she   would leave a track on the path, and on the  other an even clearer one on the soft bed?”

“Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand.” I saw an intent look pass over Holmes’s face. “You say that she must have come back this way?” “Yes, sir, there is no other.” “On this strip of grass?” “Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

“Hum! It was a very remarkable performance—very  remarkable. Well, I think we have exhausted the   path. Let us go farther. This garden door  is usually kept open, I suppose? Then this   visitor had nothing to do but to walk in.  The idea of murder was not in her mind,  

Or she would have provided herself with some sort  of weapon, instead of having to pick this knife   off the writing-table. She advanced along this  corridor, leaving no traces upon the cocoanut   matting. Then she found herself in this study. How  long was she there? We have no means of judging.”

“Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot  to tell you that Mrs. Marker, the housekeeper,   had been in there tidying not very long  before—about a quarter of an hour, she says.” “Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady  enters this room, and what does she do?  

She goes over to the writing-table. What  for? Not for anything in the drawers. If   there had been anything worth her taking,  it would surely have been locked up. No,   it was for something in that wooden bureau.  Halloa! what is that scratch upon the face  

Of it? Just hold a match, Watson. Why  did you not tell me of this, Hopkins?” The mark which he was examining began upon the  brass-work on the right-hand side of the keyhole,   and extended for about four inches, where it  had scratched the varnish from the surface.

“I noticed it, Mr. Holmes, but you’ll  always find scratches round a keyhole.” “This is recent, quite recent. See how the  brass shines where it is cut. An old scratch   would be the same colour as the surface. Look  at it through my lens. There’s the varnish,  

Too, like earth on each side of  a furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?” A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room. “Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?” “Yes, sir.” “Did you notice this scratch?” “No, sir, I did not.” “I am sure you did not, for a  duster would have swept away  

These shreds of varnish. Who  has the key of this bureau?” “The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain.” “Is it a simple key?” “No, sir, it is a Chubb’s key.” “Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are  making a little progress. Our lady enters the  

Room, advances to the bureau, and either opens  it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged,   young Willoughby Smith enters the room. In her  hurry to withdraw the key, she makes this scratch   upon the door. He seizes her, and she, snatching  up the nearest object, which happens to be this  

Knife, strikes at him in order to make him let  go his hold. The blow is a fatal one. He falls   and she escapes, either with or without the object  for which she has come. Is Susan, the maid, there?  

Could anyone have got away through that door  after the time that you heard the cry, Susan?” “No, sir, it is impossible. Before  I got down the stair, I’d have seen   anyone in the passage. Besides, the door  never opened, or I would have heard it.”

“That settles this exit. Then no doubt the  lady went out the way she came. I understand   that this other passage leads only to the  professor’s room. There is no exit that way?” “No, sir.” “We shall go down it and make the acquaintance  of the professor. Halloa, Hopkins! this is very  

Important, very important indeed. The professor’s  corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting.” “Well, sir, what of that?” “Don’t you see any bearing upon the case?  Well, well. I don’t insist upon it. No doubt   I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be  suggestive. Come with me and introduce me.”

We passed down the passage, which was of  the same length as that which led to the   garden. At the end was a short flight of  steps ending in a door. Our guide knocked,   and then ushered us into the professor’s bedroom. It was a very large chamber, lined with  innumerable volumes, which had overflowed  

From the shelves and lay in piles in the  corners, or were stacked all round at the   base of the cases. The bed was in the centre of  the room, and in it, propped up with pillows,   was the owner of the house. I have seldom seen a  more remarkable-looking person. It was a gaunt,  

Aquiline face which was turned  towards us, with piercing dark eyes,   which lurked in deep hollows under overhung and  tufted brows. His hair and beard were white,   save that the latter was curiously stained  with yellow around his mouth. A cigarette  

Glowed amid the tangle of white hair, and the air  of the room was fetid with stale tobacco smoke.   As he held out his hand to Holmes, I perceived  that it was also stained with yellow nicotine. “A smoker, Mr. Holmes?” said he,  speaking in well-chosen English,  

With a curious little mincing accent. “Pray take  a cigarette. And you, sir? I can recommend them,   for I have them especially prepared by Ionides,  of Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a time,   and I grieve to say that I have to arrange for a  fresh supply every fortnight. Bad, sir, very bad,  

But an old man has few pleasures. Tobacco  and my work—that is all that is left to me.” Holmes had lit a cigarette and was shooting  little darting glances all over the room. “Tobacco and my work, but now only  tobacco,” the old man exclaimed.  

“Alas! what a fatal interruption! Who could  have foreseen such a terrible catastrophe? So   estimable a young man! I assure you  that, after a few months’ training,   he was an admirable assistant. What do  you think of the matter, Mr. Holmes?” “I have not yet made up my mind.”

“I shall indeed be indebted to you if you  can throw a light where all is so dark to   us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like  myself such a blow is paralysing. I seem   to have lost the faculty of thought. But  you are a man of action—you are a man of  

Affairs. It is part of the everyday routine  of your life. You can preserve your balance   in every emergency. We are fortunate,  indeed, in having you at our side.” Holmes was pacing up and down one side  of the room whilst the old professor  

Was talking. I observed that he was smoking  with extraordinary rapidity. It was evident   that he shared our host’s liking for  the fresh Alexandrian cigarettes. “Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow,” said the old  man. “That is my magnum opus—the pile of papers  

On the side table yonder. It is my analysis of  the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of   Syria and Egypt, a work which will cut deep at  the very foundation of revealed religion. With   my enfeebled health I do not know whether I shall  ever be able to complete it, now that my assistant  

Has been taken from me. Dear me! Mr. Holmes, why,  you are even a quicker smoker than I am myself.” Holmes smiled. “I am a connoisseur,” said he, taking another  cigarette from the box—his fourth—and lighting   it from the stub of that which he had  finished. “I will not trouble you with  

Any lengthy cross-examination, Professor  Coram, since I gather that you were in bed   at the time of the crime, and could know  nothing about it. I would only ask this:   What do you imagine that this poor fellow meant  by his last words: ‘The professor—it was she’?” The professor shook his head.

“Susan is a country girl,” said he, “and  you know the incredible stupidity of   that class. I fancy that the poor fellow  murmured some incoherent delirious words,   and that she twisted them into  this meaningless message.” “I see. You have no explanation  yourself of the tragedy?” “Possibly an accident, possibly—I  only breathe it among ourselves—a  

Suicide. Young men have their hidden  troubles—some affair of the heart,   perhaps, which we have never known. It is  a more probable supposition than murder.” “But the eyeglasses?” “Ah! I am only a student—a man of dreams. I cannot  explain the practical things of life. But still,  

We are aware, my friend, that love-gages  may take strange shapes. By all means take   another cigarette. It is a pleasure to see  anyone appreciate them so. A fan, a glove,   glasses—who knows what article may be carried  as a token or treasured when a man puts an end  

To his life? This gentleman speaks of  footsteps in the grass, but, after all,   it is easy to be mistaken on such a point.  As to the knife, it might well be thrown   far from the unfortunate man as he fell.  It is possible that I speak as a child,  

But to me it seems that Willoughby  Smith has met his fate by his own hand.” Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus  put forward, and he continued to walk up   and down for some time, lost in thought  and consuming cigarette after cigarette.

“Tell me, Professor Coram,” he said, at last,  “what is in that cupboard in the bureau?” “Nothing that would help a thief. Family  papers, letters from my poor wife, diplomas   of universities which have done me honour.  Here is the key. You can look for yourself.”

Holmes picked up the key, and looked at  it for an instant, then he handed it back. “No, I hardly think that it would help me,”  said he. “I should prefer to go quietly down   to your garden, and turn the whole matter over  in my head. There is something to be said for  

The theory of suicide which you have put forward.  We must apologize for having intruded upon you,   Professor Coram, and I promise that we won’t  disturb you until after lunch. At two o’clock we   will come again, and report to you anything  which may have happened in the interval.”

Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up  and down the garden path for some time in silence. “Have you a clue?” I asked, at last. “It depends upon those cigarettes that I  smoked,” said he. “It is possible that I   am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show me.”

“My dear Holmes,” I exclaimed, “how on earth——” “Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not,  there’s no harm done. Of course, we always have   the optician clue to fall back upon, but  I take a short cut when I can get it. Ah,  

Here is the good Mrs. Marker! Let us enjoy five  minutes of instructive conversation with her.” I may have remarked before  that Holmes had, when he liked,   a peculiarly ingratiating way with women,  and that he very readily established terms  

Of confidence with them. In half the time  which he had named, he had captured the   housekeeper’s goodwill and was chatting  with her as if he had known her for years. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir.  He does smoke something terrible. All  

Day and sometimes all night, sir. I’ve  seen that room of a morning—well, sir,   you’d have thought it was a London fog. Poor  young Mr. Smith, he was a smoker also, but not   as bad as the professor. His health—well, I don’t  know that it’s better nor worse for the smoking.”

“Ah!” said Holmes, “but it kills the appetite.” “Well, I don’t know about that, sir.” “I suppose the professor eats hardly anything?” “Well, he is variable. I’ll say that for him.” “I’ll wager he took no breakfast this morning,   and won’t face his lunch after all  the cigarettes I saw him consume.”

“Well, you’re out there, sir, as it happens,  for he ate a remarkable big breakfast this   morning. I don’t know when I’ve known him make  a better one, and he’s ordered a good dish of   cutlets for his lunch. I’m surprised myself,  for since I came into that room yesterday  

And saw young Mr. Smith lying there on the  floor, I couldn’t bear to look at food. Well,   it takes all sorts to make a world, and the  professor hasn’t let it take his appetite away.” We loitered the morning away in the garden.  Stanley Hopkins had gone down to the village  

To look into some rumours of a strange woman who  had been seen by some children on the Chatham   Road the previous morning. As to my friend,  all his usual energy seemed to have deserted   him. I had never known him handle a case in such  a half-hearted fashion. Even the news brought back  

By Hopkins that he had found the children, and  that they had undoubtedly seen a woman exactly   corresponding with Holmes’s description, and  wearing either spectacles or eyeglasses, failed   to rouse any sign of keen interest. He was more  attentive when Susan, who waited upon us at lunch,  

Volunteered the information that she believed Mr.  Smith had been out for a walk yesterday morning,   and that he had only returned half an hour before  the tragedy occurred. I could not myself see the   bearing of this incident, but I clearly perceived  that Holmes was weaving it into the general scheme  

Which he had formed in his brain. Suddenly he  sprang from his chair and glanced at his watch.   “Two o’clock, gentlemen,” said he. “We must go up  and have it out with our friend, the professor.” The old man had just finished his lunch,  and certainly his empty dish bore evidence  

To the good appetite with which his  housekeeper had credited him. He was,   indeed, a weird figure as he turned his white  mane and his glowing eyes towards us. The eternal   cigarette smouldered in his mouth. He had been  dressed and was seated in an armchair by the fire.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery  yet?” He shoved the large tin of cigarettes which   stood on a table beside him towards my companion.  Holmes stretched out his hand at the same moment,   and between them they tipped the box over the  edge. For a minute or two we were all on our  

Knees retrieving stray cigarettes from  impossible places. When we rose again,   I observed Holmes’s eyes were  shining and his cheeks tinged   with colour. Only at a crisis have  I seen those battle-signals flying. “Yes,” said he, “I have solved it.” Stanley Hopkins and I stared  in amazement. Something like  

A sneer quivered over the gaunt  features of the old professor. “Indeed! In the garden?” “No, here.” “Here! When?” “This instant.” “You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock  Holmes. You compel me to tell you   that this is too serious a matter  to be treated in such a fashion.”

“I have forged and tested every link of my chain,  Professor Coram, and I am sure that it is sound.   What your motives are, or what exact part you  play in this strange business, I am not yet able  

To say. In a few minutes I shall probably hear it  from your own lips. Meanwhile I will reconstruct   what is past for your benefit, so that you may  know the information which I still require. “A lady yesterday entered your study.  She came with the intention of possessing  

Herself of certain documents which were in your  bureau. She had a key of her own. I have had an   opportunity of examining yours, and I do  not find that slight discolouration which   the scratch made upon the varnish would  have produced. You were not an accessory,  

Therefore, and she came, so far as I can read  the evidence, without your knowledge to rob you.” The professor blew a cloud from his  lips. “This is most interesting and   instructive,” said he. “Have  you no more to add? Surely,  

Having traced this lady so far, you  can also say what has become of her.” “I will endeavour to do so. In the first  place she was seized by your secretary,   and stabbed him in order to escape. This  catastrophe I am inclined to regard as an  

Unhappy accident, for I am convinced that  the lady had no intention of inflicting   so grievous an injury. An assassin does not  come unarmed. Horrified by what she had done,   she rushed wildly away from the scene  of the tragedy. Unfortunately for her,  

She had lost her glasses in the scuffle,  and as she was extremely short-sighted she   was really helpless without them. She ran down a  corridor, which she imagined to be that by which   she had come—both were lined with cocoanut  matting—and it was only when it was too late  

That she understood that she had taken the wrong  passage, and that her retreat was cut off behind   her. What was she to do? She could not go back.  She could not remain where she was. She must go  

On. She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed  open a door, and found herself in your room.” The old man sat with his mouth  open, staring wildly at Holmes.   Amazement and fear were stamped upon his  expressive features. Now, with an effort,   he shrugged his shoulders and  burst into insincere laughter.

“All very fine, Mr. Holmes,” said  he. “But there is one little flaw   in your splendid theory. I was myself in my  room, and I never left it during the day.” “I am aware of that, Professor Coram.” “And you mean to say that I could lie upon that  

Bed and not be aware that a  woman had entered my room?” “I never said so. You were  aware of it. You spoke with   her. You recognized her. You aided her to escape.” Again the professor burst into high-keyed  laughter. He had risen to his feet,   and his eyes glowed like embers.

“You are mad!” he cried. “You are talking   insanely. I helped her to  escape? Where is she now?” “She is there,” said Holmes, and he pointed  to a high bookcase in the corner of the room. I saw the old man throw up his arms, a  terrible convulsion passed over his grim face,  

And he fell back in his chair. At the same  instant the bookcase at which Holmes pointed   swung round upon a hinge, and a woman rushed  out into the room. “You are right!” she cried,   in a strange foreign voice.  “You are right! I am here.”

She was brown with the dust and draped with  the cobwebs which had come from the walls of   her hiding-place. Her face, too, was streaked with  grime, and at the best she could never have been   handsome, for she had the exact physical  characteristics which Holmes had divined,  

With, in addition, a long and obstinate  chin. What with her natural blindness,   and what with the change from dark  to light, she stood as one dazed,   blinking about her to see where and who we were.  And yet, in spite of all these disadvantages,  

There was a certain nobility in the woman’s  bearing—a gallantry in the defiant chin and   in the upraised head, which compelled  something of respect and admiration. Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon  her arm and claimed her as his prisoner,  

But she waved him aside gently, and yet with an  over-mastering dignity which compelled obedience.   The old man lay back in his chair with a twitching  face, and stared at her with brooding eyes. “Yes, sir, I am your prisoner,” she said.  “From where I stood I could hear everything,  

And I know that you have learned the truth.  I confess it all. It was I who killed the   young man. But you are right—you who say  it was an accident. I did not even know   that it was a knife which I held in my hand,  for in my despair I snatched anything from  

The table and struck at him to make him  let me go. It is the truth that I tell.” “Madam,” said Holmes, “I am sure that it is  the truth. I fear that you are far from well.” She had turned a dreadful colour, the more  ghastly under the dark dust-streaks upon  

Her face. She seated herself on the  side of the bed; then she resumed. “I have only a little time here,” she said, “but  I would have you to know the whole truth. I am   this man’s wife. He is not an Englishman.  He is a Russian. His name I will not tell.”

For the first time the old man stirred. “God  bless you, Anna!” he cried. “God bless you!” She cast a look of the deepest disdain  in his direction. “Why should you cling   so hard to that wretched life of yours,  Sergius?” said she. “It has done harm to  

Many and good to none—not even to yourself.  However, it is not for me to cause the frail   thread to be snapped before God’s time. I  have enough already upon my soul since I   crossed the threshold of this cursed house.  But I must speak or I shall be too late.

“I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man’s  wife. He was fifty and I a foolish girl of   twenty when we married. It was in a city of  Russia, a university—I will not name the place.” “God bless you, Anna!” murmured the old man again.

“We were reformers—revolutionists—Nihilists,  you understand. He and I and many more. Then   there came a time of trouble, a police officer was  killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted,   and in order to save his own life and to earn a  great reward, my husband betrayed his own wife  

And his companions. Yes, we were all arrested  upon his confession. Some of us found our way   to the gallows, and some to Siberia. I was among  these last, but my term was not for life. My   husband came to England with his ill-gotten gains  and has lived in quiet ever since, knowing well  

That if the Brotherhood knew where he was not a  week would pass before justice would be done.” The old man reached out a trembling hand  and helped himself to a cigarette. “I am   in your hands, Anna,” said he.  “You were always good to me.”

“I have not yet told you the height of his  villainy,” said she. “Among our comrades of   the Order, there was one who was the friend of my  heart. He was noble, unselfish, loving—all that my   husband was not. He hated violence. We were all  guilty—if that is guilt—but he was not. He wrote  

Forever dissuading us from such a course. These  letters would have saved him. So would my diary,   in which, from day to day, I had entered  both my feelings towards him and the view   which each of us had taken. My husband found  and kept both diary and letters. He hid them,  

And he tried hard to swear away the young man’s  life. In this he failed, but Alexis was sent a   convict to Siberia, where now, at this moment, he  works in a salt mine. Think of that, you villain,   you villain!—now, now, at this very moment,  Alexis, a man whose name you are not worthy  

To speak, works and lives like a slave, and yet  I have your life in my hands, and I let you go.” “You were always a noble woman, Anna,”  said the old man, puffing at his cigarette. She had risen, but she fell back  again with a little cry of pain.

