The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

V. THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS 

 

 

 

 When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes

cases between the years '82 and '90, I am faced by so many which

present strange and interesting features that it is no easy

matter to know which to choose and which to leave. Some, however,

have already gained publicity through the papers, and others have

not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend

possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the object of

these papers to illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his

analytical skill, and would be, as narratives, beginnings without

an ending, while others have been but partially cleared up, and

have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture and

surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to

him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable

in its details and so startling in its results that I am tempted

to give some account of it in spite of the fact that there are

points in connection with it which never have been, and probably

never will be, entirely cleared up.

The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater

or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my

headings under this one twelve months I find an account of the

adventure of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant

Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a

furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the

British barque "Sophy Anderson", of the singular adventures of the

Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and finally of the

Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be remembered,

Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man's watch, to

prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that

therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time--a

deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the

case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of

them present such singular features as the strange train of

circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe.

It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales

had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had

screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that

even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced

to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and

to recognise the presence of those great elemental forces which

shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like

untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew

higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in

the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the

fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the

other was deep in one of Clark Russell's fine sea-stories until

the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text,

and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of

the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother's, and for a

few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker

Street.

"Why," said I, glancing up at my companion, "that was surely the

bell. Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?"

"Except yourself I have none," he answered. "I do not encourage

visitors."

"A client, then?"

"If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out

on such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more

likely to be some crony of the landlady's."

Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there

came a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He

stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and

towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit.

"Come in!" said he.

The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the

outside, well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of

refinement and delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella

which he held in his hand, and his long shining waterproof told

of the fierce weather through which he had come. He looked about

him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see that his

face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is

weighed down with some great anxiety.

"I owe you an apology," he said, raising his golden pince-nez to

his eyes. "I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have

brought some traces of the storm and rain into your snug

chamber."

"Give me your coat and umbrella," said Holmes. "They may rest

here on the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from

the south-west, I see."

"Yes, from Horsham."

"That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is

quite distinctive."

"I have come for advice."

"That is easily got."

"And help."

"That is not always so easy."

"I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast

how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal."

"Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards."

"He said that you could solve anything."

"He said too much."

"That you are never beaten."

"I have been beaten four times--three times by men, and once by a

woman."

"But what is that compared with the number of your successes?"

"It is true that I have been generally successful."

"Then you may be so with me."

"I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me

with some details as to your case."

"It is no ordinary one."

"None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of

appeal."

"And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you

have ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of

events than those which have happened in my own family."

"You fill me with interest," said Holmes. "Pray give us the

essential facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards

question you as to those details which seem to me to be most

important."

The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out

towards the blaze.

"My name," said he, "is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have,

as far as I can understand, little to do with this awful

business. It is a hereditary matter; so in order to give you an

idea of the facts, I must go back to the commencement of the

affair.

"You must know that my grandfather had two sons--my uncle Elias

and my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry,

which he enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He

was a patentee of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business

met with such success that he was able to sell it and to retire

upon a handsome competence.

"My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and

became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done

very well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson's army,

and afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When

Lee laid down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where

he remained for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came

back to Europe and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham.

He had made a very considerable fortune in the States, and his

reason for leaving them was his aversion to the negroes, and his

dislike of the Republican policy in extending the franchise to

them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered, very

foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring

disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I

doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or

three fields round his house, and there he would take his

exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave

his room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very

heavily, but he would see no society and did not want any

friends, not even his own brother.

"He didn't mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the

time when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This

would be in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years

in England. He begged my father to let me live with him and he

was very kind to me in his way. When he was sober he used to be

fond of playing backgammon and draughts with me, and he would

make me his representative both with the servants and with the

tradespeople, so that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite

master of the house. I kept all the keys and could go where I

liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him in

his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he

had a single room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was

invariably locked, and which he would never permit either me or

anyone else to enter. With a boy's curiosity I have peeped

through the keyhole, but I was never able to see more than such a

collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in such

a room.

"One day--it was in March, 1883--a letter with a foreign stamp

lay upon the table in front of the colonel's plate. It was not a

common thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all

paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. 'From

India!' said he as he took it up, 'Pondicherry postmark! What can

this be?' Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped five little

dried orange pips, which pattered down upon his plate. I began to

laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight

of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding, his

skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope which he

still held in his trembling hand, 'K. K. K.!' he shrieked, and

then, 'My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!'

"'What is it, uncle?' I cried.

"'Death,' said he, and rising from the table he retired to his

room, leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope

and saw scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the

gum, the letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else

save the five dried pips. What could be the reason of his

overpowering terror? I left the breakfast-table, and as I

ascended the stair I met him coming down with an old rusty key,

which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand, and a small

brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.

"'They may do what they like, but I'll checkmate them still,'

said he with an oath. 'Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my

room to-day, and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.'

"I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to

step up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the

grate there was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned

paper, while the brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I

glanced at the box I noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was

printed the treble K which I had read in the morning upon the

envelope.

"'I wish you, John,' said my uncle, 'to witness my will. I leave

my estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to

my brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to

you. If you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you

cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest

enemy. I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can't

say what turn things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper

where Mr. Fordham shows you.'

"I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with

him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest

impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every

way in my mind without being able to make anything of it. Yet I

could not shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left

behind, though the sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed

and nothing happened to disturb the usual routine of our lives. I

could see a change in my uncle, however. He drank more than ever,

and he was less inclined for any sort of society. Most of his

time he would spend in his room, with the door locked upon the

inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy

and would burst out of the house and tear about the garden with a

revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no man,

and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by

man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would

rush tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him,

like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the terror

which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen

his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it

were new raised from a basin.

"Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to

abuse your patience, there came a night when he made one of those

drunken sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when

we went to search for him, face downward in a little

green-scummed pool, which lay at the foot of the garden. There

was no sign of any violence, and the water was but two feet deep,

so that the jury, having regard to his known eccentricity,

brought in a verdict of 'suicide.' But I, who knew how he winced

from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade myself

that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed,

however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and

of some 14,000 pounds, which lay to his credit at the bank."

"One moment," Holmes interposed, "your statement is, I foresee,

one of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me

have the date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and

the date of his supposed suicide."

"The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks

later, upon the night of May 2nd."

"Thank you. Pray proceed."

"When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my

request, made a careful examination of the attic, which had been

always locked up. We found the brass box there, although its

contents had been destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a

paper label, with the initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and

'Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register' written beneath.

These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers which had

been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was

nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many

scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle's life in

America. Some of them were of the war time and showed that he had

done his duty well and had borne the repute of a brave soldier.

Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern

states, and were mostly concerned with politics, for he had

evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpet-bag

politicians who had been sent down from the North.

"Well, it was the beginning of '84 when my father came to live at

Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the

January of '85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my

father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the

breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with a newly opened

envelope in one hand and five dried orange pips in the

outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what

he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but he looked

very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon

himself.

"'Why, what on earth does this mean, John?' he stammered.

"My heart had turned to lead. 'It is K. K. K.,' said I.

"He looked inside the envelope. 'So it is,' he cried. 'Here are

the very letters. But what is this written above them?'

"'Put the papers on the sundial,' I read, peeping over his

shoulder.

"'What papers? What sundial?' he asked.

"'The sundial in the garden. There is no other,' said I; 'but the

papers must be those that are destroyed.'

"'Pooh!' said he, gripping hard at his courage. 'We are in a

civilised land here, and we can't have tomfoolery of this kind.

Where does the thing come from?'

"'From Dundee,' I answered, glancing at the postmark.

"'Some preposterous practical joke,' said he. 'What have I to do

with sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such

nonsense.'

"'I should certainly speak to the police,' I said.

"'And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.'

"'Then let me do so?'

"'No, I forbid you. I won't have a fuss made about such

nonsense.'

"It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate

man. I went about, however, with a heart which was full of

forebodings.

"On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went

from home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is

in command of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad

that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from

danger when he was away from home. In that, however, I was in

error. Upon the second day of his absence I received a telegram

from the major, imploring me to come at once. My father had

fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the

neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I

hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered

his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from

Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him,

and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in

bringing in a verdict of 'death from accidental causes.'

Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death, I

was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of

murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no

robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads.

And yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease,

and that I was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been

woven round him.

"In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me

why I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well

convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an

incident in my uncle's life, and that the danger would be as

pressing in one house as in another.

"It was in January, '85, that my poor father met his end, and two

years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time

I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that

this curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended

with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon,

however; yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in

which it had come upon my father."

The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and

turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried

orange pips.

"This is the envelope," he continued. "The postmark is

London--eastern division. Within are the very words which were

upon my father's last message: 'K. K. K.'; and then 'Put the

papers on the sundial.'"

"What have you done?" asked Holmes.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"To tell the truth"--he sank his face into his thin, white

hands--"I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor

rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in

the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight

and no precautions can guard against."

"Tut! tut!" cried Sherlock Holmes. "You must act, man, or you are

lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for

despair."

"I have seen the police."

"Ah!"

"But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that

the inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all

practical jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really

accidents, as the jury stated, and were not to be connected with

the warnings."

Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. "Incredible

imbecility!" he cried.

"They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in

the house with me."

"Has he come with you to-night?"

"No. His orders were to stay in the house."

Again Holmes raved in the air.

"Why did you come to me," he cried, "and, above all, why did you

not come at once?"

"I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major

Prendergast about my troubles and was advised by him to come to

you."

"It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have

acted before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than

that which you have placed before us--no suggestive detail which

might help us?"

"There is one thing," said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat

pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted

paper, he laid it out upon the table. "I have some remembrance,"

said he, "that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I

observed that the small, unburned margins which lay amid the

ashes were of this particular colour. I found this single sheet

upon the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that it

may be one of the papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from

among the others, and in that way has escaped destruction. Beyond

the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much. I think

myself that it is a page from some private diary. The writing is

undoubtedly my uncle's."

Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper,

which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from

a book. It was headed, "March, 1869," and beneath were the

following enigmatical notices:

"4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.

"7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and

John Swain, of St. Augustine.

"9th. McCauley cleared.

"10th. John Swain cleared.

"12th. Visited Paramore. All well."

"Thank you!" said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it

to our visitor. "And now you must on no account lose another

instant. We cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told

me. You must get home instantly and act."

"What shall I do?"

"There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must

put this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass

box which you have described. You must also put in a note to say

that all the other papers were burned by your uncle, and that

this is the only one which remains. You must assert that in such

words as will carry conviction with them. Having done this, you

must at once put the box out upon the sundial, as directed. Do

you understand?"

"Entirely."

"Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I

think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our

web to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first

consideration is to remove the pressing danger which threatens

you. The second is to clear up the mystery and to punish the

guilty parties."

"I thank you," said the young man, rising and pulling on his

overcoat. "You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall

certainly do as you advise."

"Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in

the meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that

you are threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you

go back?"

"By train from Waterloo."

"It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that

you may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too

closely."

"I am armed."

"That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case."

"I shall see you at Horsham, then?"

"No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek

it."

"Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news

as to the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every

particular." He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside

the wind still screamed and the rain splashed and pattered

against the windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come

to us from amid the mad elements--blown in upon us like a sheet

of sea-weed in a gale--and now to have been reabsorbed by them

once more.

Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk

forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he

lit his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue

smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling.

"I think, Watson," he remarked at last, "that of all our cases we

have had none more fantastic than this."

"Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four."

"Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems

to me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the

Sholtos."

"But have you," I asked, "formed any definite conception as to

what these perils are?"

"There can be no question as to their nature," he answered.

"Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue

this unhappy family?"

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the

arms of his chair, with his finger-tips together. "The ideal

reasoner," he remarked, "would, when he had once been shown a

single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the

chain of events which led up to it but also all the results which

would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly describe a whole

animal by the contemplation of a single bone, so the observer who

has thoroughly understood one link in a series of incidents

should be able to accurately state all the other ones, both

before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which the

reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study

which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the

aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest

pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to

utilise all the facts which have come to his knowledge; and this

in itself implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all

knowledge, which, even in these days of free education and

encyclopaedias, is a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so

impossible, however, that a man should possess all knowledge

which is likely to be useful to him in his work, and this I have

endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly, you on one

occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my limits

in a very precise fashion."

"Yes," I answered, laughing. "It was a singular document.

Philosophy, astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I

remember. Botany variable, geology profound as regards the

mud-stains from any region within fifty miles of town, chemistry

eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational literature and crime

records unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and

self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I think, were the

main points of my analysis."

Holmes grinned at the last item. "Well," he said, "I say now, as

I said then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic

stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the

rest he can put away in the lumber-room of his library, where he

can get it if he wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which

has been submitted to us to-night, we need certainly to muster

all our resources. Kindly hand me down the letter K of the

'American Encyclopaedia' which stands upon the shelf beside you.

Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see what may be

deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a strong

presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason for

leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their

habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for

the lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love

of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of

someone or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis

that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from

America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by

considering the formidable letters which were received by himself

and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those

letters?"

"The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the

third from London."

"From East London. What do you deduce from that?"

"They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship."

"Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that

the probability--the strong probability--is that the writer was

on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the

case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and

its fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days.

Does that suggest anything?"

"A greater distance to travel."

"But the letter had also a greater distance to come."

"Then I do not see the point."

"There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man

or men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send

their singular warning or token before them when starting upon

their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign

when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a

steamer they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter.

But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those

seven weeks represented the difference between the mail-boat which

brought the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the

writer."

"It is possible."

"More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly

urgency of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to

caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time which

it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one

comes from London, and therefore we cannot count upon delay."

"Good God!" I cried. "What can it mean, this relentless

persecution?"

"The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital

importance to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think

that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them.

A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way

as to deceive a coroner's jury. There must have been several in

it, and they must have been men of resource and determination.

Their papers they mean to have, be the holder of them who it may.

In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an

individual and becomes the badge of a society."

"But of what society?"

"Have you never--" said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and

sinking his voice--"have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?"

"I never have."

Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. "Here it

is," said he presently:

"'Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to

the sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret

society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the

Southern states after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local

branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee,

Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Its power was

used for political purposes, principally for the terrorising of

the negro voters and the murdering and driving from the country

of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually

preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic

but generally recognised shape--a sprig of oak-leaves in some

parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this

the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might

fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death would

unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and

unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the

society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a

case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with

impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the

perpetrators. For some years the organisation flourished in spite

of the efforts of the United States government and of the better

classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year

1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have

been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.'

"You will observe," said Holmes, laying down the volume, "that

the sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the

disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may

well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his

family have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track.

You can understand that this register and diary may implicate

some of the first men in the South, and that there may be many

who will not sleep easy at night until it is recovered."

"Then the page we have seen--"

"Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, 'sent

the pips to A, B, and C'--that is, sent the society's warning to

them. Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or

left the country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a

sinister result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let

some light into this dark place, and I believe that the only

chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have

told him. There is nothing more to be said or to be done

to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for

half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable

ways of our fellow-men."

It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a

subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the

great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came

down.

"You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he; "I have, I

foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of

young Openshaw's."

"What steps will you take?" I asked.

"It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries.

I may have to go down to Horsham, after all."

"You will not go there first?"

"No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the

maid will bring up your coffee."

As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and

glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a

chill to my heart.

"Holmes," I cried, "you are too late."

"Ah!" said he, laying down his cup, "I feared as much. How was it

done?" He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

"My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading 'Tragedy

Near Waterloo Bridge.' Here is the account:

"Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H

Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and

a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and

stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it

was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was

given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was

eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman

whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his

pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham.

It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch

the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and

the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked over the edge

of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body

exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that

the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident,

which should have the effect of calling the attention of the

authorities to the condition of the riverside landing-stages."

We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and

shaken than I had ever seen him.

"That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last. "It is a petty

feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal

matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my

hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that

I should send him away to his death--!" He sprang from his chair

and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a

flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and

unclasping of his long thin hands.

"They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed at last. "How could

they have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the

direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too

crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson,

we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now!"

"To the police?"

"No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may

take the flies, but not before."

All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in

the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes

had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he

entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard,

and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously,

washing it down with a long draught of water.

"You are hungry," I remarked.

"Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since

breakfast."

"Nothing?"

"Not a bite. I had no time to think of it."

"And how have you succeeded?"

"Well."

"You have a clue?"

"I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not

long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish

trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!"

"What do you mean?"

He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he

squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and

thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote

"S. H. for J. O." Then he sealed it and addressed it to "Captain

James Calhoun, Barque 'Lone Star,' Savannah, Georgia."

"That will await him when he enters port," said he, chuckling.

"It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a

precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him."

"And who is this Captain Calhoun?"

"The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first."

"How did you trace it, then?"

He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with

dates and names.

"I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's registers

and files of the old papers, following the future career of every

vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in

'83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were

reported there during those months. Of these, one, the 'Lone Star,'

instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported

as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to

one of the states of the Union."

"Texas, I think."

"I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must

have an American origin."

"What then?"