“I must finish,” she said. “When my term was over  I set myself to get the diary and letters which,   if sent to the Russian government, would procure  my friend’s release. I knew that my husband had   come to England. After months of searching I  discovered where he was. I knew that he still  

Had the diary, for when I was in Siberia I had a  letter from him once, reproaching me and quoting   some passages from its pages. Yet I was sure that,  with his revengeful nature, he would never give  

It to me of his own free-will. I must get it for  myself. With this object I engaged an agent from   a private detective firm, who entered my husband’s  house as a secretary—it was your second secretary,   Sergius, the one who left you so hurriedly. He  found that papers were kept in the cupboard,  

And he got an impression of the key. He  would not go farther. He furnished me   with a plan of the house, and he told me that  in the forenoon the study was always empty,   as the secretary was employed up here. So  at last I took my courage in both hands,  

And I came down to get the papers for  myself. I succeeded; but at what a cost! “I had just taken the paper; and was locking  the cupboard, when the young man seized me. I   had seen him already that morning. He had  met me on the road, and I had asked him  

To tell me where Professor Coram lived,  not knowing that he was in his employ.” “Exactly! Exactly!” said Holmes.  “The secretary came back,   and told his employer of the woman  he had met. Then, in his last breath,  

He tried to send a message that it was she—the  she whom he had just discussed with him.” “You must let me speak,” said the woman,  in an imperative voice, and her face   contracted as if in pain. “When he had fallen  I rushed from the room, chose the wrong door,  

And found myself in my husband’s room. He spoke  of giving me up. I showed him that if he did so,   his life was in my hands. If he gave me to the  law, I could give him to the Brotherhood. It was  

Not that I wished to live for my own sake, but  it was that I desired to accomplish my purpose.   He knew that I would do what I said—that his  own fate was involved in mine. For that reason,  

And for no other, he shielded me. He thrust me  into that dark hiding-place—a relic of old days,   known only to himself. He took his meals  in his own room, and so was able to give   me part of his food. It was agreed that when  the police left the house I should slip away  

By night and come back no more. But in some  way you have read our plans.” She tore from   the bosom of her dress a small packet. “These  are my last words,” said she; “here is the   packet which will save Alexis. I confide it  to your honour and to your love of justice.  

Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian  Embassy. Now, I have done my duty, and——” “Stop her!” cried Holmes. He had bounded across   the room and had wrenched a  small phial from her hand. “Too late!” she said, sinking back on the bed.  “Too late! I took the poison before I left my  

Hiding-place. My head swims! I am going! I  charge you, sir, to remember the packet.” “A simple case, and yet, in some ways,  an instructive one,” Holmes remarked,   as we travelled back to town. “It hinged from the  outset upon the pince-nez. But for the fortunate  

Chance of the dying man having seized these, I  am not sure that we could ever have reached our   solution. It was clear to me, from the strength of  the glasses, that the wearer must have been very  

Blind and helpless when deprived of them. When  you asked me to believe that she walked along a   narrow strip of grass without once making a false  step, I remarked, as you may remember, that it was   a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down  as an impossible performance, save in the unlikely  

Case that she had a second pair of glasses. I  was forced, therefore, to consider seriously the   hypothesis that she had remained within the house.  On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors,   it became clear that she might very easily  have made such a mistake, and, in that case,  

It was evident that she must have entered the  professor’s room. I was keenly on the alert,   therefore, for whatever would bear out this  supposition, and I examined the room narrowly   for anything in the shape of a hiding-place.  The carpet seemed continuous and firmly nailed,  

So I dismissed the idea of a trap-door. There  might well be a recess behind the books. As   you are aware, such devices are common in old  libraries. I observed that books were piled on   the floor at all other points, but that one  bookcase was left clear. This, then, might  

Be the door. I could see no marks to guide me, but  the carpet was of a dun colour, which lends itself   very well to examination. I therefore smoked  a great number of those excellent cigarettes,  

And I dropped the ash all over the space in front  of the suspected bookcase. It was a simple trick,   but exceedingly effective. I then went downstairs,  and I ascertained, in your presence, Watson,   without your perceiving the drift of my remarks,  that Professor Coram’s consumption of food had  

Increased—as one would expect when he is supplying  a second person. We then ascended to the room   again, when, by upsetting the cigarette-box,  I obtained a very excellent view of the floor,   and was able to see quite clearly, from the  traces upon the cigarette ash, that the prisoner  

Had in our absence come out from her retreat.  Well, Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross,   and I congratulate you on having brought your  case to a successful conclusion. You are going   to headquarters, no doubt. I think, Watson, you  and I will drive together to the Russian Embassy.”

END OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER We were fairly accustomed to receive weird  telegrams at Baker Street, but I have a particular   recollection of one which reached us on a gloomy  February morning, some seven or eight years ago,  

And gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of  an hour. It was addressed to him, and ran thus: Please await me. Terrible misfortune.  Right wing three-quarter missing,   indispensable to-morrow. OVERTON. “Strand postmark, and dispatched  ten thirty-six,” said Holmes,   reading it over and over. “Mr. Overton was  evidently considerably excited when he sent it,  

And somewhat incoherent in consequence.  Well, well, he will be here, I daresay,   by the time I have looked through The  Times, and then we shall know all about   it. Even the most insignificant problem  would be welcome in these stagnant days.”

Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I  had learned to dread such periods of inaction,   for I knew by experience that my companion’s brain  was so abnormally active that it was dangerous to   leave it without material upon which to work.  For years I had gradually weaned him from that  

Drug mania which had threatened once to check  his remarkable career. Now I knew that under   ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this  artificial stimulus, but I was well aware that   the fiend was not dead but sleeping, and I have  known that the sleep was a light one and the  

Waking near when in periods of idleness I have  seen the drawn look upon Holmes’s ascetic face,   and the brooding of his deep-set and inscrutable  eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr. Overton whoever   he might be, since he had come with his  enigmatic message to break that dangerous  

Calm which brought more peril to my friend  than all the storms of his tempestuous life. As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed  by its sender, and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton,   Trinity College, Cambridge, announced  the arrival of an enormous young man,  

Sixteen stone of solid bone and muscle, who  spanned the doorway with his broad shoulders,   and looked from one of us to the other with  a comely face which was haggard with anxiety. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” My companion bowed. “I’ve been down to Scotland Yard,  Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector Stanley  

Hopkins. He advised me to come to you.  He said the case, so far as he could see,   was more in your line than in  that of the regular police.” “Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter.” “It’s awful, Mr. Holmes—simply awful! I wonder  my hair isn’t grey. Godfrey Staunton—you’ve  

Heard of him, of course? He’s simply the hinge  that the whole team turns on. I’d rather spare   two from the pack, and have Godfrey for my  three-quarter line. Whether it’s passing,   or tackling, or dribbling, there’s no one  to touch him, and then, he’s got the head,  

And can hold us all together. What  am I to do? That’s what I ask you,   Mr. Holmes. There’s Moorhouse, first reserve, but  he is trained as a half, and he always edges right   in on to the scrum instead of keeping out on the  touchline. He’s a fine place-kick, it’s true, but  

Then he has no judgment, and he can’t sprint for  nuts. Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford fliers,   could romp round him. Stevenson is fast enough,  but he couldn’t drop from the twenty-five line,   and a three-quarter who can’t either punt or  drop isn’t worth a place for pace alone. No,  

Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you  can help me to find Godfrey Staunton.” My friend had listened with amused surprise to  this long speech, which was poured forth with   extraordinary vigour and earnestness, every point  being driven home by the slapping of a brawny  

Hand upon the speaker’s knee. When our visitor was  silent Holmes stretched out his hand and took down   letter “S” of his commonplace book. For once he  dug in vain into that mine of varied information. “There is Arthur H. Staunton, the  rising young forger,” said he,  

“and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to  hang, but Godfrey Staunton is a new name to me.” It was our visitor’s turn to look surprised. “Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew  things,” said he. “I suppose, then,   if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton,  you don’t know Cyril Overton either?”

Holmes shook his head good humouredly. “Great Scott!” cried the athlete. “Why, I  was first reserve for England against Wales,   and I’ve skippered the ’Varsity all this  year. But that’s nothing! I didn’t think   there was a soul in England who didn’t know  Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-quarter,  

Cambridge, Blackheath, and five Internationals.  Good Lord! Mr. Holmes, where have you lived?” Holmes laughed at the young  giant’s naïve astonishment. “You live in a different world to me, Mr.  Overton—a sweeter and healthier one. My   ramifications stretch out into many sections  of society, but never, I am happy to say,  

Into amateur sport, which is the best  and soundest thing in England. However,   your unexpected visit this morning shows me that  even in that world of fresh air and fair play,   there may be work for me to do. So now, my good  sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me, slowly  

And quietly, exactly what it is that has occurred,  and how you desire that I should help you.” Young Overton’s face assumed the bothered look  of the man who is more accustomed to using his   muscles than his wits, but by degrees,  with many repetitions and obscurities  

Which I may omit from his narrative,  he laid his strange story before us. “It’s this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I  am the skipper of the Rugger team of Cambridge   ’Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton is my best man.  To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all came  

Up, and we settled at Bentley’s private hotel.  At ten o’clock I went round and saw that all the   fellows had gone to roost, for I believe in strict  training and plenty of sleep to keep a team fit. I  

Had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned  in. He seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I   asked him what was the matter. He said he was  all right—just a touch of headache. I bade him  

Good-night and left him. Half an hour later, the  porter tells me that a rough-looking man with a   beard called with a note for Godfrey. He had not  gone to bed, and the note was taken to his room.  

Godfrey read it, and fell back in a chair as if he  had been pole-axed. The porter was so scared that   he was going to fetch me, but Godfrey stopped  him, had a drink of water, and pulled himself  

Together. Then he went downstairs, said a few  words to the man who was waiting in the hall,   and the two of them went off together. The last  that the porter saw of them, they were almost   running down the street in the direction of the  Strand. This morning Godfrey’s room was empty,  

His bed had never been slept in, and his things  were all just as I had seen them the night before.   He had gone off at a moment’s notice with this  stranger, and no word has come from him since.  

I don’t believe he will ever come back. He was  a sportsman, was Godfrey, down to his marrow,   and he wouldn’t have stopped his training and let  in his skipper if it were not for some cause that  

Was too strong for him. No: I feel as if he were  gone for good, and we should never see him again.” Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest  attention to this singular narrative. “What did you do?” he asked. “I wired to Cambridge to learn  if anything had been heard of him  

There. I have had an answer. No one has seen him.” “Could he have got back to Cambridge?” “Yes, there is a late train—quarter-past eleven.” “But, so far as you can  ascertain, he did not take it?” “No, he has not been seen.” “What did you do next?” “I wired to Lord Mount-James.”

“Why to Lord Mount-James?” “Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James  is his nearest relative—his uncle, I believe.” “Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter.   Lord Mount-James is one of  the richest men in England.” “So I’ve heard Godfrey say.” “And your friend was closely related?”

“Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly  eighty—cram full of gout, too. They say he could   chalk his billiard-cue with his knuckles. He  never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life,   for he is an absolute miser, but it  will all come to him right enough.”

“Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?” “No.” “What motive could your friend  have in going to Lord Mount-James?” “Well, something was worrying him the  night before, and if it was to do with   money it is possible that he would make for  his nearest relative, who had so much of it,  

Though from all I have heard he would  not have much chance of getting it.   Godfrey was not fond of the old man.  He would not go if he could help it.” “Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend  was going to his relative, Lord Mount-James,  

You have then to explain the visit of this  rough-looking fellow at so late an hour,   and the agitation that was caused by his coming.” Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his  head. “I can make nothing of it,” said he.

“Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall  be happy to look into the matter,” said Holmes.   “I should strongly recommend you to make your  preparations for your match without reference to   this young gentleman. It must, as you say, have  been an overpowering necessity which tore him  

Away in such a fashion, and the same necessity  is likely to hold him away. Let us step round   together to the hotel, and see if the porter  can throw any fresh light upon the matter.” Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the  art of putting a humble witness at his ease,  

And very soon, in the privacy of Godfrey  Staunton’s abandoned room, he had extracted   all that the porter had to tell. The visitor  of the night before was not a gentleman,   neither was he a workingman. He was simply  what the porter described as a “medium-looking  

Chap,” a man of fifty, beard grizzled, pale face,  quietly dressed. He seemed himself to be agitated.   The porter had observed his hand trembling when  he had held out the note. Godfrey Staunton had   crammed the note into his pocket. Staunton had  not shaken hands with the man in the hall. They  

Had exchanged a few sentences, of which the porter  had only distinguished the one word “time.” Then   they had hurried off in the manner described.  It was just half-past ten by the hall clock. “Let me see,” said Holmes,   seating himself on Staunton’s bed.  “You are the day porter, are you not?”

“Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven.” “The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?” “No, sir, one theatre party  came in late. No one else.” “Were you on duty all day yesterday?” “Yes, sir.” “Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?” “Yes, sir, one telegram.” “Ah! that’s interesting. What o’clock was this?”

“About six.” “Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?” “Here in his room.” “Were you present when he opened it?” “Yes, sir, I waited to see  if there was an answer.” “Well, was there?” “Yes, sir, he wrote an answer.” “Did you take it?” “No, he took it himself.”

“But he wrote it in your presence.” “Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he  with his back turned at that table. When he   had written it, he said: ‘All right,  porter, I will take this myself.’” “What did he write it with?” “A pen, sir.”

“Was the telegraphic form  one of these on the table?” “Yes, sir, it was the top one.” Holmes rose. Taking the forms, he  carried them over to the window   and carefully examined that which was uppermost. “It is a pity he did not write in pencil,”  said he, throwing them down again with a  

Shrug of disappointment. “As you have  no doubt frequently observed, Watson,   the impression usually goes through—a fact which  has dissolved many a happy marriage. However,   I can find no trace here. I rejoice,  however, to perceive that he wrote   with a broad-pointed quill pen, and  I can hardly doubt that we will find  

Some impression upon this blotting-pad.  Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!” He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and  turned towards us the following hieroglyphic: Cyril Overton was much excited.  “Hold it to the glass!” he cried. “That is unnecessary,” said  Holmes. “The paper is thin,  

And the reverse will give the message. Here  it is.” He turned it over, and we read: “So that is the tail end of the telegram which  Godfrey Staunton dispatched within a few hours   of his disappearance. There are at least six  words of the message which have escaped us;  

But what remains—‘Stand by us for God’s  sake!’—proves that this young man saw a   formidable danger which approached him, and  from which someone else could protect him.   ‘Us,’ mark you! Another person was involved. Who  should it be but the pale-faced, bearded man,  

Who seemed himself in so nervous a state?  What, then, is the connection between Godfrey   Staunton and the bearded man? And what is  the third source from which each of them   sought for help against pressing danger? Our  inquiry has already narrowed down to that.”

“We have only to find to whom that  telegram is addressed,” I suggested. “Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection,  though profound, had already crossed my mind.   But I daresay it may have come to your notice  that, counterfoil of another man’s message,  

There may be some disinclination on the  part of the officials to oblige you.   There is so much red tape in these matters.  However, I have no doubt that with a little   delicacy and finesse the end may be attained.  Meanwhile, I should like in your presence,  

Mr. Overton, to go through these papers  which have been left upon the table.” There were a number of letters, bills, and  notebooks, which Holmes turned over and examined   with quick, nervous fingers and darting,  penetrating eyes. “Nothing here,” he said,  

At last. “By the way, I suppose your friend was  a healthy young fellow—nothing amiss with him?” “Sound as a bell.” “Have you ever known him ill?” “Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack,   and once he slipped his  knee-cap, but that was nothing.”

“Perhaps he was not so strong as you  suppose. I should think he may have had   some secret trouble. With your assent, I will  put one or two of these papers in my pocket,   in case they should bear upon our future inquiry.”

“One moment—one moment!” cried a querulous voice,  and we looked up to find a queer little old man,   jerking and twitching in the doorway.  He was dressed in rusty black, with a   very broad-brimmed top-hat and a loose white  necktie—the whole effect being that of a very  

Rustic parson or of an undertaker’s mute. Yet, in  spite of his shabby and even absurd appearance,   his voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner  a quick intensity which commanded attention. “Who are you, sir, and by what right do you  touch this gentleman’s papers?” he asked.

“I am a private detective, and I am  endeavouring to explain his disappearance.” “Oh, you are, are you? And  who instructed you, eh?” “This gentleman, Mr. Staunton’s friend,  was referred to me by Scotland Yard.” “Who are you, sir?” “I am Cyril Overton.”

“Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My  name is Lord Mount-James. I came round as   quickly as the Bayswater bus would bring  me. So you have instructed a detective?” “Yes, sir.” “And are you prepared to meet the cost?”

“I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey,  when we find him, will be prepared to do that.” “But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!” “In that case, no doubt his family——” “Nothing of the sort, sir!” screamed the little  man. “Don’t look to me for a penny—not a penny!  

You understand that, Mr. Detective! I am  all the family that this young man has got,   and I tell you that I am not responsible. If he  has any expectations it is due to the fact that  

I have never wasted money, and I do not propose  to begin to do so now. As to those papers with   which you are making so free, I may tell you  that in case there should be anything of any  

Value among them, you will be held strictly  to account for what you do with them.” “Very good, sir,” said Sherlock  Holmes. “May I ask, in the meanwhile,   whether you have yourself any theory to  account for this young man’s disappearance?”

“No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old  enough to look after himself, and if he is so   foolish as to lose himself, I entirely refuse to  accept the responsibility of hunting for him.” “I quite understand your position,” said  Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle in his  

Eyes. “Perhaps you don’t quite understand  mine. Godfrey Staunton appears to have   been a poor man. If he has been kidnapped,  it could not have been for anything which   he himself possesses. The fame of your  wealth has gone abroad, Lord Mount-James,  

And it is entirely possible that a gang  of thieves have secured your nephew in   order to gain from him some information as to  your house, your habits, and your treasure.” The face of our unpleasant little  visitor turned as white as his neckcloth.

“Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of  such villainy! What inhuman rogues there are in   the world! But Godfrey is a fine lad—a staunch  lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old   uncle away. I’ll have the plate moved over to the  bank this evening. In the meantime spare no pains,  

Mr. Detective! I beg you to leave no stone  unturned to bring him safely back. As to money,   well, so far as a fiver or even a  tenner goes you can always look to me.” Even in his chastened frame of mind, the  noble miser could give us no information  

Which could help us, for he knew little of the  private life of his nephew. Our only clue lay   in the truncated telegram, and with a copy  of this in his hand Holmes set forth to find   a second link for his chain. We had shaken  off Lord Mount-James, and Overton had gone  

To consult with the other members of his team  over the misfortune which had befallen them. There was a telegraph-office at a short  distance from the hotel. We halted outside it. “It’s worth trying, Watson,” said  Holmes. “Of course, with a warrant  

We could demand to see the counterfoils,  but we have not reached that stage yet. I   don’t suppose they remember faces in  so busy a place. Let us venture it.” “I am sorry to trouble you,”  said he, in his blandest manner,  

To the young woman behind the grating;  “there is some small mistake about a   telegram I sent yesterday. I have had  no answer, and I very much fear that I   must have omitted to put my name at the  end. Could you tell me if this was so?”

The young woman turned over  a sheaf of counterfoils. “What o’clock was it?” she asked. “A little after six.” “Whom was it to?” Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced  at me. “The last words in it were ‘For God’s   sake,’” he whispered, confidentially; “I  am very anxious at getting no answer.”

The young woman separated one of the forms. “This is it. There is no name,” said  she, smoothing it out upon the counter. “Then that, of course, accounts for my  getting no answer,” said Holmes. “Dear me,   how very stupid of me, to be sure! Good-morning,  miss, and many thanks for having relieved my  

Mind.” He chuckled and rubbed his hands when  we found ourselves in the street once more. “Well?” I asked. “We progress, my dear Watson, we progress.  I had seven different schemes for getting   a glimpse of that telegram, but I could  hardly hope to succeed the very first time.” “And what have you gained?”

“A starting-point for our investigation.” He  hailed a cab. “King’s Cross Station,” said he. “We have a journey, then?” “Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge   together. All the indications seem  to me to point in that direction.” “Tell me,” I asked, as we  rattled up Gray’s Inn Road,  

“have you any suspicion yet as to the cause of  the disappearance? I don’t think that among all   our cases I have known one where the motives  are more obscure. Surely you don’t really   imagine that he may be kidnapped in order to  give information against his wealthy uncle?”

“I confess, my dear Watson, that  that does not appeal to me as a   very probable explanation. It struck  me, however, as being the one which   was most likely to interest that  exceedingly unpleasant old person.” “It certainly did that; but  what are your alternatives?”

“I could mention several. You must admit  that it is curious and suggestive that   this incident should occur on the eve of this  important match, and should involve the only   man whose presence seems essential to the success  of the side. It may, of course, be a coincidence,  

But it is interesting. Amateur sport is free from  betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes   on among the public, and it is possible that it  might be worth someone’s while to get at a player  

As the ruffians of the turf get at a race-horse.  There is one explanation. A second very obvious   one is that this young man really is the heir  of a great property, however modest his means  

May at present be, and it is not impossible that  a plot to hold him for ransom might be concocted.” “These theories take no account of the telegram.” “Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains  the only solid thing with which we have to deal,  

And we must not permit our attention to  wander away from it. It is to gain light   upon the purpose of this telegram that we are  now upon our way to Cambridge. The path of our   investigation is at present obscure, but  I shall be very much surprised if before  

Evening we have not cleared it up, or  made a considerable advance along it.” It was already dark when we reached the old  university city. Holmes took a cab at the   station and ordered the man to drive to the house  of Dr. Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later,  

We had stopped at a large mansion in the  busiest thoroughfare. We were shown in,   and after a long wait were at last  admitted into the consulting-room,   where we found the doctor seated behind his table. It argues the degree in which I had lost touch  with my profession that the name of Leslie  

Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am aware  that he is not only one of the heads of the   medical school of the university, but a thinker  of European reputation in more than one branch of   science. Yet even without knowing his brilliant  record one could not fail to be impressed by  

A mere glance at the man, the square, massive  face, the brooding eyes under the thatched brows,   and the granite moulding of the inflexible jaw. A  man of deep character, a man with an alert mind,   grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable—so I  read Dr. Leslie Armstrong. He held my friend’s  

Card in his hand, and he looked up with no  very pleased expression upon his dour features. “I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,   and I am aware of your profession—one  of which I by no means approve.” “In that, Doctor, you will find  yourself in agreement with every  

Criminal in the country,” said my friend, quietly. “So far as your efforts are directed  towards the suppression of crime, sir,   they must have the support of every  reasonable member of the community,   though I cannot doubt that the official machinery  is amply sufficient for the purpose. Where your  

Calling is more open to criticism is when you  pry into the secrets of private individuals,   when you rake up family matters which are  better hidden, and when you incidentally   waste the time of men who are more busy than  yourself. At the present moment, for example,  

I should be writing a treatise  instead of conversing with you.” “No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation  may prove more important than the treatise.   Incidentally, I may tell you that we are doing  the reverse of what you very justly blame,   and that we are endeavouring to prevent  anything like public exposure of private  

Matters which must necessarily follow when  once the case is fairly in the hands of the   official police. You may look upon me simply  as an irregular pioneer, who goes in front   of the regular forces of the country. I have  come to ask you about Mr. Godfrey Staunton.” “What about him?”

“You know him, do you not?” “He is an intimate friend of mine.” “You are aware that he has disappeared?” “Ah, indeed!” There was no change of expression  in the rugged features of the doctor. “He left his hotel last  night—he has not been heard of.” “No doubt he will return.”

“To-morrow is the ’Varsity football match.” “I have no sympathy with these childish games.  The young man’s fate interests me deeply,   since I know him and like him. The football  match does not come within my horizon at all.”

“I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation  of Mr. Staunton’s fate. Do you know where he is?” “Certainly not.” “You have not seen him since yesterday?” “No, I have not.” “Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?” “Absolutely.” “Did you ever know him ill?” “Never.”

Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the  doctor’s eyes. “Then perhaps you will explain   this receipted bill for thirteen guineas,  paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to   Dr. Leslie Armstrong, of Cambridge. I picked  it out from among the papers upon his desk.” The doctor flushed with anger.

“I do not feel that there is any reason why I  should render an explanation to you, Mr. Holmes.” Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook. “If  you prefer a public explanation, it must come   sooner or later,” said he. “I have already  told you that I can hush up that which others  

Will be bound to publish, and you would really be  wiser to take me into your complete confidence.” “I know nothing about it.” “Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?” “Certainly not.” “Dear me, dear me—the postoffice again!” Holmes  sighed, wearily. “A most urgent telegram was  

Dispatched to you from London by Godfrey  Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening—a   telegram which is undoubtedly associated with  his disappearance—and yet you have not had it.   It is most culpable. I shall certainly go down  to the office here and register a complaint.”

Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his  desk, and his dark face was crimson with fury. “I’ll trouble you to walk out of my house,  sir,” said he. “You can tell your employer,   Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish  to have anything to do either with him  

Or with his agents. No, sir—not another  word!” He rang the bell furiously. “John,   show these gentlemen out!” A pompous  butler ushered us severely to the door,   and we found ourselves in the  street. Holmes burst out laughing.

“Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy  and character,” said he. “I have not seen a man   who, if he turns his talents that way, was more  calculated to fill the gap left by the illustrious   Moriarty. And now, my poor Watson, here we are,  stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town,  

Which we cannot leave without abandoning  our case. This little inn just opposite   Armstrong’s house is singularly adapted to  our needs. If you would engage a front room   and purchase the necessaries for the night,  I may have time to make a few inquiries.”

These few inquiries proved, however, to be a  more lengthy proceeding than Holmes had imagined,   for he did not return to the inn until nearly  nine o’clock. He was pale and dejected,   stained with dust, and exhausted with hunger and  fatigue. A cold supper was ready upon the table,  

And when his needs were satisfied and his  pipe alight he was ready to take that half   comic and wholly philosophic view which was  natural to him when his affairs were going   awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused  him to rise and glance out of the window.  

A brougham and pair of greys, under the glare  of a gas-lamp, stood before the doctor’s door. “It’s been out three hours,” said Holmes; “started  at half-past six, and here it is back again. That   gives a radius of ten or twelve miles, and  he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day.”

“No unusual thing for a doctor in practice.” “But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice.  He is a lecturer and a consultant, but he does not   care for general practice, which distracts him  from his literary work. Why, then, does he make  

These long journeys, which must be exceedingly  irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?” “His coachman——” “My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to  him that I first applied? I do not know whether   it came from his own innate depravity  or from the promptings of his master,  

But he was rude enough to set a dog at me.  Neither dog nor man liked the look of my stick,   however, and the matter fell through.  Relations were strained after that,   and further inquiries out of the question. All  that I have learned I got from a friendly native  

In the yard of our own inn. It was he who  told me of the doctor’s habits and of his   daily journey. At that instant, to give point to  his words, the carriage came round to the door.” “Could you not follow it?”

“Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this  evening. The idea did cross my mind. There is,   as you may have observed, a bicycle shop next to  our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle,   and was able to get started before the carriage  was quite out of sight. I rapidly overtook it,  

And then, keeping at a discreet  distance of a hundred yards or so,   I followed its lights until we were clear of the  town. We had got well out on the country road,   when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred.  The carriage stopped, the doctor alighted,  

Walked swiftly back to where I had also halted,  and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that   he feared the road was narrow, and that  he hoped his carriage did not impede the   passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have been  more admirable than his way of putting it. I  

At once rode past the carriage, and, keeping  to the main road, I went on for a few miles,   and then halted in a convenient place to see if  the carriage passed. There was no sign of it,  

However, and so it became evident that it had  turned down one of several side roads which I   had observed. I rode back, but again saw nothing  of the carriage, and now, as you perceive, it has   returned after me. Of course, I had at the outset  no particular reason to connect these journeys  

With the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and  was only inclined to investigate them on the   general grounds that everything which concerns Dr.  Armstrong is at present of interest to us, but,   now that I find he keeps so keen a look-out upon  anyone who may follow him on these excursions,  

The affair appears more important, and I shall not  be satisfied until I have made the matter clear.” “We can follow him to-morrow.” “Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think.  You are not familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery,  

Are you? It does not lend itself to concealment.  All this country that I passed over to-night is   as flat and clean as the palm of your hand, and  the man we are following is no fool, as he very  

Clearly showed to-night. I have wired to Overton  to let us know any fresh London developments at   this address, and in the meantime we can only  concentrate our attention upon Dr. Armstrong,   whose name the obliging young lady at  the office allowed me to read upon the  

Counterfoil of Staunton’s urgent message. He  knows where the young man is—to that I’ll swear,   and if he knows, then it must be our own  fault if we cannot manage to know also.   At present it must be admitted that  the odd trick is in his possession,  

And, as you are aware, Watson, it is not my  habit to leave the game in that condition.” And yet the next day brought us no nearer  to the solution of the mystery. A note   was handed in after breakfast, which  Holmes passed across to me with a smile.

SIR [it ran],—I can assure you that you are  wasting your time in dogging my movements.   I have, as you discovered last night,  a window at the back of my brougham,   and if you desire a twenty-mile ride which will  lead you to the spot from which you started,  

You have only to follow me. Meanwhile, I  can inform you that no spying upon me can   in any way help Mr. Godfrey Staunton, and  I am convinced that the best service you   can do to that gentleman is to return at once  to London and to report to your employer that  

You are unable to trace him. Your time  in Cambridge will certainly be wasted. Yours faithfully, LESLIE ARMSTRONG. “An outspoken, honest antagonist  is the doctor,” said Holmes. “Well,   well, he excites my curiosity, and I  must really know before I leave him.”

“His carriage is at his door now,” said  I. “There he is stepping into it. I saw   him glance up at our window as he did so.  Suppose I try my luck upon the bicycle?” “No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for  your natural acumen, I do not think that you  

Are quite a match for the worthy doctor.  I think that possibly I can attain our end   by some independent explorations of my own. I am  afraid that I must leave you to your own devices,   as the appearance of two inquiring strangers  upon a sleepy countryside might excite more  

Gossip than I care for. No doubt you  will find some sights to amuse you in   this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a  more favourable report to you before evening.” Once more, however, my friend was destined to be   disappointed. He came back at  night weary and unsuccessful.

“I have had a blank day, Watson. Having  got the doctor’s general direction,   I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon  that side of Cambridge, and comparing notes with   publicans and other local news agencies.  I have covered some ground. Chesterton,   Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington have  each been explored, and have each proved  

Disappointing. The daily appearance of a  brougham and pair could hardly have been   overlooked in such Sleepy Hollows. The doctor has  scored once more. Is there a telegram for me?” “Yes, I opened it. Here it is: “Ask for Pompey from Jeremy  Dixon, Trinity College.” “I don’t understand it.”

“Oh, it is clear enough. It  is from our friend Overton,   and is in answer to a question from me. I’ll  just send round a note to Mr. Jeremy Dixon,   and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn.  By the way, is there any news of the match?”

“Yes, the local evening paper has an  excellent account in its last edition.   Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The  last sentences of the description say: “‘The defeat of the Light Blues may be  entirely attributed to the unfortunate   absence of the crack International, Godfrey  Staunton, whose want was felt at every instant  

Of the game. The lack of combination in the  three-quarter line and their weakness both in   attack and defence more than neutralized the  efforts of a heavy and hard-working pack.’” “Then our friend Overton’s forebodings have  been justified,” said Holmes. “Personally I   am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong,  and football does not come within my  

Horizon. Early to bed to-night, Watson, for I  foresee that to-morrow may be an eventful day.” I was horrified by my first glimpse of  Holmes next morning, for he sat by the   fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I  associated that instrument with the single  

Weakness of his nature, and I feared  the worst when I saw it glittering in   his hand. He laughed at my expression  of dismay and laid it upon the table. “No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for  alarm. It is not upon this occasion the instrument  

Of evil, but it will rather prove to be the key  which will unlock our mystery. On this syringe   I base all my hopes. I have just returned from  a small scouting expedition, and everything is   favourable. Eat a good breakfast, Watson, for I  propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong’s trail to-day,  

And once on it I will not stop for rest  or food until I run him to his burrow.” “In that case,” said I, “we had  best carry our breakfast with us,   for he is making an early start.  His carriage is at the door.”

“Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever  if he can drive where I cannot follow him.   When you have finished, come downstairs with  me, and I will introduce you to a detective   who is a very eminent specialist  in the work that lies before us.”

When we descended I followed  Holmes into the stable yard,   where he opened the door of a  loose-box and led out a squat,   lop-eared, white-and-tan dog, something  between a beagle and a foxhound. “Let me introduce you to Pompey,” said he. “Pompey  is the pride of the local draghounds—no very great  

Flier, as his build will show, but a staunch hound  on a scent. Well, Pompey, you may not be fast,   but I expect you will be too fast for a couple of  middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the  

Liberty of fastening this leather leash to your  collar. Now, boy, come along, and show what you   can do.” He led him across to the doctor’s door.  The dog sniffed round for an instant, and then   with a shrill whine of excitement started off down  the street, tugging at his leash in his efforts to  

Go faster. In half an hour, we were clear of  the town and hastening down a country road. “What have you done, Holmes?” I asked. “A threadbare and venerable device, but useful  upon occasion. I walked into the doctor’s yard   this morning, and shot my syringe full of  aniseed over the hind wheel. A draghound  

Will follow aniseed from here to John  o’Groat’s, and our friend, Armstrong,   would have to drive through the Cam before  he would shake Pompey off his trail. Oh,   the cunning rascal! This is how he  gave me the slip the other night.”

The dog had suddenly turned out of the main  road into a grass-grown lane. Half a mile   farther this opened into another broad  road, and the trail turned hard to the   right in the direction of the town, which  we had just quitted. The road took a sweep  

To the south of the town, and continued in the  opposite direction to that in which we started. “This détour has been entirely for our  benefit, then?” said Holmes. “No wonder   that my inquiries among those villagers led  to nothing. The doctor has certainly played  

The game for all it is worth, and one would  like to know the reason for such elaborate   deception. This should be the village  of Trumpington to the right of us. And,   by Jove! here is the brougham coming round the  corner. Quick, Watson—quick, or we are done!”

He sprang through a gate into a field,  dragging the reluctant Pompey after   him. We had hardly got under the shelter of  the hedge when the carriage rattled past. I   caught a glimpse of Dr. Armstrong within, his  shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his hands,  

The very image of distress. I could tell by my  companion’s graver face that he also had seen. “I fear there is some dark ending to  our quest,” said he. “It cannot be   long before we know it. Come, Pompey!  Ah, it is the cottage in the field!”