"I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque

'Lone Star' was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a

certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present

in the port of London."

"Yes?"

"The 'Lone Star' had arrived here last week. I went down to the

Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by

the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired

to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and

as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the

Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight."

"What will you do, then?"

"Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I

learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are

Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away

from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has

been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship

reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and

the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these

three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder."

There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans,

and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the

orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning and as

resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very

severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for

news of the "Lone Star" of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We

did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a

shattered stern-post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough

of a wave, with the letters "L. S." carved upon it, and that is

all which we shall ever know of the fate of the "Lone Star."

ADVENTURE IV. THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY

 

 We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the

maid brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran

in this way:

“Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from

the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy.

Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect.

Leave Paddington by the 11:15.”

“What do you say, dear?” said my wife, looking across at me.

“Will you go?”

“I really don’t know what to say. I have a fairly long list at

present.”

“Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking

a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good,

and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ cases.”

“I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained

through one of them,” I answered. “But if I am to go, I must pack

at once, for I have only half an hour.”

My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the

effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were

few and simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a

cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock

Holmes was pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt

figure made even gaunter and taller by his long grey

travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.

“It is really very good of you to come, Watson,” said he. “It

makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on

whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless

or else biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall

get the tickets.”

We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of

papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged

and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until

we were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a

gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack.

“Have you heard anything of the case?” he asked.

“Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days.”

“The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just

been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the

particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those

simple cases which are so extremely difficult.”

“That sounds a little paradoxical.”

“But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a

clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more

difficult it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they

have established a very serious case against the son of the

murdered man.”

“It is a murder, then?”

“Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for

granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into

it. I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I have

been able to understand it, in a very few words.

“Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in

Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a

Mr. John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned

some years ago to the old country. One of the farms which he

held, that of Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was

also an ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the

colonies, so that it was not unnatural that when they came to

settle down they should do so as near each other as possible.

Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his

tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect

equality, as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son,

a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only daughter of the same

age, but neither of them had wives living. They appear to have

avoided the society of the neighbouring English families and to

have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys were fond of

sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of the

neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants—a man and a girl.

Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the

least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the

families. Now for the facts.

“On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at

Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the

Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out

of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been

out with his serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told

the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of

importance to keep at three. From that appointment he never came

back alive.

“From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a

mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One

was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was

William Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both

these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The

game-keeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr.

McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the

same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the

father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was

following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in

the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.

“The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder,

the game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly

wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the

edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of

the lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the

woods picking flowers. She states that while she was there she

saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr.

McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a

violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very

strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his

hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their

violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached

home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near

Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to

fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came

running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead

in the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper. He was

much excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right

hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On

following him they found the dead body stretched out upon the

grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated

blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as

might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son’s

gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the

body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly

arrested, and a verdict of ‘wilful murder’ having been returned

at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought before the

magistrates at Ross, who have referred the case to the next

Assizes. Those are the main facts of the case as they came out

before the coroner and the police-court.”

“I could hardly imagine a more damning case,” I remarked. “If

ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so

here.”

“Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing,” answered Holmes

thoughtfully. “It may seem to point very straight to one thing,

but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it

pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something

entirely different. It must be confessed, however, that the case

looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very

possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people

in the neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the

daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who believe in his

innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect

in connection with the Study in Scarlet, to work out the case in

his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the

case to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are

flying westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly

digesting their breakfasts at home.”

“I am afraid,” said I, “that the facts are so obvious that you

will find little credit to be gained out of this case.”

“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” he

answered, laughing. “Besides, we may chance to hit upon some

other obvious facts which may have been by no means obvious to

Mr. Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I am boasting

when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by

means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of

understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly

perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the right-hand

side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have noted

even so self-evident a thing as that.”

“How on earth—”

“My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness

which characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this

season you shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less

and less complete as we get farther back on the left side, until

it becomes positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the

jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less illuminated

than the other. I could not imagine a man of your habits looking

at himself in an equal light and being satisfied with such a

result. I only quote this as a trivial example of observation and

inference. Therein lies my m�tier, and it is just possible that

it may be of some service in the investigation which lies before

us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in

the inquest, and which are worth considering.”

“What are they?”

“It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after

the return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary

informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not

surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts.

This observation of his had the natural effect of removing any

traces of doubt which might have remained in the minds of the

coroner’s jury.”

“It was a confession,” I ejaculated.

“No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence.”

“Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at

least a most suspicious remark.”

“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “it is the brightest rift which I

can at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be,

he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the

circumstances were very black against him. Had he appeared

surprised at his own arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I

should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because such

surprise or anger would not be natural under the circumstances,

and yet might appear to be the best policy to a scheming man. His

frank acceptance of the situation marks him as either an innocent

man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint and

firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not

unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of

his father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day

so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and

even, according to the little girl whose evidence is so

important, to raise his hand as if to strike him. The

self-reproach and contrition which are displayed in his remark

appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a

guilty one.”

I shook my head. “Many men have been hanged on far slighter

evidence,” I remarked.

“So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged.”

“What is the young man’s own account of the matter?”

“It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters,

though there are one or two points in it which are suggestive.

You will find it here, and may read it for yourself.”