There could be no doubt that we had reached the  end of our journey. Pompey ran about and whined   eagerly outside the gate, where the marks  of the brougham’s wheels were still to be   seen. A footpath led across to the lonely  cottage. Holmes tied the dog to the hedge,  

And we hastened onward. My friend  knocked at the little rustic door,   and knocked again without response.  And yet the cottage was not deserted,   for a low sound came to our ears—a kind of drone  of misery and despair which was indescribably  

Melancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then  he glanced back at the road which he had just   traversed. A brougham was coming down it, and  there could be no mistaking those grey horses. “By Jove, the doctor is coming back!” cried   Holmes. “That settles it. We are bound  to see what it means before he comes.”

He opened the door, and we stepped into the hall.  The droning sound swelled louder upon our ears   until it became one long, deep wail of distress.  It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up, and I   followed him. He pushed open a half-closed door,  and we both stood appalled at the sight before us.

A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead  upon the bed. Her calm pale face, with dim,   wide-opened blue eyes, looked upward from  amid a great tangle of golden hair. At   the foot of the bed, half sitting, half  kneeling, his face buried in the clothes,  

Was a young man, whose frame was racked by his  sobs. So absorbed was he by his bitter grief,   that he never looked up until  Holmes’s hand was on his shoulder. “Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?” “Yes, yes, I am—but you  are too late. She is dead.”

The man was so dazed that he could not be  made to understand that we were anything   but doctors who had been sent to his  assistance. Holmes was endeavouring   to utter a few words of consolation and to  explain the alarm which had been caused to  

His friends by his sudden disappearance  when there was a step upon the stairs,   and there was the heavy, stern, questioning  face of Dr. Armstrong at the door. “So, gentlemen,” said he, “you have attained  your end and have certainly chosen a particularly  

Delicate moment for your intrusion. I would  not brawl in the presence of death, but I   can assure you that if I were a younger man your  monstrous conduct would not pass with impunity.” “Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a  little at cross-purposes,” said my friend,  

With dignity. “If you could  step downstairs with us,   we may each be able to give some light  to the other upon this miserable affair.” A minute later, the grim doctor and  ourselves were in the sitting-room below. “Well, sir?” said he.

“I wish you to understand, in the first place,  that I am not employed by Lord Mount-James,   and that my sympathies in this matter are  entirely against that nobleman. When a man   is lost it is my duty to ascertain his  fate, but having done so the matter ends  

So far as I am concerned, and so long as  there is nothing criminal I am much more   anxious to hush up private scandals than  to give them publicity. If, as I imagine,   there is no breach of the law in this  matter, you can absolutely depend upon  

My discretion and my cooperation in  keeping the facts out of the papers.” Dr. Armstrong took a quick step  forward and wrung Holmes by the hand. “You are a good fellow,” said he. “I had misjudged  you. I thank heaven that my compunction at leaving  

Poor Staunton all alone in this plight caused  me to turn my carriage back and so to make your   acquaintance. Knowing as much as you do, the  situation is very easily explained. A year ago   Godfrey Staunton lodged in London for a time and  became passionately attached to his landlady’s  

Daughter, whom he married. She was as good as she  was beautiful and as intelligent as she was good.   No man need be ashamed of such a wife. But Godfrey  was the heir to this crabbed old nobleman, and it  

Was quite certain that the news of his marriage  would have been the end of his inheritance. I   knew the lad well, and I loved him for his  many excellent qualities. I did all I could   to help him to keep things straight. We did our  very best to keep the thing from everyone, for,  

When once such a whisper gets about, it is not  long before everyone has heard it. Thanks to this   lonely cottage and his own discretion, Godfrey has  up to now succeeded. Their secret was known to no   one save to me and to one excellent servant, who  has at present gone for assistance to Trumpington.  

But at last there came a terrible blow in the  shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It was   consumption of the most virulent kind. The poor  boy was half crazed with grief, and yet he had  

To go to London to play this match, for he could  not get out of it without explanations which would   expose his secret. I tried to cheer him up by  wire, and he sent me one in reply, imploring me  

To do all I could. This was the telegram which  you appear in some inexplicable way to have   seen. I did not tell him how urgent the danger  was, for I knew that he could do no good here,  

But I sent the truth to the girl’s father, and he  very injudiciously communicated it to Godfrey. The   result was that he came straight away in a state  bordering on frenzy, and has remained in the same  

State, kneeling at the end of her bed, until this  morning death put an end to her sufferings. That   is all, Mr. Holmes, and I am sure that I can rely  upon your discretion and that of your friend.” Holmes grasped the doctor’s hand. “Come, Watson,” said he, and  we passed from that house of  

Grief into the pale sunlight of the winter day. END OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSING THREE-QUARTER ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning,  towards the end of the winter of ’97,  

That I was awakened by a tugging at my  shoulder. It was Holmes. The candle in his   hand shone upon his eager, stooping face, and  told me at a glance that something was amiss. “Come, Watson, come!” he cried. “The game is  afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!”

Ten minutes later we were both in a cab,  and rattling through the silent streets on   our way to Charing Cross Station. The first  faint winter’s dawn was beginning to appear,   and we could dimly see the occasional figure of  an early workman as he passed us, blurred and  

Indistinct in the opalescent London reek. Holmes  nestled in silence into his heavy coat, and I   was glad to do the same, for the air was most  bitter, and neither of us had broken our fast. It was not until we had consumed  some hot tea at the station and  

Taken our places in the Kentish train  that we were sufficiently thawed,   he to speak and I to listen. Holmes drew  a note from his pocket, and read aloud: Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent, 3:30 A.M. MY DEAR MR. HOLMES: I should be very glad of your immediate  assistance in what promises to be a most  

Remarkable case. It is something quite  in your line. Except for releasing the   lady I will see that everything is  kept exactly as I have found it,   but I beg you not to lose an instant, as  it is difficult to leave Sir Eustace there. Yours faithfully, STANLEY HOPKINS.

“Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each  occasion his summons has been entirely justified,”   said Holmes. “I fancy that every one of his  cases has found its way into your collection,   and I must admit, Watson, that you have some  power of selection, which atones for much which  

I deplore in your narratives. Your fatal habit of  looking at everything from the point of view of a   story instead of as a scientific exercise has  ruined what might have been an instructive and   even classical series of demonstrations. You slur  over work of the utmost finesse and delicacy, in  

Order to dwell upon sensational details which may  excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader.” “Why do you not write them yourself?”  I said, with some bitterness. “I will, my dear Watson, I will. At  present I am, as you know, fairly busy,  

But I propose to devote my declining years to  the composition of a textbook, which shall focus   the whole art of detection into one volume. Our  present research appears to be a case of murder.” “You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?”

“I should say so. Hopkins’s writing shows  considerable agitation, and he is not an   emotional man. Yes, I gather there has been  violence, and that the body is left for our   inspection. A mere suicide would not have caused  him to send for me. As to the release of the lady,  

It would appear that she has been locked  in her room during the tragedy. We are   moving in high life, Watson, crackling  paper, ‘E.B.’ monogram, coat-of-arms,   picturesque address. I think that friend  Hopkins will live up to his reputation,   and that we shall have an interesting morning.  The crime was committed before twelve last night.”

“How can you possibly tell?” “By an inspection of the trains, and by  reckoning the time. The local police had   to be called in, they had to communicate  with Scotland Yard, Hopkins had to go out,   and he in turn had to send for me. All  that makes a fair night’s work. Well,  

Here we are at Chiselhurst Station, and  we shall soon set our doubts at rest.” A drive of a couple of miles through narrow  country lanes brought us to a park gate,   which was opened for us by an old lodge-keeper,  whose haggard face bore the reflection of some  

Great disaster. The avenue ran through a  noble park, between lines of ancient elms,   and ended in a low, widespread house, pillared  in front after the fashion of Palladio. The   central part was evidently of a great age and  shrouded in ivy, but the large windows showed  

That modern changes had been carried out, and one  wing of the house appeared to be entirely new. The   youthful figure and alert, eager face of Inspector  Stanley Hopkins confronted us in the open doorway. “I’m very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes.  And you, too, Dr. Watson. But, indeed,  

If I had my time over again, I  should not have troubled you,   for since the lady has come to herself, she  has given so clear an account of the affair   that there is not much left for us to do.  You remember that Lewisham gang of burglars?” “What, the three Randalls?”

“Exactly; the father and two sons. It’s their  work. I have not a doubt of it. They did a job   at Sydenham a fortnight ago and were seen  and described. Rather cool to do another   so soon and so near, but it is they, beyond  all doubt. It’s a hanging matter this time.”

“Sir Eustace is dead, then?” “Yes, his head was knocked in with his own poker.” “Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me.” “Exactly—one of the richest men in Kent—Lady  Brackenstall is in the morning-room. Poor lady,  

She has had a most dreadful experience. She seemed  half dead when I saw her first. I think you had   best see her and hear her account of the facts.  Then we will examine the dining-room together.” Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person.  Seldom have I seen so graceful a figure,  

So womanly a presence, and so beautiful  a face. She was a blonde, golden-haired,   blue-eyed, and would no doubt have had the perfect  complexion which goes with such colouring, had not   her recent experience left her drawn and haggard.  Her sufferings were physical as well as mental,  

For over one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured  swelling, which her maid, a tall, austere woman,   was bathing assiduously with vinegar and water.  The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch,   but her quick, observant gaze, as we entered  the room, and the alert expression of her  

Beautiful features, showed that neither her  wits nor her courage had been shaken by her   terrible experience. She was enveloped in  a loose dressing-gown of blue and silver,   but a black sequin-covered dinner-dress  lay upon the couch beside her. “I have told you all that  happened, Mr. Hopkins,” she said,  

Wearily. “Could you not repeat it for  me? Well, if you think it necessary,   I will tell these gentlemen what occurred.  Have they been in the dining-room yet?” “I thought they had better hear  your ladyship’s story first.” “I shall be glad when you can arrange  matters. It is horrible to me to think  

Of him still lying there.” She shuddered and  buried her face in her hands. As she did so,   the loose gown fell back from her  forearms. Holmes uttered an exclamation. “You have other injuries, madam! What  is this?” Two vivid red spots stood   out on one of the white, round  limbs. She hastily covered it.

“It is nothing. It has no connection  with this hideous business to-night.   If you and your friend will sit  down, I will tell you all I can. “I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I  have been married about a year. I suppose that  

It is no use my attempting to conceal that our  marriage has not been a happy one. I fear that   all our neighbours would tell you that, even if  I were to attempt to deny it. Perhaps the fault  

May be partly mine. I was brought up in the freer,  less conventional atmosphere of South Australia,   and this English life, with its proprieties and  its primness, is not congenial to me. But the main   reason lies in the one fact, which is notorious  to everyone, and that is that Sir Eustace was a  

Confirmed drunkard. To be with such a man for an  hour is unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means   for a sensitive and high-spirited woman to be  tied to him for day and night? It is a sacrilege,  

A crime, a villainy to hold that such a marriage  is binding. I say that these monstrous laws of   yours will bring a curse upon the land—God will  not let such wickedness endure.” For an instant   she sat up, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes  blazing from under the terrible mark upon her  

Brow. Then the strong, soothing hand of the  austere maid drew her head down on to the   cushion, and the wild anger died away into  passionate sobbing. At last she continued: “I will tell you about last night. You  are aware, perhaps, that in this house  

All the servants sleep in the modern wing. This  central block is made up of the dwelling-rooms,   with the kitchen behind and our bedroom  above. My maid, Theresa, sleeps above my   room. There is no one else, and no sound could  alarm those who are in the farther wing. This  

Must have been well-known to the robbers,  or they would not have acted as they did. “Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten. The  servants had already gone to their quarters.   Only my maid was up, and she had remained  in her room at the top of the house until  

I needed her services. I sat until after eleven  in this room, absorbed in a book. Then I walked   round to see that all was right before I went  upstairs. It was my custom to do this myself,  

For, as I have explained, Sir Eustace was not  always to be trusted. I went into the kitchen, the   butler’s pantry, the gun-room, the billiard-room,  the drawing-room, and finally the dining-room.   As I approached the window, which is covered with  thick curtains, I suddenly felt the wind blow upon  

My face and realized that it was open. I flung the  curtain aside and found myself face to face with a   broad-shouldered elderly man, who had just stepped  into the room. The window is a long French one,  

Which really forms a door leading to the lawn.  I held my bedroom candle lit in my hand, and, by   its light, behind the first man I saw two others,  who were in the act of entering. I stepped back,  

But the fellow was on me in an instant. He caught  me first by the wrist and then by the throat.   I opened my mouth to scream, but he struck me a  savage blow with his fist over the eye, and felled  

Me to the ground. I must have been unconscious  for a few minutes, for when I came to myself,   I found that they had torn down the bell-rope,  and had secured me tightly to the oaken chair   which stands at the head of the dining-table.  I was so firmly bound that I could not move,  

And a handkerchief round my mouth prevented me  from uttering a sound. It was at this instant   that my unfortunate husband entered the room.  He had evidently heard some suspicious sounds,   and he came prepared for such a scene as he  found. He was dressed in nightshirt and trousers,  

With his favourite blackthorn cudgel  in his hand. He rushed at the burglars,   but another—it was an elderly man—stooped,  picked the poker out of the grate and struck   him a horrible blow as he passed. He fell with a  groan and never moved again. I fainted once more,  

But again it could only have been for a very  few minutes during which I was insensible. When   I opened my eyes I found that they had collected  the silver from the sideboard, and they had drawn  

A bottle of wine which stood there. Each of them  had a glass in his hand. I have already told you,   have I not, that one was elderly, with a beard,  and the others young, hairless lads. They might  

Have been a father with his two sons. They talked  together in whispers. Then they came over and   made sure that I was securely bound. Finally  they withdrew, closing the window after them.   It was quite a quarter of an hour before I got my  mouth free. When I did so, my screams brought the  

Maid to my assistance. The other servants were  soon alarmed, and we sent for the local police,   who instantly communicated with London. That  is really all that I can tell you, gentlemen,   and I trust that it will not be necessary  for me to go over so painful a story again.”

“Any questions, Mr. Holmes?” asked Hopkins. “I will not impose any further tax upon Lady  Brackenstall’s patience and time,” said Holmes.   “Before I go into the dining-room, I should like  to hear your experience.” He looked at the maid.

“I saw the men before ever they came into the  house,” said she. “As I sat by my bedroom window   I saw three men in the moonlight down by the lodge  gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at the  

Time. It was more than an hour after that I heard  my mistress scream, and down I ran, to find her,   poor lamb, just as she says, and him on the  floor, with his blood and brains over the room.  

It was enough to drive a woman out of her wits,  tied there, and her very dress spotted with him,   but she never wanted courage, did Miss Mary Fraser  of Adelaide and Lady Brackenstall of Abbey Grange   hasn’t learned new ways. You’ve questioned  her long enough, you gentlemen, and now she  

Is coming to her own room, just with her old  Theresa, to get the rest that she badly needs.” With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her  arm round her mistress and led her from the room. “She has been with her all her life,”  said Hopkins. “Nursed her as a baby,  

And came with her to England when they first left  Australia, eighteen months ago. Theresa Wright is   her name, and the kind of maid you don’t pick up  nowadays. This way, Mr. Holmes, if you please!” The keen interest had passed out of Holmes’s  expressive face, and I knew that with the mystery  

All the charm of the case had departed. There  still remained an arrest to be effected, but   what were these commonplace rogues that he should  soil his hands with them? An abstruse and learned   specialist who finds that he has been called in  for a case of measles would experience something  

Of the annoyance which I read in my friend’s  eyes. Yet the scene in the dining-room of the   Abbey Grange was sufficiently strange to arrest  his attention and to recall his waning interest. It was a very large and high chamber, with carved  oak ceiling, oaken panelling, and a fine array  

Of deer’s heads and ancient weapons around the  walls. At the further end from the door was the   high French window of which we had heard. Three  smaller windows on the right-hand side filled   the apartment with cold winter sunshine. On the  left was a large, deep fireplace, with a massive,  

Overhanging oak mantelpiece. Beside the fireplace  was a heavy oaken chair with arms and cross-bars   at the bottom. In and out through the  open woodwork was woven a crimson cord,   which was secured at each side to the  crosspiece below. In releasing the lady,  

The cord had been slipped off her, but the knots  with which it had been secured still remained.   These details only struck our attention  afterwards, for our thoughts were entirely   absorbed by the terrible object which lay upon  the tigerskin hearthrug in front of the fire.

It was the body of a tall, well-made man,  about forty years of age. He lay upon his back,   his face upturned, with his white teeth grinning  through his short, black beard. His two clenched   hands were raised above his head, and a heavy,  blackthorn stick lay across them. His dark,  

Handsome, aquiline features were convulsed into  a spasm of vindictive hatred, which had set his   dead face in a terribly fiendish expression. He  had evidently been in his bed when the alarm had   broken out, for he wore a foppish, embroidered  nightshirt, and his bare feet projected from his  

Trousers. His head was horribly injured, and the  whole room bore witness to the savage ferocity   of the blow which had struck him down. Beside  him lay the heavy poker, bent into a curve by   the concussion. Holmes examined both it and  the indescribable wreck which it had wrought.

“He must be a powerful man, this  elder Randall,” he remarked. “Yes,” said Hopkins. “I have some record  of the fellow, and he is a rough customer.” “You should have no difficulty in getting him.” “Not the slightest. We have  been on the look-out for him,  

And there was some idea that he had got away to  America. Now that we know that the gang are here,   I don’t see how they can escape. We have the  news at every seaport already, and a reward  

Will be offered before evening. What beats me  is how they could have done so mad a thing,   knowing that the lady could describe them and that  we could not fail to recognize the description.” “Exactly. One would have expected that they  would silence Lady Brackenstall as well.”

“They may not have realized,” I suggested,  “that she had recovered from her faint.” “That is likely enough. If she seemed to be  senseless, they would not take her life. What   about this poor fellow, Hopkins? I seem to  have heard some queer stories about him.”

“He was a good-hearted man when he was  sober, but a perfect fiend when he was drunk,   or rather when he was half drunk, for he  seldom really went the whole way. The devil   seemed to be in him at such times, and he  was capable of anything. From what I hear,  

In spite of all his wealth and his title, he very  nearly came our way once or twice. There was a   scandal about his drenching a dog with petroleum  and setting it on fire—her ladyship’s dog,   to make the matter worse—and that was only  hushed up with difficulty. Then he threw a  

Decanter at that maid, Theresa Wright—there  was trouble about that. On the whole,   and between ourselves, it will be a brighter  house without him. What are you looking at now?” Holmes was down on his knees, examining  with great attention the knots upon  

The red cord with which the lady had been  secured. Then he carefully scrutinized the   broken and frayed end where it had snapped  off when the burglar had dragged it down. “When this was pulled down, the bell in the  kitchen must have rung loudly,” he remarked.

“No one could hear it. The kitchen  stands right at the back of the house.” “How did the burglar know no  one would hear it? How dared   he pull at a bell-rope in that reckless fashion?” “Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You put the  very question which I have asked myself again  

And again. There can be no doubt that this fellow  must have known the house and its habits. He must   have perfectly understood that the servants would  all be in bed at that comparatively early hour,   and that no one could possibly hear a  bell ring in the kitchen. Therefore,  

He must have been in close league  with one of the servants. Surely   that is evident. But there are eight  servants, and all of good character.” “Other things being equal,” said Holmes, “one  would suspect the one at whose head the master  

Threw a decanter. And yet that would involve  treachery towards the mistress to whom this woman   seems devoted. Well, well, the point is a minor  one, and when you have Randall you will probably   find no difficulty in securing his accomplice. The  lady’s story certainly seems to be corroborated,  

If it needed corroboration, by every detail  which we see before us.” He walked to the   French window and threw it open. “There are  no signs here, but the ground is iron hard,   and one would not expect them. I see that these  candles in the mantelpiece have been lighted.”

“Yes, it was by their light and  that of the lady’s bedroom candle,   that the burglars saw their way about.” “And what did they take?” “Well, they did not take much—only half a  dozen articles of plate off the sideboard.   Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were  themselves so disturbed by the death of  

Sir Eustace that they did not ransack the  house, as they would otherwise have done.” “No doubt that is true, and yet  they drank some wine, I understand.” “To steady their nerves.” “Exactly. These three glasses upon the  sideboard have been untouched, I suppose?” “Yes, and the bottle stands as they left it.”

“Let us look at it. Halloa, halloa! What is this?” The three glasses were grouped together,  all of them tinged with wine, and one of   them containing some dregs of beeswing. The  bottle stood near them, two-thirds full,   and beside it lay a long, deeply stained  cork. Its appearance and the dust upon  

The bottle showed that it was no common  vintage which the murderers had enjoyed. A change had come over Holmes’s manner. He had  lost his listless expression, and again I saw   an alert light of interest in his keen, deep-set  eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely.

“How did they draw it?” he asked. Hopkins pointed to a half-opened drawer. In  it lay some table linen and a large corkscrew. “Did Lady Brackenstall say that screw was used?” “No, you remember that she was senseless  at the moment when the bottle was opened.”

“Quite so. As a matter of fact, that screw was not  used. This bottle was opened by a pocket screw,   probably contained in a knife, and not  more than an inch and a half long. If you   will examine the top of the cork, you will  observe that the screw was driven in three  

Times before the cork was extracted. It has  never been transfixed. This long screw would   have transfixed it and drawn it up with a  single pull. When you catch this fellow,   you will find that he has one of these  multiplex knives in his possession.” “Excellent!” said Hopkins. “But these glasses do puzzle me,  

I confess. Lady Brackenstall actually  saw the three men drinking, did she not?” “Yes; she was clear about that.” “Then there is an end of it. What more is to be  said? And yet, you must admit, that the three   glasses are very remarkable, Hopkins. What? You  see nothing remarkable? Well, well, let it pass.  

Perhaps, when a man has special knowledge  and special powers like my own, it rather   encourages him to seek a complex explanation when  a simpler one is at hand. Of course, it must be a   mere chance about the glasses. Well, good-morning,  Hopkins. I don’t see that I can be of any use to  

You, and you appear to have your case very clear.  You will let me know when Randall is arrested, and   any further developments which may occur. I trust  that I shall soon have to congratulate you upon a   successful conclusion. Come, Watson, I fancy that  we may employ ourselves more profitably at home.”

During our return journey, I could see by Holmes’s  face that he was much puzzled by something which   he had observed. Every now and then, by an  effort, he would throw off the impression,   and talk as if the matter were clear, but then  his doubts would settle down upon him again,  

And his knitted brows and abstracted  eyes would show that his thoughts had   gone back once more to the great  dining-room of the Abbey Grange,   in which this midnight tragedy had been enacted.  At last, by a sudden impulse, just as our train  

Was crawling out of a suburban station, he sprang  on to the platform and pulled me out after him. “Excuse me, my dear fellow,” said he, as  we watched the rear carriages of our train   disappearing round a curve, “I am sorry to make  you the victim of what may seem a mere whim,  

But on my life, Watson, I simply can’t leave  that case in this condition. Every instinct   that I possess cries out against it. It’s  wrong—it’s all wrong—I’ll swear that it’s   wrong. And yet the lady’s story was complete,  the maid’s corroboration was sufficient,  

The detail was fairly exact. What have I  to put up against that? Three wine-glasses,   that is all. But if I had not taken things for  granted, if I had examined everything with the   care which I should have shown had we approached  the case de novo and had no cut-and-dried story  

To warp my mind, should I not then have found  something more definite to go upon? Of course   I should. Sit down on this bench, Watson, until  a train for Chiselhurst arrives, and allow me to   lay the evidence before you, imploring you  in the first instance to dismiss from your  

Mind the idea that anything which the maid or  her mistress may have said must necessarily   be true. The lady’s charming personality  must not be permitted to warp our judgment. “Surely there are details in her story  which, if we looked at in cold blood,  

Would excite our suspicion. These burglars made  a considerable haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago.   Some account of them and of their appearance was  in the papers, and would naturally occur to anyone   who wished to invent a story in which imaginary  robbers should play a part. As a matter of fact,  

Burglars who have done a good stroke of  business are, as a rule, only too glad   to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet without  embarking on another perilous undertaking. Again,   it is unusual for burglars to operate at so early  an hour, it is unusual for burglars to strike a  

Lady to prevent her screaming, since one would  imagine that was the sure way to make her scream,   it is unusual for them to commit murder when  their numbers are sufficient to overpower one man,   it is unusual for them to be content  with a limited plunder when there was  

Much more within their reach, and finally,  I should say, that it was very unusual for   such men to leave a bottle half empty. How  do all these unusuals strike you, Watson?” “Their cumulative effect  is certainly considerable,   and yet each of them is quite possible  in itself. The most unusual thing of all,  

As it seems to me, is that the  lady should be tied to the chair.” “Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson, for  it is evident that they must either kill her or   else secure her in such a way that she could  not give immediate notice of their escape. But  

At any rate I have shown, have I not, that  there is a certain element of improbability   about the lady’s story? And now, on the top of  this, comes the incident of the wineglasses.” “What about the wineglasses?” “Can you see them in your mind’s eye?” “I see them clearly.”

“We are told that three men drank from  them. Does that strike you as likely?” “Why not? There was wine in each glass.” “Exactly, but there was beeswing  only in one glass. You must have   noticed that fact. What does  that suggest to your mind?”

“The last glass filled would be  most likely to contain beeswing.” “Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it  is inconceivable that the first two glasses were   clear and the third heavily charged with it. There  are two possible explanations, and only two. One  

Is that after the second glass was filled the  bottle was violently agitated, and so the third   glass received the beeswing. That does not appear  probable. No, no, I am sure that I am right.” “What, then, do you suppose?”

“That only two glasses were used, and that the  dregs of both were poured into a third glass,   so as to give the false impression that  three people had been here. In that way   all the beeswing would be in the last glass,  would it not? Yes, I am convinced that this  

Is so. But if I have hit upon the true  explanation of this one small phenomenon,   then in an instant the case rises from the  commonplace to the exceedingly remarkable,   for it can only mean that Lady Brackenstall and  her maid have deliberately lied to us, that not  

One word of their story is to be believed, that  they have some very strong reason for covering   the real criminal, and that we must construct  our case for ourselves without any help from   them. That is the mission which now lies before  us, and here, Watson, is the Sydenham train.”

The household at the Abbey Grange were much  surprised at our return, but Sherlock Holmes,   finding that Stanley Hopkins had  gone off to report to headquarters,   took possession of the dining-room, locked the  door upon the inside, and devoted himself for  

Two hours to one of those minute and laborious  investigations which form the solid basis on   which his brilliant edifices of deduction were  reared. Seated in a corner like an interested   student who observes the demonstration of  his professor, I followed every step of that  

Remarkable research. The window, the curtains,  the carpet, the chair, the rope—each in turn was   minutely examined and duly pondered. The body  of the unfortunate baronet had been removed,   and all else remained as we had seen it in  the morning. Finally, to my astonishment,  

Holmes climbed up on to the massive mantelpiece.  Far above his head hung the few inches of red cord   which were still attached to the wire. For a long  time he gazed upward at it, and then in an attempt  

To get nearer to it he rested his knee upon a  wooden bracket on the wall. This brought his hand   within a few inches of the broken end of the rope,  but it was not this so much as the bracket itself  

Which seemed to engage his attention. Finally, he  sprang down with an ejaculation of satisfaction. “It’s all right, Watson,” said he. “We have  got our case—one of the most remarkable in   our collection. But, dear me, how slow-witted I  have been, and how nearly I have committed the  

Blunder of my lifetime! Now, I think that, with a  few missing links, my chain is almost complete.” “You have got your men?” “Man, Watson, man. Only one, but a very formidable  person. Strong as a lion—witness the blow  

That bent that poker! Six foot three in height,  active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers,   finally, remarkably quick-witted, for this whole  ingenious story is of his concoction. Yes, Watson,   we have come upon the handiwork of a  very remarkable individual. And yet,  

In that bell-rope, he has given us a clue  which should not have left us a doubt.” “Where was the clue?” “Well, if you were to pull  down a bell-rope, Watson,   where would you expect it to break? Surely  at the spot where it is attached to the  

Wire. Why should it break three inches  from the top, as this one has done?” “Because it is frayed there?” “Exactly. This end, which we can examine,  is frayed. He was cunning enough to do   that with his knife. But the other end is not  frayed. You could not observe that from here,  

But if you were on the mantelpiece you would  see that it is cut clean off without any mark   of fraying whatever. You can reconstruct what  occurred. The man needed the rope. He would   not tear it down for fear of giving the alarm  by ringing the bell. What did he do? He sprang  

Up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reach  it, put his knee on the bracket—you will see   the impression in the dust—and so got his  knife to bear upon the cord. I could not   reach the place by at least three inches—from  which I infer that he is at least three inches  

A bigger man than I. Look at that mark upon  the seat of the oaken chair! What is it?” “Blood.” “Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts  the lady’s story out of court. If she   were seated on the chair when the crime  was done, how comes that mark? No, no,  

She was placed in the chair after the death of her  husband. I’ll wager that the black dress shows a   corresponding mark to this. We have not yet met  our Waterloo, Watson, but this is our Marengo,  

For it begins in defeat and ends in victory.  I should like now to have a few words with   the nurse, Theresa. We must be wary for a while,  if we are to get the information which we want.” She was an interesting person, this  stern Australian nurse—taciturn,  

Suspicious, ungracious, it took some time  before Holmes’s pleasant manner and frank   acceptance of all that she said thawed  her into a corresponding amiability.   She did not attempt to conceal  her hatred for her late employer.

“Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter  at me. I heard him call my mistress a name,   and I told him that he would not dare to speak so  if her brother had been there. Then it was that he  

Threw it at me. He might have thrown a dozen if he  had but left my bonny bird alone. He was forever   ill-treating her, and she too proud to complain.  She will not even tell me all that he has done to  

Her. She never told me of those marks on her arm  that you saw this morning, but I know very well   that they come from a stab with a hatpin. The sly  devil—God forgive me that I should speak of him  

So, now that he is dead! But a devil he was, if  ever one walked the earth. He was all honey when   first we met him—only eighteen months ago, and  we both feel as if it were eighteen years. She  

Had only just arrived in London. Yes, it was her  first voyage—she had never been from home before.   He won her with his title and his money and his  false London ways. If she made a mistake she has  

Paid for it, if ever a woman did. What month did  we meet him? Well, I tell you it was just after   we arrived. We arrived in June, and it was July.  They were married in January of last year. Yes,  

She is down in the morning-room again,  and I have no doubt she will see you,   but you must not ask too much of her, for she has  gone through all that flesh and blood will stand.” Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same  couch, but looked brighter than before. The  

Maid had entered with us, and began once more  to foment the bruise upon her mistress’s brow. “I hope,” said the lady, “that you have  not come to cross-examine me again?” “No,” Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice,  “I will not cause you any unnecessary trouble,  

Lady Brackenstall, and my whole desire is to  make things easy for you, for I am convinced   that you are a much-tried woman. If you  will treat me as a friend and trust me,   you may find that I will justify your trust.” “What do you want me to do?” “To tell me the truth.”

“Mr. Holmes!” “No, no, Lady Brackenstall—it is no use. You  may have heard of any little reputation which   I possess. I will stake it all on the fact  that your story is an absolute fabrication.” Mistress and maid were both staring at  Holmes with pale faces and frightened eyes.

“You are an impudent fellow!” cried Theresa. “Do  you mean to say that my mistress has told a lie?” Holmes rose from his chair. “Have you nothing to tell me?” “I have told you everything.” “Think once more, Lady Brackenstall.  Would it not be better to be frank?”

For an instant there was hesitation  in her beautiful face. Then some   new strong thought caused it to set like a mask. “I have told you all I know.” Holmes took his hat and shrugged his  shoulders. “I am sorry,” he said,  

And without another word we left the room  and the house. There was a pond in the park,   and to this my friend led the way. It was  frozen over, but a single hole was left for   the convenience of a solitary swan. Holmes gazed  at it, and then passed on to the lodge gate.  

There he scribbled a short note for Stanley  Hopkins, and left it with the lodge-keeper. “It may be a hit, or it may be a miss, but we  are bound to do something for friend Hopkins,   just to justify this second visit,” said he. “I  will not quite take him into my confidence yet.  

I think our next scene of operations must be the  shipping office of the Adelaide-Southampton line,   which stands at the end of Pall Mall, if  I remember right. There is a second line   of steamers which connect South Australia with  England, but we will draw the larger cover first.”

Holmes’s card sent in to the manager ensured  instant attention, and he was not long in   acquiring all the information he needed. In June  of ’95, only one of their line had reached a home   port. It was the Rock of Gibraltar, their largest  and best boat. A reference to the passenger list  

Showed that Miss Fraser, of Adelaide, with her  maid had made the voyage in her. The boat was now   somewhere south of the Suez Canal on her way to  Australia. Her officers were the same as in ’95,  

With one exception. The first officer, Mr. Jack  Crocker, had been made a captain and was to take   charge of their new ship, the Bass Rock, sailing  in two days’ time from Southampton. He lived at   Sydenham, but he was likely to be in that morning  for instructions, if we cared to wait for him.

No, Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him,   but would be glad to know more  about his record and character. His record was magnificent. There was not an  officer in the fleet to touch him. As to his   character, he was reliable on duty, but a  wild, desperate fellow off the deck of his  

Ship—hot-headed, excitable, but loyal, honest,  and kind-hearted. That was the pith of the   information with which Holmes left the office of  the Adelaide-Southampton company. Thence he drove   to Scotland Yard, but, instead of entering,  he sat in his cab with his brows drawn down,  

Lost in profound thought. Finally he drove  round to the Charing Cross telegraph office,   sent off a message, and then, at last,  we made for Baker Street once more. “No, I couldn’t do it, Watson,” said  he, as we reentered our room. “Once  

That warrant was made out, nothing on earth  would save him. Once or twice in my career I   feel that I have done more real harm by my  discovery of the criminal than ever he had   done by his crime. I have learned caution  now, and I had rather play tricks with the  

Law of England than with my own conscience.  Let us know a little more before we act.” Before evening, we had a visit from Inspector   Stanley Hopkins. Things were  not going very well with him. “I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes.  

I really do sometimes think that you  have powers that are not human. Now,   how on earth could you know that the stolen  silver was at the bottom of that pond?” “I didn’t know it.” “But you told me to examine it.” “You got it, then?” “Yes, I got it.”

“I am very glad if I have helped you.” “But you haven’t helped me. You have made  the affair far more difficult. What sort of   burglars are they who steal silver and  then throw it into the nearest pond?”

“It was certainly rather eccentric behaviour. I  was merely going on the idea that if the silver   had been taken by persons who did not  want it—who merely took it for a blind,   as it were—then they would naturally  be anxious to get rid of it.” “But why should such an idea cross your mind?”