He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire

paper, and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the

paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his own

statement of what had occurred. I settled myself down in the

corner of the carriage and read it very carefully. It ran in this

way:

“Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called

and gave evidence as follows: ‘I had been away from home for

three days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the

morning of last Monday, the 3rd. My father was absent from home at

the time of my arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he

had driven over to Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after

my return I heard the wheels of his trap in the yard, and,

looking out of my window, I saw him get out and walk rapidly out

of the yard, though I was not aware in which direction he was

going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of

the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit

warren which is upon the other side. On my way I saw William

Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence; but

he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I had

no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred yards

from the pool I heard a cry of “Cooee!” which was a usual signal

between my father and myself. I then hurried forward, and found

him standing by the pool. He appeared to be much surprised at

seeing me and asked me rather roughly what I was doing there. A

conversation ensued which led to high words and almost to blows,

for my father was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that his

passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned

towards Hatherley Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards,

however, when I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me

to run back again. I found my father expiring upon the ground,

with his head terribly injured. I dropped my gun and held him in

my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I knelt beside him for

some minutes, and then made my way to Mr. Turner’s lodge-keeper,

his house being the nearest, to ask for assistance. I saw no one

near my father when I returned, and I have no idea how he came by

his injuries. He was not a popular man, being somewhat cold and

forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as I know, no

active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter.’

“The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before

he died?

“Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some

allusion to a rat.

“The Coroner: What did you understand by that?

“Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was

delirious.

“The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father

had this final quarrel?

“Witness: I should prefer not to answer.

“The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.

“Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can

assure you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which

followed.

“The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point

out to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case

considerably in any future proceedings which may arise.

“Witness: I must still refuse.

“The Coroner: I understand that the cry of ‘Cooee’ was a common

signal between you and your father?

“Witness: It was.

“The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw

you, and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?

“Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.

“A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions

when you returned on hearing the cry and found your father

fatally injured?

“Witness: Nothing definite.

“The Coroner: What do you mean?

“Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into

the open, that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet

I have a vague impression that as I ran forward something lay

upon the ground to the left of me. It seemed to me to be

something grey in colour, a coat of some sort, or a plaid perhaps.

When I rose from my father I looked round for it, but it was

gone.

“ ‘Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?’

“ ‘Yes, it was gone.’

“ ‘You cannot say what it was?’

“ ‘No, I had a feeling something was there.’

“ ‘How far from the body?’

“ ‘A dozen yards or so.’

“ ‘And how far from the edge of the wood?’

“ ‘About the same.’

“ ‘Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen

yards of it?’

“ ‘Yes, but with my back towards it.’

“This concluded the examination of the witness.”

“I see,” said I as I glanced down the column, “that the coroner

in his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy.

He calls attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his

father having signalled to him before seeing him, also to his

refusal to give details of his conversation with his father, and

his singular account of his father’s dying words. They are all,

as he remarks, very much against the son.”

Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon

the cushioned seat. “Both you and the coroner have been at some

pains,” said he, “to single out the very strongest points in the

young man’s favour. Don’t you see that you alternately give him

credit for having too much imagination and too little? Too

little, if he could not invent a cause of quarrel which would

give him the sympathy of the jury; too much, if he evolved from

his own inner consciousness anything so outr� as a dying

reference to a rat, and the incident of the vanishing cloth. No,

sir, I shall approach this case from the point of view that what

this young man says is true, and we shall see whither that

hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket Petrarch, and

not another word shall I say of this case until we are on the

scene of action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be

there in twenty minutes.”

It was nearly four o’clock when we at last, after passing through

the beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn,

found ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A

lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for

us upon the platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and

leather-leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic

surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognising Lestrade, of

Scotland Yard. With him we drove to the Hereford Arms where a

room had already been engaged for us.

“I have ordered a carriage,” said Lestrade as we sat over a cup

of tea. “I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be

happy until you had been on the scene of the crime.”

“It was very nice and complimentary of you,” Holmes answered. “It

is entirely a question of barometric pressure.”

Lestrade looked startled. “I do not quite follow,” he said.

“How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud

in the sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need

smoking, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country

hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I

shall use the carriage to-night.”

Lestrade laughed indulgently. “You have, no doubt, already formed

your conclusions from the newspapers,” he said. “The case is as

plain as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer

it becomes. Still, of course, one can’t refuse a lady, and such a

very positive one, too. She has heard of you, and would have your

opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there was nothing

which you could do which I had not already done. Why, bless my

soul! here is her carriage at the door.”

He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the

most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her

violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her

cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost in her

overpowering excitement and concern.

“Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” she cried, glancing from one to the

other of us, and finally, with a woman’s quick intuition,

fastening upon my companion, “I am so glad that you have come. I

have driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn’t do it.

I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it,

too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We have known each

other since we were little children, and I know his faults as no

one else does; but he is too tender-hearted to hurt a fly. Such a

charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him.”

“I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“You may rely upon my doing all that I can.”

“But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion?

Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself

think that he is innocent?”

“I think that it is very probable.”

“There, now!” she cried, throwing back her head and looking

defiantly at Lestrade. “You hear! He gives me hopes.”

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am afraid that my colleague

has been a little quick in forming his conclusions,” he said.

“But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did

it. And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the

reason why he would not speak about it to the coroner was because

I was concerned in it.”

“In what way?” asked Holmes.

“It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had

many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that

there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always

loved each other as brother and sister; but of course he is young

and has seen very little of life yet, and—and—well, he

naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So there

were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them.”

“And your father?” asked Holmes. “Was he in favour of such a

union?”

“No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in

favour of it.” A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as

Holmes shot one of his keen, questioning glances at her.

“Thank you for this information,” said he. “May I see your father

if I call to-morrow?”

“I am afraid the doctor won’t allow it.”

“The doctor?”

“Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for

years back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken

to his bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his

nervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive

who had known dad in the old days in Victoria.”

“Ha! In Victoria! That is important.”

“Yes, at the mines.”

“Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner

made his money.”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to

me.”

“You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you

will go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do

tell him that I know him to be innocent.”

“I will, Miss Turner.”

“I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if

I leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking.” She

hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we

heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.

“I am ashamed of you, Holmes,” said Lestrade with dignity after a

few minutes’ silence. “Why should you raise up hopes which you

are bound to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I

call it cruel.”