“Well, I thought it was possible. When  they came out through the French window,   there was the pond with one  tempting little hole in the ice,   right in front of their noses. Could  there be a better hiding-place?” “Ah, a hiding-place—that is better!”  cried Stanley Hopkins. “Yes, yes,  

I see it all now! It was early,  there were folk upon the roads,   they were afraid of being seen with the silver,  so they sank it in the pond, intending to return   for it when the coast was clear. Excellent, Mr.  Holmes—that is better than your idea of a blind.”

“Quite so, you have got an admirable theory. I  have no doubt that my own ideas were quite wild,   but you must admit that they have  ended in discovering the silver.” “Yes, sir—yes. It was all your  doing. But I have had a bad setback.” “A setback?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. The Randall gang were  arrested in New York this morning.” “Dear me, Hopkins! That is certainly  rather against your theory that they   committed a murder in Kent last night.” “It is fatal, Mr. Holmes—absolutely fatal.  Still, there are other gangs of three besides  

The Randalls, or it may be some new gang  of which the police have never heard.” “Quite so, it is perfectly  possible. What, are you off?” “Yes, Mr. Holmes, there is no rest for me until I   have got to the bottom of the business.  I suppose you have no hint to give me?”

“I have given you one.” “Which?” “Well, I suggested a blind.” “But why, Mr. Holmes, why?” “Ah, that’s the question, of course. But  I commend the idea to your mind. You might   possibly find that there was something  in it. You won’t stop for dinner? Well,   good-bye, and let us know how you get on.”

Dinner was over, and the table  cleared before Holmes alluded   to the matter again. He had lit his  pipe and held his slippered feet to   the cheerful blaze of the fire.  Suddenly he looked at his watch. “I expect developments, Watson.” “When?”

“Now—within a few minutes. I dare say you thought  I acted rather badly to Stanley Hopkins just now?” “I trust your judgment.” “A very sensible reply, Watson. You must look at  it this way: what I know is unofficial, what he  

Knows is official. I have the right to private  judgment, but he has none. He must disclose all,   or he is a traitor to his service. In a doubtful  case I would not put him in so painful a position,   and so I reserve my information until  my own mind is clear upon the matter.”

“But when will that be?” “The time has come. You will now be present at  the last scene of a remarkable little drama.” There was a sound upon the stairs, and our  door was opened to admit as fine a specimen  

Of manhood as ever passed through it. He was  a very tall young man, golden-moustached,   blue-eyed, with a skin which had been  burned by tropical suns, and a springy step,   which showed that the huge frame was as active  as it was strong. He closed the door behind him,  

And then he stood with clenched hands and heaving  breast, choking down some overmastering emotion. “Sit down, Captain Crocker. You got my telegram?” Our visitor sank into an armchair and looked from  one to the other of us with questioning eyes.

“I got your telegram, and I came at the hour  you said. I heard that you had been down to   the office. There was no getting away from you.  Let’s hear the worst. What are you going to do  

With me? Arrest me? Speak out, man! You can’t sit  there and play with me like a cat with a mouse.” “Give him a cigar,” said Holmes.  “Bite on that, Captain Crocker,   and don’t let your nerves run away with  you. I should not sit here smoking with  

You if I thought that you were a common  criminal, you may be sure of that. Be   frank with me and we may do some good.  Play tricks with me, and I’ll crush you.” “What do you wish me to do?”

“To give me a true account of all that happened  at the Abbey Grange last night—a true account,   mind you, with nothing added and  nothing taken off. I know so much   already that if you go one inch off the straight,  

I’ll blow this police whistle from my window  and the affair goes out of my hands forever.” The sailor thought for a little. Then he  struck his leg with his great sunburned hand. “I’ll chance it,” he cried. “I believe you  are a man of your word, and a white man,  

And I’ll tell you the whole story. But one thing  I will say first. So far as I am concerned,   I regret nothing and I fear nothing, and I would  do it all again and be proud of the job. Damn the  

Beast, if he had as many lives as a cat, he  would owe them all to me! But it’s the lady,   Mary—Mary Fraser—for never will I call  her by that accursed name. When I think   of getting her into trouble, I who would give my  life just to bring one smile to her dear face,  

It’s that that turns my soul into water. And  yet—and yet—what less could I do? I’ll tell   you my story, gentlemen, and then I’ll ask  you, as man to man, what less could I do? “I must go back a bit. You seem to know  everything, so I expect that you know that  

I met her when she was a passenger and I was  first officer of the Rock of Gibraltar. From   the first day I met her, she was the only woman  to me. Every day of that voyage I loved her more,  

And many a time since have I kneeled down in  the darkness of the night watch and kissed the   deck of that ship because I knew her dear  feet had trod it. She was never engaged to  

Me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman  treated a man. I have no complaint to make.   It was all love on my side, and all good  comradeship and friendship on hers. When   we parted she was a free woman, but  I could never again be a free man.

“Next time I came back from sea,  I heard of her marriage. Well,   why shouldn’t she marry whom she liked? Title  and money—who could carry them better than she?   She was born for all that is beautiful and  dainty. I didn’t grieve over her marriage. I  

Was not such a selfish hound as that. I just  rejoiced that good luck had come her way,   and that she had not thrown herself away on a  penniless sailor. That’s how I loved Mary Fraser.

“Well, I never thought to see her again, but last  voyage I was promoted, and the new boat was not   yet launched, so I had to wait for a couple  of months with my people at Sydenham. One day  

Out in a country lane I met Theresa Wright, her  old maid. She told me all about her, about him,   about everything. I tell you, gentlemen, it  nearly drove me mad. This drunken hound, that   he should dare to raise his hand to her, whose  boots he was not worthy to lick! I met Theresa  

Again. Then I met Mary herself—and met her again.  Then she would meet me no more. But the other day   I had a notice that I was to start on my voyage  within a week, and I determined that I would  

See her once before I left. Theresa was always my  friend, for she loved Mary and hated this villain   almost as much as I did. From her I learned the  ways of the house. Mary used to sit up reading  

In her own little room downstairs. I crept round  there last night and scratched at the window. At   first she would not open to me, but in her heart  I know that now she loves me, and she could not  

Leave me in the frosty night. She whispered to  me to come round to the big front window, and   I found it open before me, so as to let me into  the dining-room. Again I heard from her own lips  

Things that made my blood boil, and again I cursed  this brute who mishandled the woman I loved. Well,   gentlemen, I was standing with her just inside the  window, in all innocence, as God is my judge, when  

He rushed like a madman into the room, called her  the vilest name that a man could use to a woman,   and welted her across the face with the stick  he had in his hand. I had sprung for the poker,  

And it was a fair fight between us. See here,  on my arm, where his first blow fell. Then it   was my turn, and I went through him as if he had  been a rotten pumpkin. Do you think I was sorry?  

Not I! It was his life or mine, but far more  than that, it was his life or hers, for how   could I leave her in the power of this madman?  That was how I killed him. Was I wrong? Well,  

Then, what would either of you gentlemen  have done, if you had been in my position? “She had screamed when he struck her, and that  brought old Theresa down from the room above.   There was a bottle of wine on the sideboard, and I  opened it and poured a little between Mary’s lips,  

For she was half dead with shock. Then I took  a drop myself. Theresa was as cool as ice, and   it was her plot as much as mine. We must make it  appear that burglars had done the thing. Theresa  

Kept on repeating our story to her mistress,  while I swarmed up and cut the rope of the   bell. Then I lashed her in her chair, and frayed  out the end of the rope to make it look natural,  

Else they would wonder how in the world a burglar  could have got up there to cut it. Then I gathered   up a few plates and pots of silver, to carry out  the idea of the robbery, and there I left them,  

With orders to give the alarm when I had a  quarter of an hour’s start. I dropped the   silver into the pond, and made off for Sydenham,  feeling that for once in my life I had done a real  

Good night’s work. And that’s the truth and the  whole truth, Mr. Holmes, if it costs me my neck.” Holmes smoked for some time in  silence. Then he crossed the room,   and shook our visitor by the hand.

“That’s what I think,” said he. “I know that  every word is true, for you have hardly said   a word which I did not know. No one but an  acrobat or a sailor could have got up to that  

Bell-rope from the bracket, and no one but a  sailor could have made the knots with which   the cord was fastened to the chair. Only once had  this lady been brought into contact with sailors,   and that was on her voyage, and it  was someone of her own class of life,  

Since she was trying hard to shield him, and so  showing that she loved him. You see how easy it   was for me to lay my hands upon you when  once I had started upon the right trail.” “I thought the police never could  have seen through our dodge.”

“And the police haven’t, nor will they,  to the best of my belief. Now, look here,   Captain Crocker, this is a very serious  matter, though I am willing to admit that   you acted under the most extreme provocation to  which any man could be subjected. I am not sure  

That in defence of your own life your action  will not be pronounced legitimate. However,   that is for a British jury to decide. Meanwhile I  have so much sympathy for you that, if you choose   to disappear in the next twenty-four hours, I  will promise you that no one will hinder you.”

“And then it will all come out?” “Certainly it will come out.” The sailor flushed with anger. “What sort of proposal is that to make a  man? I know enough of law to understand   that Mary would be held as accomplice.  Do you think I would leave her alone to  

Face the music while I slunk away? No,  sir, let them do their worst upon me,   but for heaven’s sake, Mr. Holmes, find some  way of keeping my poor Mary out of the courts.” Holmes for a second time held  out his hand to the sailor.

“I was only testing you, and  you ring true every time. Well,   it is a great responsibility that I take upon  myself, but I have given Hopkins an excellent   hint and if he can’t avail himself of it I  can do no more. See here, Captain Crocker,  

We’ll do this in due form of law. You are the  prisoner. Watson, you are a British jury, and   I never met a man who was more eminently fitted  to represent one. I am the judge. Now, gentleman   of the jury, you have heard the evidence. Do  you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty, my lord,” said I. “Vox populi, vox Dei. You are acquitted,  Captain Crocker. So long as the law does   not find some other victim you are safe  from me. Come back to this lady in a year,  

And may her future and yours justify us in the  judgment which we have pronounced this night!” END OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND STAIN I had intended “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange”  to be the last of those exploits of my friend,  

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which I should ever  communicate to the public. This resolution of mine   was not due to any lack of material, since I have  notes of many hundreds of cases to which I have   never alluded, nor was it caused by any waning  interest on the part of my readers in the singular  

Personality and unique methods of this remarkable  man. The real reason lay in the reluctance which   Mr. Holmes has shown to the continued publication  of his experiences. So long as he was in actual   professional practice the records of his successes  were of some practical value to him, but since he  

Has definitely retired from London and betaken  himself to study and bee-farming on the Sussex   Downs, notoriety has become hateful to him, and  he has peremptorily requested that his wishes in   this matter should be strictly observed. It was  only upon my representing to him that I had given  

A promise that “The Adventure of the Second Stain”  should be published when the times were ripe, and   pointing out to him that it is only appropriate  that this long series of episodes should culminate   in the most important international case which  he has ever been called upon to handle, that I  

At last succeeded in obtaining his consent that a  carefully guarded account of the incident should   at last be laid before the public. If in telling  the story I seem to be somewhat vague in certain   details, the public will readily understand that  there is an excellent reason for my reticence.

It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade,  that shall be nameless, that upon one Tuesday   morning in autumn we found two visitors  of European fame within the walls of our   humble room in Baker Street. The one, austere,  high-nosed, eagle-eyed, and dominant, was none  

Other than the illustrious Lord Bellinger,  twice Premier of Britain. The other, dark,   clear-cut, and elegant, hardly yet of middle age,  and endowed with every beauty of body and of mind,   was the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope, Secretary  for European Affairs, and the most rising  

Statesman in the country. They sat side by side  upon our paper-littered settee, and it was easy   to see from their worn and anxious faces that it  was business of the most pressing importance which   had brought them. The Premier’s thin, blue-veined  hands were clasped tightly over the ivory head  

Of his umbrella, and his gaunt, ascetic face  looked gloomily from Holmes to me. The European   Secretary pulled nervously at his moustache  and fidgeted with the seals of his watch-chain. “When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes,  which was at eight o’clock this morning,  

I at once informed the Prime Minister. It was at  his suggestion that we have both come to you.” “Have you informed the police?” “No, sir,” said the Prime Minister, with the  quick, decisive manner for which he was famous.  

“We have not done so, nor is it possible that  we should do so. To inform the police must,   in the long run, mean to inform the public.  This is what we particularly desire to avoid.” “And why, sir?” “Because the document in question is of such  immense importance that its publication might  

Very easily—I might almost say probably—lead to  European complications of the utmost moment. It   is not too much to say that peace or war may  hang upon the issue. Unless its recovery can   be attended with the utmost secrecy, then it  may as well not be recovered at all, for all  

That is aimed at by those who have taken it is  that its contents should be generally known.” “I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I  should be much obliged if you would tell   me exactly the circumstances under  which this document disappeared.”

“That can be done in a very few words, Mr.  Holmes. The letter—for it was a letter from a   foreign potentate—was received six days ago.  It was of such importance that I have never   left it in my safe, but have taken it across  each evening to my house in Whitehall Terrace,  

And kept it in my bedroom in a locked  despatch-box. It was there last night.   Of that I am certain. I actually opened the  box while I was dressing for dinner and saw   the document inside. This morning it was gone.  The despatch-box had stood beside the glass upon  

My dressing-table all night. I am a light sleeper,  and so is my wife. We are both prepared to swear   that no one could have entered the room during the  night. And yet I repeat that the paper is gone.” “What time did you dine?” “Half-past seven.”

“How long was it before you went to bed?” “My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up for   her. It was half-past eleven  before we went to our room.” “Then for four hours the  despatch-box had lain unguarded?” “No one is ever permitted to enter that  room save the house-maid in the morning,  

And my valet, or my wife’s maid, during the rest  of the day. They are both trusty servants who have   been with us for some time. Besides, neither of  them could possibly have known that there was   anything more valuable than the ordinary  departmental papers in my despatch-box.”

“Who did know of the existence of that letter?” “No one in the house.” “Surely your wife knew?” “No, sir. I had said nothing to my wife  until I missed the paper this morning.” The Premier nodded approvingly.

“I have long known, sir, how high is your sense  of public duty,” said he. “I am convinced that in   the case of a secret of this importance it would  rise superior to the most intimate domestic ties.” The European Secretary bowed. “You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this  

Morning I have never breathed one  word to my wife upon this matter.” “Could she have guessed?” “No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have  guessed—nor could anyone have guessed.” “Have you lost any documents before?” “No, sir.” “Who is there in England who did know  of the existence of this letter?”

“Each member of the Cabinet  was informed of it yesterday,   but the pledge of secrecy which attends every  Cabinet meeting was increased by the solemn   warning which was given by the Prime Minister.  Good heavens, to think that within a few hours  

I should myself have lost it!” His handsome  face was distorted with a spasm of despair,   and his hands tore at his hair. For a moment we  caught a glimpse of the natural man, impulsive,   ardent, keenly sensitive. The next the  aristocratic mask was replaced, and the  

Gentle voice had returned. “Besides the members  of the Cabinet there are two, or possibly three,   departmental officials who know of the letter. No  one else in England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you.” “But abroad?” “I believe that no one abroad has seen  it save the man who wrote it. I am well  

Convinced that his Ministers—that the usual  official channels have not been employed.” Holmes considered for some little time. “Now, sir, I must ask you more  particularly what this document is,   and why its disappearance should  have such momentous consequences?” The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance and  the Premier’s shaggy eyebrows gathered in a frown.

“Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin  one of pale blue colour. There is a seal   of red wax stamped with a crouching lion. It  is addressed in large, bold handwriting to——” “I fear, sir,” said Holmes, “that, interesting  and indeed essential as these details are,  

My inquiries must go more to the  root of things. What was the letter?” “That is a State secret of the utmost  importance, and I fear that I cannot tell you,   nor do I see that it is necessary. If by  the aid of the powers which you are said  

To possess you can find such an envelope as  I describe with its enclosure, you will have   deserved well of your country, and earned any  reward which it lies in our power to bestow.” Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile. “You are two of the most busy  men in the country,” said he,  

“and in my own small way I have also a good many  calls upon me. I regret exceedingly that I cannot   help you in this matter, and any continuation  of this interview would be a waste of time.”

The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick,  fierce gleam of his deep-set eyes before which a   Cabinet has cowered. “I am not accustomed, sir,”  he began, but mastered his anger and resumed his   seat. For a minute or more we all sat in silence.  Then the old statesman shrugged his shoulders.

“We must accept your terms, Mr.  Holmes. No doubt you are right,   and it is unreasonable for us to expect you to  act unless we give you our entire confidence.” “I agree with you,” said the younger statesman. “Then I will tell you, relying entirely  upon your honour and that of your colleague,  

Dr. Watson. I may appeal to your  patriotism also, for I could not   imagine a greater misfortune for the country  than that this affair should come out.” “You may safely trust us.” “The letter, then, is from a certain foreign  potentate who has been ruffled by some recent  

Colonial developments of this country. It has been  written hurriedly and upon his own responsibility   entirely. Inquiries have shown that his Ministers  know nothing of the matter. At the same time it is   couched in so unfortunate a manner, and certain  phrases in it are of so provocative a character,  

That its publication would undoubtedly lead  to a most dangerous state of feeling in this   country. There would be such a ferment, sir,  that I do not hesitate to say that within a   week of the publication of that letter this  country would be involved in a great war.”

Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of  paper and handed it to the Premier. “Exactly. It was he. And it is  this letter—this letter which   may well mean the expenditure of a  thousand millions and the lives of   a hundred thousand men—which has become  lost in this unaccountable fashion.” “Have you informed the sender?”

“Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been despatched.” “Perhaps he desires the  publication of the letter.” “No, sir, we have strong reason to  believe that he already understands   that he has acted in an indiscreet and  hot-headed manner. It would be a greater  

Blow to him and to his country than to  us if this letter were to come out.” “If this is so, whose interest is  it that the letter should come out?   Why should anyone desire to  steal it or to publish it?”

“There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of  high international politics. But if you consider   the European situation you will have no difficulty  in perceiving the motive. The whole of Europe is   an armed camp. There is a double league which  makes a fair balance of military power. Great  

Britain holds the scales. If Britain were driven  into war with one confederacy, it would assure   the supremacy of the other confederacy, whether  they joined in the war or not. Do you follow?” “Very clearly. It is then the interest of  the enemies of this potentate to secure  

And publish this letter, so as to make  a breach between his country and ours?” “Yes, sir.” “And to whom would this document be sent  if it fell into the hands of an enemy?” “To any of the great Chancelleries of  Europe. It is probably speeding on its  

Way thither at the present instant  as fast as steam can take it.” Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head  on his chest and groaned aloud. The   Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder. “It is your misfortune, my dear  fellow. No one can blame you.  

There is no precaution which you  have neglected. Now, Mr. Holmes,   you are in full possession of the  facts. What course do you recommend?” Holmes shook his head mournfully. “You think, sir, that unless this  document is recovered there will be war?” “I think it is very probable.” “Then, sir, prepare for war.”

“That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes.” “Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that  it was taken after eleven-thirty at night, since I   understand that Mr. Hope and his wife were both in  the room from that hour until the loss was found  

Out. It was taken, then, yesterday evening between  seven-thirty and eleven-thirty, probably near the   earlier hour, since whoever took it evidently knew  that it was there and would naturally secure it   as early as possible. Now, sir, if a document  of this importance were taken at that hour,  

Where can it be now? No one has any reason to  retain it. It has been passed rapidly on to those   who need it. What chance have we now to overtake  or even to trace it? It is beyond our reach.” The Prime Minister rose from the settee.

“What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. I  feel that the matter is indeed out of our hands.” “Let us presume, for argument’s sake, that the  document was taken by the maid or by the valet——” “They are both old and tried servants.”

“I understand you to say that your room  is on the second floor, that there is no   entrance from without, and that from within  no one could go up unobserved. It must, then,   be somebody in the house who has taken it. To  whom would the thief take it? To one of several  

International spies and secret agents, whose  names are tolerably familiar to me. There are   three who may be said to be the heads of their  profession. I will begin my research by going   round and finding if each of them is at his  post. If one is missing—especially if he has  

Disappeared since last night—we will have some  indication as to where the document has gone.” “Why should he be missing?” asked  the European Secretary. “He would   take the letter to an Embassy  in London, as likely as not.” “I fancy not. These agents work independently,   and their relations with the  Embassies are often strained.”

The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence. “I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would  take so valuable a prize to headquarters with   his own hands. I think that your course  of action is an excellent one. Meanwhile,   Hope, we cannot neglect all our other duties  on account of this one misfortune. Should  

There be any fresh developments during  the day we shall communicate with you,   and you will no doubt let us know  the results of your own inquiries.” The two statesmen bowed and  walked gravely from the room. When our illustrious visitors had departed  Holmes lit his pipe in silence and sat for  

Some time lost in the deepest thought.  I had opened the morning paper and was   immersed in a sensational crime which  had occurred in London the night before,   when my friend gave an exclamation, sprang to his  feet, and laid his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

“Yes,” said he, “there is no better way of  approaching it. The situation is desperate,   but not hopeless. Even now, if we could  be sure which of them has taken it,   it is just possible that it has not  yet passed out of his hands. After all,  

It is a question of money with these fellows,  and I have the British treasury behind me. If   it’s on the market I’ll buy it—if it  means another penny on the income-tax.   It is conceivable that the fellow might hold  it back to see what bids come from this side  

Before he tries his luck on the other. There  are only those three capable of playing so   bold a game—there are Oberstein, La Rothiere,  and Eduardo Lucas. I will see each of them.” I glanced at my morning paper. “Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?” “Yes.” “You will not see him.” “Why not?”

“He was murdered in his house last night.” My friend has so often astonished me  in the course of our adventures that   it was with a sense of exultation that I  realized how completely I had astonished   him. He stared in amazement, and then  snatched the paper from my hands. This  

Was the paragraph which I had been engaged  in reading when he rose from his chair: MURDER IN WESTMINSTER A crime of mysterious character was committed  last night at 16, Godolphin Street, one of the   old-fashioned and secluded rows of eighteenth  century houses which lie between the river and  

The Abbey, almost in the shadow of the great Tower  of the Houses of Parliament. This small but select   mansion has been inhabited for some years by Mr.  Eduardo Lucas, well-known in society circles both   on account of his charming personality and  because he has the well-deserved reputation  

Of being one of the best amateur tenors in  the country. Mr. Lucas is an unmarried man,   thirty-four years of age, and his establishment  consists of Mrs. Pringle, an elderly housekeeper,   and of Mitton, his valet. The former retires early  and sleeps at the top of the house. The valet  

Was out for the evening, visiting a friend at  Hammersmith. From ten o’clock onward Mr. Lucas had   the house to himself. What occurred during that  time has not yet transpired, but at a quarter to   twelve Police-constable Barrett, passing along  Godolphin Street observed that the door of No.  

16 was ajar. He knocked, but received no answer.  Perceiving a light in the front room, he advanced   into the passage and again knocked, but without  reply. He then pushed open the door and entered.   The room was in a state of wild disorder, the  furniture being all swept to one side, and one  

Chair lying on its back in the centre. Beside  this chair, and still grasping one of its legs,   lay the unfortunate tenant of the house. He had  been stabbed to the heart and must have died   instantly. The knife with which the crime had been  committed was a curved Indian dagger, plucked down  

From a trophy of Oriental arms which adorned  one of the walls. Robbery does not appear to   have been the motive of the crime, for there had  been no attempt to remove the valuable contents of   the room. Mr. Eduardo Lucas was so well-known  and popular that his violent and mysterious  

Fate will arouse painful interest and intense  sympathy in a widespread circle of friends. “Well, Watson, what do you make of  this?” asked Holmes, after a long pause. “It is an amazing coincidence.” “A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom  we had named as possible actors in this drama,  

And he meets a violent death during the very  hours when we know that that drama was being   enacted. The odds are enormous against its being  coincidence. No figures could express them. No, my   dear Watson, the two events are connected—must be  connected. It is for us to find the connection.”

“But now the official police must know all.” “Not at all. They know all they  see at Godolphin Street. They   know—and shall know—nothing of Whitehall  Terrace. Only we know of both events,   and can trace the relation between them. There  is one obvious point which would, in any case,  

Have turned my suspicions against Lucas.  Godolphin Street, Westminster, is only a   few minutes’ walk from Whitehall Terrace. The  other secret agents whom I have named live in   the extreme West End. It was easier, therefore,  for Lucas than for the others to establish a  

Connection or receive a message from the European  Secretary’s household—a small thing, and yet where   events are compressed into a few hours it may  prove essential. Halloa! what have we here?” Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady’s  card upon her salver. Holmes glanced at it,   raised his eyebrows, and handed it over to me.

“Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she  will be kind enough to step up,” said he. A moment later our modest apartment,  already so distinguished that morning,   was further honoured by the entrance of the  most lovely woman in London. I had often heard  

Of the beauty of the youngest daughter of the  Duke of Belminster, but no description of it,   and no contemplation of colourless photographs,  had prepared me for the subtle, delicate charm   and the beautiful colouring of that exquisite  head. And yet as we saw it that autumn morning,  

It was not its beauty which would be the first  thing to impress the observer. The cheek was   lovely but it was paled with emotion, the eyes  were bright but it was the brightness of fever,   the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in an  effort after self-command. Terror—not beauty—was  

What sprang first to the eye as our fair visitor  stood framed for an instant in the open door. “Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?” “Yes, madam, he has been here.” “Mr. Holmes. I implore you not to tell him  that I came here.” Holmes bowed coldly,   and motioned the lady to a chair.

“Your ladyship places me in a very delicate  position. I beg that you will sit down and   tell me what you desire, but I fear that  I cannot make any unconditional promise.” She swept across the room and seated herself  with her back to the window. It was a queenly  

Presence—tall, graceful, and intensely womanly.  “Mr. Holmes,” she said—and her white-gloved hands   clasped and unclasped as she spoke—“I will speak  frankly to you in the hopes that it may induce you   to speak frankly in return. There is complete  confidence between my husband and me on all  

Matters save one. That one is politics. On this  his lips are sealed. He tells me nothing. Now,   I am aware that there was a most deplorable  occurrence in our house last night. I know   that a paper has disappeared. But because  the matter is political my husband refuses  

To take me into his complete confidence. Now  it is essential—essential, I say—that I should   thoroughly understand it. You are the only  other person, save only these politicians,   who knows the true facts. I beg you then, Mr.  Holmes, to tell me exactly what has happened and  

What it will lead to. Tell me all, Mr. Holmes.  Let no regard for your client’s interests keep   you silent, for I assure you that his interests,  if he would only see it, would be best served by   taking me into his complete confidence.  What was this paper which was stolen?”

“Madam, what you ask me is really impossible.” She groaned and sank her face in her hands. “You must see that this is so, madam. If your  husband thinks fit to keep you in the dark over   this matter, is it for me, who has only learned  the true facts under the pledge of professional  

Secrecy, to tell what he has withheld? It is not  fair to ask it. It is him whom you must ask.” “I have asked him. I come to you as a  last resource. But without your telling me  

Anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a great  service if you would enlighten me on one point.” “What is it, madam?” “Is my husband’s political career  likely to suffer through this incident?” “Well, madam, unless it is set right it may  certainly have a very unfortunate effect.”

“Ah!” She drew in her breath sharply  as one whose doubts are resolved. “One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an expression   which my husband dropped in the first  shock of this disaster I understood   that terrible public consequences might  arise from the loss of this document.” “If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it.”

“Of what nature are they?” “Nay, madam, there again you ask me  more than I can possibly answer.” “Then I will take up no more of your  time. I cannot blame you, Mr. Holmes,   for having refused to speak more freely,  and you on your side will not, I am sure,  

Think the worse of me because I  desire, even against his will,   to share my husband’s anxieties. Once more I  beg that you will say nothing of my visit.” She looked back at us from the door, and  I had a last impression of that beautiful  

Haunted face, the startled eyes, and  the drawn mouth. Then she was gone. “Now, Watson, the fair sex is  your department,” said Holmes,   with a smile, when the dwindling  frou-frou of skirts had ended in   the slam of the front door. “What was the  fair lady’s game? What did she really want?”

“Surely her own statement is clear  and her anxiety very natural.” “Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson—her manner,  her suppressed excitement, her restlessness, her   tenacity in asking questions. Remember that she  comes of a caste who do not lightly show emotion.” “She was certainly much moved.”

“Remember also the curious earnestness with  which she assured us that it was best for   her husband that she should know all. What did  she mean by that? And you must have observed,   Watson, how she manœuvred to have the light at her  back. She did not wish us to read her expression.”

“Yes, she chose the one chair in the room.” “And yet the motives of women are so  inscrutable. You remember the woman at   Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No  powder on her nose—that proved to be the correct  

Solution. How can you build on such a quicksand?  Their most trivial action may mean volumes, or   their most extraordinary conduct may depend upon a  hairpin or a curling tongs. Good-morning, Watson.” “You are off?” “Yes, I will while away the morning at  Godolphin Street with our friends of  

The regular establishment. With Eduardo  Lucas lies the solution of our problem,   though I must admit that I have not an  inkling as to what form it may take. It   is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of  the facts. Do you stay on guard, my good Watson,  

And receive any fresh visitors. I’ll  join you at lunch if I am able.” All that day and the next and the next Holmes was  in a mood which his friends would call taciturn,   and others morose. He ran out and ran in, smoked  incessantly, played snatches on his violin,  

Sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at  irregular hours, and hardly answered the casual   questions which I put to him. It was evident to  me that things were not going well with him or his   quest. He would say nothing of the case, and it  was from the papers that I learned the particulars  

Of the inquest, and the arrest with the subsequent  release of John Mitton, the valet of the deceased.   The coroner’s jury brought in the obvious Wilful  Murder, but the parties remained as unknown as   ever. No motive was suggested. The room was full  of articles of value, but none had been taken. The  

Dead man’s papers had not been tampered with.  They were carefully examined, and showed that   he was a keen student of international politics,  an indefatigable gossip, a remarkable linguist,   and an untiring letter writer. He had been on  intimate terms with the leading politicians  

Of several countries. But nothing sensational  was discovered among the documents which filled   his drawers. As to his relations with women, they  appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial.   He had many acquaintances among them, but few  friends, and no one whom he loved. His habits  

Were regular, his conduct inoffensive. His death  was an absolute mystery and likely to remain so. As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet,  it was a council of despair as an alternative   to absolute inaction. But no case could  be sustained against him. He had visited  

Friends in Hammersmith that night. The alibi was  complete. It is true that he started home at an   hour which should have brought him to Westminster  before the time when the crime was discovered,   but his own explanation that he had walked part  of the way seemed probable enough in view of the  

Fineness of the night. He had actually arrived at  twelve o’clock, and appeared to be overwhelmed by   the unexpected tragedy. He had always been on good  terms with his master. Several of the dead man’s   possessions—notably a small case of razors—had  been found in the valet’s boxes, but he explained  

That they had been presents from the deceased, and  the housekeeper was able to corroborate the story.   Mitton had been in Lucas’s employment for three  years. It was noticeable that Lucas did not take   Mitton on the Continent with him. Sometimes  he visited Paris for three months on end,  

But Mitton was left in charge of the Godolphin  Street house. As to the housekeeper, she had   heard nothing on the night of the crime. If her  master had a visitor he had himself admitted him.

So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far  as I could follow it in the papers. If Holmes knew   more, he kept his own counsel, but, as he told  me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him into  

His confidence in the case, I knew that he was  in close touch with every development. Upon the   fourth day there appeared a long telegram from  Paris which seemed to solve the whole question. A discovery has just been made by the Parisian  police (said the Daily Telegraph) which raises  

The veil which hung round the tragic fate  of Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met his death by   violence last Monday night at Godolphin Street,  Westminster. Our readers will remember that the   deceased gentleman was found stabbed in his room,  and that some suspicion attached to his valet, but  

That the case broke down on an alibi. Yesterday a  lady, who has been known as Mme. Henri Fournaye,   occupying a small villa in the Rue Austerlitz,  was reported to the authorities by her servants as   being insane. An examination showed she had indeed  developed mania of a dangerous and permanent form.  

On inquiry, the police have discovered that Mme.  Henri Fournaye only returned from a journey to   London on Tuesday last, and there is evidence  to connect her with the crime at Westminster. A   comparison of photographs has proved conclusively  that M. Henri Fournaye and Eduardo Lucas were  

Really one and the same person, and that the  deceased had for some reason lived a double   life in London and Paris. Mme. Fournaye, who is  of Creole origin, is of an extremely excitable   nature, and has suffered in the past from attacks  of jealousy which have amounted to frenzy. It is  

Conjectured that it was in one of these that  she committed the terrible crime which has   caused such a sensation in London. Her movements  upon the Monday night have not yet been traced,   but it is undoubted that a woman answering to  her description attracted much attention at  

Charing Cross Station on Tuesday morning by the  wildness of her appearance and the violence of   her gestures. It is probable, therefore, that  the crime was either committed when insane,   or that its immediate effect was to drive the  unhappy woman out of her mind. At present she  

Is unable to give any coherent account of the  past, and the doctors hold out no hopes of the   reestablishment of her reason. There is evidence  that a woman, who might have been Mme. Fournaye,   was seen for some hours upon Monday night  watching the house in Godolphin Street.

“What do you think of that, Holmes?”  I had read the account aloud to him,   while he finished his breakfast. “My dear Watson,” said he, as he rose from  the table and paced up and down the room,   “You are most long-suffering, but if I have  told you nothing in the last three days,  

It is because there is nothing to tell. Even now  this report from Paris does not help us much.” “Surely it is final as regards the man’s death.” “The man’s death is a mere incident—a trivial  episode—in comparison with our real task,  

Which is to trace this document and save a  European catastrophe. Only one important thing   has happened in the last three days, and that is  that nothing has happened. I get reports almost   hourly from the government, and it is certain that  nowhere in Europe is there any sign of trouble.  

Now, if this letter were loose—no, it can’t be  loose—but if it isn’t loose, where can it be? Who   has it? Why is it held back? That’s the question  that beats in my brain like a hammer. Was it,   indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet his  death on the night when the letter disappeared?  

Did the letter ever reach him? If so, why is it  not among his papers? Did this mad wife of his   carry it off with her? If so, is it in her house  in Paris? How could I search for it without the  

French police having their suspicions aroused?  It is a case, my dear Watson, where the law is   as dangerous to us as the criminals are. Every  man’s hand is against us, and yet the interests   at stake are colossal. Should I bring it to  a successful conclusion, it will certainly  

Represent the crowning glory of my career. Ah,  here is my latest from the front!” He glanced   hurriedly at the note which had been handed  in. “Halloa! Lestrade seems to have observed   something of interest. Put on your hat, Watson,  and we will stroll down together to Westminster.”