“I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy,” said

Holmes. “Have you an order to see him in prison?”

“Yes, but only for you and me.”

“Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have

still time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?”

“Ample.”

“Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very

slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours.”

I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through

the streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel,

where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a

yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin,

however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were

groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the

action to the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and

gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the

day. Supposing that this unhappy young man’s story were

absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely

unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between

the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when,

drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was

something terrible and deadly. What could it be? Might not the

nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts?

I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper, which

contained a verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon’s

deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the left

parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been

shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot

upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck from

behind. That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when

seen quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it

did not go for very much, for the older man might have turned his

back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worth while to call

Holmes’ attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying

reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be

delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become

delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how

he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I cudgelled my

brains to find some possible explanation. And then the incident

of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true the

murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his

overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to

return and to carry it away at the instant when the son was

kneeling with his back turned not a dozen paces off. What a

tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was! I

did not wonder at Lestrade’s opinion, and yet I had so much faith

in Sherlock Holmes’ insight that I could not lose hope as long

as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of young

McCarthy’s innocence.

It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone,

for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.

“The glass still keeps very high,” he remarked as he sat down.

“It is of importance that it should not rain before we are able

to go over the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his

very best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not

wish to do it when fagged by a long journey. I have seen young

McCarthy.”

“And what did you learn from him?”

“Nothing.”

“Could he throw no light?”

“None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew

who had done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced

now that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very

quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should think,

sound at heart.”

“I cannot admire his taste,” I remarked, “if it is indeed a fact

that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as

this Miss Turner.”

“Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly,

insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was

only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away

five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get

into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a

registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can

imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not

doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows

to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of this sort

which made him throw his hands up into the air when his father,

at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss

Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself,

and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would

have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with

his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in

Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that

point. It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however,

for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious

trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and

has written to him to say that she has a husband already in the

Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between them. I

think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all

that he has suffered.”

“But if he is innocent, who has done it?”

“Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two

points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with

someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his

son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would

return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry

‘Cooee!’ before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the

crucial points upon which the case depends. And now let us talk

about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all

minor matters until to-morrow.”

There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke

bright and cloudless. At nine o’clock Lestrade called for us with

the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe

Pool.

“There is serious news this morning,” Lestrade observed. “It is

said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is

despaired of.”

“An elderly man, I presume?” said Holmes.

“About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life

abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This

business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend

of McCarthy’s, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I

have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free.”

“Indeed! That is interesting,” said Holmes.

“Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody

about here speaks of his kindness to him.”

“Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this

McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have

been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of

marrying his son to Turner’s daughter, who is, presumably,

heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner,

as if it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would

follow? It is the more strange, since we know that Turner himself

was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not

deduce something from that?”

“We have got to the deductions and the inferences,” said

Lestrade, winking at me. “I find it hard enough to tackle facts,

Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies.”

“You are right,” said Holmes demurely; “you do find it very hard

to tackle the facts.”

“Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it

difficult to get hold of,” replied Lestrade with some warmth.

“And that is—”

“That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that

all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine.”

“Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog,” said Holmes,

laughing. “But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley

Farm upon the left.”

“Yes, that is it.” It was a widespread, comfortable-looking

building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches

of lichen upon the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless

chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight

of this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door,

when the maid, at Holmes’ request, showed us the boots which her

master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the

son’s, though not the pair which he had then had. Having measured

these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes

desired to be led to the court-yard, from which we all followed

the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent

as this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of

Baker Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed

and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines,

while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter.

His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips

compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long,

sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal

lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely concentrated

upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell

unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick,

impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way

along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of

the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is

all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon

the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either

side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and

once he made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and

I walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous,

while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the

conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a

definite end.

The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water

some fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the

Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner.

Above the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see

the red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich

landowner’s dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods

grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass

twenty paces across between the edge of the trees and the reeds

which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the exact spot at which

the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was the ground,

that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the

fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager

face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read

upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking

up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.

“What did you go into the pool for?” he asked.

“I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon

or other trace. But how on earth—”

“Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its

inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and

there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all

have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo

and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the

lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or

eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of

the same feet.” He drew out a lens and lay down upon his

waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to

himself than to us. “These are young McCarthy’s feet. Twice he

was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are

deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his

story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are

the father’s feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It

is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this?

Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite

unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again—of course

that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?” He ran up

and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we

were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a

great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced

his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon

his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he

remained there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks,

gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and

examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark of

the tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among

the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained. Then

he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the

highroad, where all traces were lost.

“It has been a case of considerable interest,” he remarked,

returning to his natural manner. “I fancy that this grey house on

the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a

word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done

that, we may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab,

and I shall be with you presently.”

It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove

back into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he

had picked up in the wood.

“This may interest you, Lestrade,” he remarked, holding it out.

“The murder was done with it.”

“I see no marks.”

“There are none.”

“How do you know, then?”

“The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few

days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It

corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other

weapon.”

“And the murderer?”

“Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears

thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian

cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his

pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be

enough to aid us in our search.”

Lestrade laughed. “I am afraid that I am still a sceptic,” he

said. “Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a

hard-headed British jury.”

“Nous verrons,” answered Holmes calmly. “You work your own

method, and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon,

and shall probably return to London by the evening train.”

“And leave your case unfinished?”

“No, finished.”

“But the mystery?”

“It is solved.”

“Who was the criminal, then?”

“The gentleman I describe.”

“But who is he?”

“Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a

populous neighbourhood.”

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am a practical man,” he said,

“and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking

for a left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the

laughing-stock of Scotland Yard.”

“All right,” said Holmes quietly. “I have given you the chance.

Here are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before

I leave.”

Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where

we found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in

thought with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds

himself in a perplexing position.

“Look here, Watson,” he said when the cloth was cleared “just sit

down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don’t

know quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a

cigar and let me expound.”

“Pray do so.”

“Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about

young McCarthy’s narrative which struck us both instantly,

although they impressed me in his favour and you against him. One

was the fact that his father should, according to his account,

cry ‘Cooee!’ before seeing him. The other was his singular dying

reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but

that was all that caught the son’s ear. Now from this double

point our research must commence, and we will begin it by

presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true.”

“What of this ‘Cooee!’ then?”

“Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The

son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that

he was within earshot. The ‘Cooee!’ was meant to attract the

attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But

‘Cooee’ is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used

between Australians. There is a strong presumption that the

person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was

someone who had been in Australia.”

“What of the rat, then?”

Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened

it out on the table. “This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,”

he said. “I wired to Bristol for it last night.” He put his hand

over part of the map. “What do you read?”

“ARAT,” I read.

“And now?” He raised his hand.

“BALLARAT.”

“Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his

son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter

the name of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat.”

“It is wonderful!” I exclaimed.

“It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down

considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point

which, granting the son’s statement to be correct, was a

certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite

conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak.”

“Certainly.”

“And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only

be approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could

hardly wander.”

“Quite so.”

“Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the

ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that

imbecile Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal.”

“But how did you gain them?”

“You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of

trifles.”

“His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length

of his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces.”

“Yes, they were peculiar boots.”

“But his lameness?”

“The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than

his left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped—he

was lame.”

“But his left-handedness.”

“You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded

by the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from

immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can

that be unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind

that tree during the interview between the father and son. He had

even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my special

knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian

cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and

written a little monograph on the ashes of 140 different

varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found the

ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss

where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety

which are rolled in Rotterdam.”

“And the cigar-holder?”

“I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he

used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the

cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife.”

“Holmes,” I said, “you have drawn a net round this man from which

he cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as

truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the

direction in which all this points. The culprit is—”

“Mr. John Turner,” cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of

our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.

The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His

slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of

decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and

his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual

strength of body and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled

hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air

of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an

ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were

tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance that

he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease.

“Pray sit down on the sofa,” said Holmes gently. “You had my

note?”

“Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to

see me here to avoid scandal.”

“I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall.”

“And why did you wish to see me?” He looked across at my

companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question

was already answered.

“Yes,” said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. “It

is so. I know all about McCarthy.”

The old man sank his face in his hands. “God help me!” he cried.

“But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you

my word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at

the Assizes.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Holmes gravely.

“I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It

would break her heart—it will break her heart when she hears

that I am arrested.”

“It may not come to that,” said Holmes.

“What?”

“I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter

who required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests.

Young McCarthy must be got off, however.”

“I am a dying man,” said old Turner. “I have had diabetes for

years. My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a

month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a gaol.”

Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand

and a bundle of paper before him. “Just tell us the truth,” he

said. “I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson

here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the

last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall

not use it unless it is absolutely needed.”

“It’s as well,” said the old man; “it’s a question whether I

shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I

should wish to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the

thing clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting, but

will not take me long to tell.

“You didn’t know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil

incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of

such a man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years,

and he has blasted my life. I’ll tell you first how I came to be

in his power.

“It was in the early ’60’s at the diggings. I was a young chap

then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at

anything; I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck

with my claim, took to the bush, and in a word became what you

would call over here a highway robber. There were six of us, and

we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time

to time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings.

Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party

is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.

“One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and

we lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers

and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of

their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed,

however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of

the wagon-driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the

Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his

wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every

feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and made

our way over to England without being suspected. There I parted

from my old pals and determined to settle down to a quiet and

respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be in

the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money,

to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too,

and though my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice.

Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down

the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned

over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All was

going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me.

“I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in

Regent Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his

foot.

“ ‘Here we are, Jack,’ says he, touching me on the arm; ‘we’ll be

as good as a family to you. There’s two of us, me and my son, and

you can have the keeping of us. If you don’t—it’s a fine,

law-abiding country is England, and there’s always a policeman

within hail.’

“Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking

them off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land

ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness;

turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my

elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more

afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he

wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him without

question, land, money, houses, until at last he asked a thing

which I could not give. He asked for Alice.

“His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was

known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that

his lad should step into the whole property. But there I was

firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that

I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that

was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do

his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway between our houses

to talk it over.

“When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I

smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone.

But as I listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in

me seemed to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my

daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she

were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I

and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a

man as this. Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and

a desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb,

I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl!

Both could be saved if I could but silence that foul tongue. I

did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned,

I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl

should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more

than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction

than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought

back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I

was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in

my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that

occurred.”

“Well, it is not for me to judge you,” said Holmes as the old man

signed the statement which had been drawn out. “I pray that we

may never be exposed to such a temptation.”

“I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?”

“In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you

will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the

Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is

condemned I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be

seen by mortal eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or

dead, shall be safe with us.”

“Farewell, then,” said the old man solemnly. “Your own deathbeds,

when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace

which you have given to mine.” Tottering and shaking in all his

giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.

“God help us!” said Holmes after a long silence. “Why does fate

play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such

a case as this that I do not think of Baxter’s words, and say,

‘There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.’ ”

James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a

number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and

submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven

months after our interview, but he is now dead; and there is

every prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily

together in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their

past.

 

ADVENTURE  III.  A CASE OF IDENTITY

 

“My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side

of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, “life is infinitely

stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We

would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere

commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window

hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the

roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the

strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the

wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and

leading to the most outr� results, it would make all fiction with

its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and

unprofitable.”

“And yet I am not convinced of it,” I answered. “The cases which

come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and

vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to

its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed,

neither fascinating nor artistic.”

“A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a

realistic effect,” remarked Holmes. “This is wanting in the

police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the

platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an

observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend

upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace.”

I smiled and shook my head. “I can quite understand your thinking

so,” I said. “Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser

and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout

three continents, you are brought in contact with all that is

strange and bizarre. But here”—I picked up the morning paper

from the ground—“let us put it to a practical test. Here is the

first heading upon which I come. ‘A husband’s cruelty to his

wife.’ There is half a column of print, but I know without

reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of

course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the

bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of

writers could invent nothing more crude.”

“Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,”

said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. “This

is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged

in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The

husband was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the

conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of

winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling

them at his wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely

to occur to the imagination of the average story-teller. Take a

pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over

you in your example.”

He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in

the centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his

homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon

it.

“Ah,” said he, “I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks.

It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my

assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers.”

“And the ring?” I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which

sparkled upon his finger.

“It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in

which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it

even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of

my little problems.”

“And have you any on hand just now?” I asked with interest.

“Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of

interest. They are important, you understand, without being

interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in

unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation,

and for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the

charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the

simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is

the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter

which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing

which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however,

that I may have something better before very many minutes are

over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken.”

He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted

blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street.

Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite

there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck,

and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was

tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her

ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous,

hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated

backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her glove

buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves

the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp

clang of the bell.

“I have seen those symptoms before,” said Holmes, throwing his

cigarette into the fire. “Oscillation upon the pavement always

means an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure

that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet

even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously

wronged by a man she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom

is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a love

matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or

grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts.”

As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons

entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself

loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed

merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed

her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and,

having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked

her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was

peculiar to him.

“Do you not find,” he said, “that with your short sight it is a

little trying to do so much typewriting?”

“I did at first,” she answered, “but now I know where the letters

are without looking.” Then, suddenly realising the full purport

of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear

and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. “You’ve

heard about me, Mr. Holmes,” she cried, “else how could you know

all that?”

“Never mind,” said Holmes, laughing; “it is my business to know

things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others

overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?”

“I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege,

whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had

given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as

much for me. I’m not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in

my own right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and

I would give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel.”

“Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?” asked

Sherlock Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to

the ceiling.

Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss

Mary Sutherland. “Yes, I did bang out of the house,” she said,

“for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr.

Windibank—that is, my father—took it all. He would not go to

the police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he

would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done,

it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came right away

to you.”

“Your father,” said Holmes, “your stepfather, surely, since the

name is different.”

“Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny,

too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself.”

“And your mother is alive?”

“Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn’t best pleased, Mr.

Holmes, when she married again so soon after father’s death, and

a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father

was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy

business behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the

foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the

business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines.

They got �4700 for the goodwill and interest, which wasn’t

near as much as father could have got if he had been alive.”

I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this

rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he

had listened with the greatest concentration of attention.

“Your own little income,” he asked, “does it come out of the

business?”

“Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle

Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4� per

cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can

only touch the interest.”

“You interest me extremely,” said Holmes. “And since you draw so

large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the

bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in

every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely

upon an income of about �60.”

“I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you

understand that as long as I live at home I don’t wish to be a

burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while

I am staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the

time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and pays it

over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I

earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can

often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day.”

“You have made your position very clear to me,” said Holmes.

“This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as

freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your

connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel.”

A flush stole over Miss Sutherland’s face, and she picked

nervously at the fringe of her jacket. “I met him first at the

gasfitters’ ball,” she said. “They used to send father tickets

when he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and

sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He

never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I

wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this time I

was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to

prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all

father’s friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing

fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much

as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do,

he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went,

mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it

was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel.”

“I suppose,” said Holmes, “that when Mr. Windibank came back from

France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball.”

“Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and

shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying

anything to a woman, for she would have her way.”

“I see. Then at the gasfitters’ ball you met, as I understand, a

gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel.”

“Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if

we had got home all safe, and after that we met him—that is to

say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father

came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house

any more.”

“No?”

“Well, you know father didn’t like anything of the sort. He

wouldn’t have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to

say that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But

then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to

begin with, and I had not got mine yet.”

“But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see

you?”

“Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer

wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each

other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he

used to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so

there was no need for father to know.”

“Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that

we took. Hosmer—Mr. Angel—was a cashier in an office in

Leadenhall Street—and—”

“What office?”

“That’s the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don’t know.”

“Where did he live, then?”

“He slept on the premises.”

“And you don’t know his address?”

“No—except that it was Leadenhall Street.”

“Where did you address your letters, then?”

“To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called

for. He said that if they were sent to the office he would be

chaffed by all the other clerks about having letters from a lady,

so I offered to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn’t

have that, for he said that when I wrote them they seemed to come

from me, but when they were typewritten he always felt that the

machine had come between us. That will just show you how fond he

was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that he would think

of.”

“It was most suggestive,” said Holmes. “It has long been an axiom

of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.

Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?”

“He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me

in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to

be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his

voice was gentle. He’d had the quinsy and swollen glands when he

was young, he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat,

and a hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was always

well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just

as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare.”

“Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather,

returned to France?”

“Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we

should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest

and made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever

happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite

right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion.

Mother was all in his favour from the first and was even fonder

of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the

week, I began to ask about father; but they both said never to

mind about father, but just to tell him afterwards, and mother

said she would make it all right with him. I didn’t quite like

that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as

he was only a few years older than me; but I didn’t want to do

anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the

company has its French offices, but the letter came back to me on

the very morning of the wedding.”

“It missed him, then?”

“Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived.”

“Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for

the Friday. Was it to be in church?”

“Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour’s, near

King’s Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St.

Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were

two of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a

four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the

street. We got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler

drove up we waited for him to step out, but he never did, and

when the cabman got down from the box and looked there was no one