It was my first visit to the scene of the crime—a  high, dingy, narrow-chested house, prim, formal,   and solid, like the century which gave it birth.  Lestrade’s bulldog features gazed out at us from   the front window, and he greeted us warmly when  a big constable had opened the door and let us  

In. The room into which we were shown was  that in which the crime had been committed,   but no trace of it now remained save an ugly,  irregular stain upon the carpet. This carpet   was a small square drugget in the centre of the  room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful,  

Old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks,  highly polished. Over the fireplace was a   magnificent trophy of weapons, one of which  had been used on that tragic night. In the   window was a sumptuous writing-desk, and every  detail of the apartment, the pictures, the rugs,  

And the hangings, all pointed to a taste which  was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy. “Seen the Paris news?” asked Lestrade. Holmes nodded. “Our French friends seem to have touched the spot  this time. No doubt it’s just as they say. She  

Knocked at the door—surprise visit, I guess, for  he kept his life in water-tight compartments—he   let her in, couldn’t keep her in the street. She  told him how she had traced him, reproached him.   One thing led to another, and then with that  dagger so handy the end soon came. It wasn’t  

All done in an instant, though, for these chairs  were all swept over yonder, and he had one in   his hand as if he had tried to hold her off with  it. We’ve got it all clear as if we had seen it.” Holmes raised his eyebrows. “And yet you have sent for me?”

“Ah, yes, that’s another matter—a mere trifle,   but the sort of thing you take an interest  in—queer, you know, and what you might call   freakish. It has nothing to do with the  main fact—can’t have, on the face of it.” “What is it, then?”

“Well, you know, after a crime of this sort  we are very careful to keep things in their   position. Nothing has been moved. Officer  in charge here day and night. This morning,   as the man was buried and the  investigation over—so far as this  

Room is concerned—we thought we could  tidy up a bit. This carpet. You see,   it is not fastened down, only just laid there.  We had occasion to raise it. We found——” “Yes? You found——” Holmes’s face grew tense with anxiety.

“Well, I’m sure you would never guess in a  hundred years what we did find. You see that   stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal  must have soaked through, must it not?” “Undoubtedly it must.” “Well, you will be surprised to hear that there  is no stain on the white woodwork to correspond.”

“No stain! But there must——” “Yes, so you would say. But the  fact remains that there isn’t.” He took the corner of the carpet  in his hand and, turning it over,   he showed that it was indeed as he said.

“But the under side is as stained as  the upper. It must have left a mark.” Lestrade chuckled with delight at  having puzzled the famous expert. “Now, I’ll show you the explanation. There  is a second stain, but it does not correspond  

With the other. See for yourself.” As he spoke  he turned over another portion of the carpet,   and there, sure enough, was a great  crimson spill upon the square white   facing of the old-fashioned floor.  “What do you make of that, Mr. Holmes?” “Why, it is simple enough.  The two stains did correspond,  

But the carpet has been turned round. As it  was square and unfastened it was easily done.” “The official police don’t need you, Mr.  Holmes, to tell them that the carpet must   have been turned round. That’s clear enough,  for the stains lie above each other—if you  

Lay it over this way. But what I want to  know is, who shifted the carpet, and why?” I could see from Holmes’s rigid face that  he was vibrating with inward excitement. “Look here, Lestrade,” said he,   “has that constable in the passage been  in charge of the place all the time?” “Yes, he has.”

“Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully.  Don’t do it before us. We’ll wait here. You   take him into the back room. You’ll be more  likely to get a confession out of him alone.   Ask him how he dared to admit people and leave  them alone in this room. Don’t ask him if he has  

Done it. Take it for granted. Tell him you  know someone has been here. Press him. Tell   him that a full confession is his only chance  of forgiveness. Do exactly what I tell you!” “By George, if he knows I’ll have it out of  him!” cried Lestrade. He darted into the hall,  

And a few moments later his bullying  voice sounded from the back room. “Now, Watson, now!” cried Holmes with frenzied  eagerness. All the demoniacal force of the man   masked behind that listless manner burst out in  a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget from  

The floor, and in an instant was down on his  hands and knees clawing at each of the squares   of wood beneath it. One turned sideways as he  dug his nails into the edge of it. It hinged  

Back like the lid of a box. A small black cavity  opened beneath it. Holmes plunged his eager hand   into it and drew it out with a bitter snarl  of anger and disappointment. It was empty. “Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back  again!” The wooden lid was replaced,  

And the drugget had only just been  drawn straight when Lestrade’s voice   was heard in the passage. He found Holmes  leaning languidly against the mantelpiece,   resigned and patient, endeavouring  to conceal his irrepressible yawns. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes,  I can see that you are bored to death  

With the whole affair. Well, he has  confessed, all right. Come in here,   MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear  of your most inexcusable conduct.” The big constable, very hot and  penitent, sidled into the room. “I meant no harm, sir, I’m sure. The young woman  came to the door last evening—mistook the house,  

She did. And then we got talking. It’s  lonesome, when you’re on duty here all day.” “Well, what happened then?” “She wanted to see where the crime was  done—had read about it in the papers,   she said. She was a very respectable, well-spoken  young woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting  

Her have a peep. When she saw that mark on  the carpet, down she dropped on the floor,   and lay as if she were dead. I ran to the back and  got some water, but I could not bring her to. Then  

I went round the corner to the Ivy Plant for some  brandy, and by the time I had brought it back the   young woman had recovered and was off—ashamed  of herself, I daresay, and dared not face me.” “How about moving that drugget?”

“Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly,  when I came back. You see, she fell on it and   it lies on a polished floor with nothing to keep  it in place. I straightened it out afterwards.” “It’s a lesson to you that you can’t deceive  me, Constable MacPherson,” said Lestrade,  

With dignity. “No doubt you thought that your  breach of duty could never be discovered,   and yet a mere glance at that drugget was enough  to convince me that someone had been admitted   to the room. It’s lucky for you, my man, that  nothing is missing, or you would find yourself  

In Queer Street. I’m sorry to have called you  down over such a petty business, Mr. Holmes,   but I thought the point of the second stain not  corresponding with the first would interest you.” “Certainly, it was most interesting. Has  this woman only been here once, constable?” “Yes, sir, only once.” “Who was she?”

“Don’t know the name, sir. Was answering  an advertisement about typewriting   and came to the wrong number—very  pleasant, genteel young woman, sir.” “Tall? Handsome?” “Yes, sir, she was a well-grown  young woman. I suppose you might   say she was handsome. Perhaps some would  say she was very handsome. ‘Oh, officer,  

Do let me have a peep!’ says she. She had  pretty, coaxing ways, as you might say,   and I thought there was no harm in letting  her just put her head through the door.” “How was she dressed?” “Quiet, sir—a long mantle down to her feet.” “What time was it?”

“It was just growing dusk at  the time. They were lighting   the lamps as I came back with the brandy.” “Very good,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson, I think  that we have more important work elsewhere.” As we left the house Lestrade  remained in the front room,  

While the repentant constable opened the  door to let us out. Holmes turned on the   step and held up something in his  hand. The constable stared intently. “Good Lord, sir!” he cried, with amazement on  his face. Holmes put his finger on his lips,  

Replaced his hand in his breast pocket,  and burst out laughing as we turned down   the street. “Excellent!” said he. “Come,  friend Watson, the curtain rings up for   the last act. You will be relieved to hear that  there will be no war, that the Right Honourable  

Trelawney Hope will suffer no setback in  his brilliant career, that the indiscreet   Sovereign will receive no punishment for his  indiscretion, that the Prime Minister will   have no European complication to deal with,  and that with a little tact and management  

Upon our part nobody will be a penny the worse  for what might have been a very ugly incident.” My mind filled with admiration  for this extraordinary man. “You have solved it!” I cried. “Hardly that, Watson. There are some  points which are as dark as ever. But  

We have so much that it will be our own  fault if we cannot get the rest. We will   go straight to Whitehall Terrace  and bring the matter to a head.” When we arrived at the residence of  the European Secretary it was for  

Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes  inquired. We were shown into the morning-room. “Mr. Holmes!” said the lady, and her face was pink  with her indignation. “This is surely most unfair   and ungenerous upon your part. I desired, as I  have explained, to keep my visit to you a secret,  

Lest my husband should think that I was  intruding into his affairs. And yet you   compromise me by coming here and so showing  that there are business relations between us.” “Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible  alternative. I have been commissioned to   recover this immensely important  paper. I must therefore ask you,  

Madam, to be kind enough to place it in my hands.” The lady sprang to her feet, with  the colour all dashed in an instant   from her beautiful face. Her eyes  glazed—she tottered—I thought that   she would faint. Then with a grand  effort she rallied from the shock,  

And a supreme astonishment and indignation  chased every other expression from her features. “You—you insult me, Mr. Holmes.” “Come, come, madam, it is  useless. Give up the letter.” She darted to the bell. “The butler shall show you out.”

“Do not ring, Lady Hilda. If you do, then  all my earnest efforts to avoid a scandal   will be frustrated. Give up the letter  and all will be set right. If you will   work with me I can arrange everything. If  you work against me I must expose you.”

She stood grandly defiant, a queenly  figure, her eyes fixed upon his as   if she would read his very soul. Her hand was  on the bell, but she had forborne to ring it. “You are trying to frighten me. It is  not a very manly thing, Mr. Holmes,  

To come here and browbeat a woman. You say that  you know something. What is it that you know?” “Pray sit down, madam. You will  hurt yourself there if you fall.   I will not speak until you sit down. Thank you.” “I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes.”

“One is enough, Lady Hilda. I know  of your visit to Eduardo Lucas,   of your giving him this document, of your  ingenious return to the room last night,   and of the manner in which you took the letter  from the hiding-place under the carpet.”

She stared at him with an ashen face  and gulped twice before she could speak. “You are mad, Mr. Holmes—you  are mad!” she cried, at last. He drew a small piece of cardboard from his   pocket. It was the face of a  woman cut out of a portrait.

“I have carried this because I thought it   might be useful,” said he. “The  policeman has recognized it.” She gave a gasp, and her head  dropped back in the chair. “Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter.  The matter may still be adjusted. I have  

No desire to bring trouble to you. My  duty ends when I have returned the lost   letter to your husband. Take my advice and  be frank with me. It is your only chance.” Her courage was admirable. Even  now she would not own defeat.

“I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that  you are under some absurd illusion.” Holmes rose from his chair. “I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my  best for you. I can see that it is all in vain.” He rang the bell. The butler entered. “Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?”

“He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one.” Holmes glanced at his watch. “Still a quarter of an hour,” said  he. “Very good, I shall wait.” The butler had hardly closed the door behind  him when Lady Hilda was down on her knees  

At Holmes’s feet, her hands outstretched, her  beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears. “Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!” she pleaded,  in a frenzy of supplication. “For heaven’s sake,   don’t tell him! I love him so! I would  not bring one shadow on his life,  

And this I know would break his noble heart.” Holmes raised the lady. “I am thankful,  madam, that you have come to your senses   even at this last moment! There is not  an instant to lose. Where is the letter?” She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked  it, and drew out a long blue envelope.

“Here it is, Mr. Holmes. Would  to heaven I had never seen it!” “How can we return it?” Holmes muttered. “Quick,   quick, we must think of some  way! Where is the despatch-box?” “Still in his bedroom.” “What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam,  

Bring it here!” A moment later she had  appeared with a red flat box in her hand. “How did you open it before? You have a  duplicate key? Yes, of course you have. Open it!” From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn  a small key. The box flew open. It was  

Stuffed with papers. Holmes thrust the blue  envelope deep down into the heart of them,   between the leaves of some other document. The  box was shut, locked, and returned to the bedroom. “Now we are ready for him,” said Holmes. “We have  still ten minutes. I am going far to screen you,  

Lady Hilda. In return you will  spend the time in telling me   frankly the real meaning of  this extraordinary affair.” “Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything,” cried  the lady. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, I would cut off my  

Right hand before I gave him a moment of sorrow!  There is no woman in all London who loves her   husband as I do, and yet if he knew how I have  acted—how I have been compelled to act—he would  

Never forgive me. For his own honour stands so  high that he could not forget or pardon a lapse   in another. Help me, Mr. Holmes! My happiness,  his happiness, our very lives are at stake!” “Quick, madam, the time grows short!” “It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes,  an indiscreet letter written before my  

Marriage—a foolish letter, a letter of an  impulsive, loving girl. I meant no harm,   and yet he would have thought it criminal. Had  he read that letter his confidence would have   been forever destroyed. It is years since I  wrote it. I had thought that the whole matter  

Was forgotten. Then at last I heard from this  man, Lucas, that it had passed into his hands,   and that he would lay it before my husband.  I implored his mercy. He said that he would   return my letter if I would bring him a certain  document which he described in my husband’s  

Despatch-box. He had some spy in the office who  had told him of its existence. He assured me that   no harm could come to my husband. Put yourself  in my position, Mr. Holmes! What was I to do?” “Take your husband into your confidence.”

“I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the  one side seemed certain ruin, on the other,   terrible as it seemed to take my husband’s  paper, still in a matter of politics I could   not understand the consequences, while in  a matter of love and trust they were only  

Too clear to me. I did it, Mr. Holmes! I took an  impression of his key. This man, Lucas, furnished   a duplicate. I opened his despatch-box, took  the paper, and conveyed it to Godolphin Street.” “What happened there, madam?” “I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas  opened it. I followed him into his room,  

Leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I feared  to be alone with the man. I remember that there   was a woman outside as I entered. Our business  was soon done. He had my letter on his desk,   I handed him the document. He gave me  the letter. At this instant there was a  

Sound at the door. There were steps in  the passage. Lucas quickly turned back   the drugget, thrust the document into some  hiding-place there, and covered it over. “What happened after that is like some fearful  dream. I have a vision of a dark, frantic face,  

Of a woman’s voice, which screamed in French,  ‘My waiting is not in vain. At last, at last   I have found you with her!’ There was a savage  struggle. I saw him with a chair in his hand,   a knife gleamed in hers. I rushed from  the horrible scene, ran from the house,  

And only next morning in the paper did I learn  the dreadful result. That night I was happy,   for I had my letter, and I had not  seen yet what the future would bring. “It was the next morning that I realized that  I had only exchanged one trouble for another.  

My husband’s anguish at the loss of his paper  went to my heart. I could hardly prevent myself   from there and then kneeling down at his feet and  telling him what I had done. But that again would  

Mean a confession of the past. I came to you  that morning in order to understand the full   enormity of my offence. From the instant that I  grasped it my whole mind was turned to the one   thought of getting back my husband’s paper.  It must still be where Lucas had placed it,  

For it was concealed before this dreadful  woman entered the room. If it had not been   for her coming, I should not have known where his  hiding-place was. How was I to get into the room?  

For two days I watched the place, but the door  was never left open. Last night I made a last   attempt. What I did and how I succeeded, you have  already learned. I brought the paper back with me,   and thought of destroying it, since  I could see no way of returning it  

Without confessing my guilt to my husband.  Heavens, I hear his step upon the stair!” The European Secretary burst excitedly into the  room. “Any news, Mr. Holmes, any news?” he cried. “I have some hopes.” “Ah, thank heaven!” His face became radiant.  “The Prime Minister is lunching with me. May  

He share your hopes? He has nerves of steel,  and yet I know that he has hardly slept since   this terrible event. Jacobs, will you ask the  Prime Minister to come up? As to you, dear,  

I fear that this is a matter of politics. We will  join you in a few minutes in the dining-room.” The Prime Minister’s manner was subdued,  but I could see by the gleam of his eyes   and the twitchings of his bony hands that he  shared the excitement of his young colleague.

“I understand that you have  something to report, Mr. Holmes?” “Purely negative as yet,” my friend answered. “I  have inquired at every point where it might be,   and I am sure that there is  no danger to be apprehended.” “But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We cannot  

Live forever on such a volcano.  We must have something definite.” “I am in hopes of getting it. That is why  I am here. The more I think of the matter   the more convinced I am that the  letter has never left this house.” “Mr. Holmes!”

“If it had it would certainly  have been public by now.” “But why should anyone take it in  order to keep it in his house?” “I am not convinced that anyone did take it.” “Then how could it leave the despatch-box?” “I am not convinced that it ever  did leave the despatch-box.”

“Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed.  You have my assurance that it left the box.” “Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?” “No. It was not necessary.” “You may conceivably have overlooked it.” “Impossible, I say.” “But I am not convinced of it. I  have known such things to happen.  

I presume there are other papers there.  Well, it may have got mixed with them.” “It was on the top.” “Someone may have shaken  the box and displaced it.” “No, no, I had everything out.” “Surely it is easily decided,   Hope,” said the Premier. “Let us  have the despatch-box brought in.”

The Secretary rang the bell. “Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a  farcical waste of time, but still, if nothing   else will satisfy you, it shall be done. Thank  you, Jacobs, put it here. I have always had the  

Key on my watch-chain. Here are the papers, you  see. Letter from Lord Merrow, report from Sir   Charles Hardy, memorandum from Belgrade, note on  the Russo-German grain taxes, letter from Madrid,   note from Lord Flowers——Good heavens! what  is this? Lord Bellinger! Lord Bellinger!” The Premier snatched the  blue envelope from his hand.

“Yes, it is it—and the letter is  intact. Hope, I congratulate you.” “Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my  heart. But this is inconceivable—impossible.   Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard, a  sorcerer! How did you know it was there?” “Because I knew it was nowhere else.”

“I cannot believe my eyes!” He ran wildly to  the door. “Where is my wife? I must tell her   that all is well. Hilda! Hilda!”  we heard his voice on the stairs. The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes. “Come, sir,” said he. “There is more in this  

Than meets the eye. How came  the letter back in the box?” Holmes turned away smiling from the  keen scrutiny of those wonderful eyes. “We also have our diplomatic secrets,” said he  and, picking up his hat, he turned to the door. END OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND STAIN

END OF THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES BY SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE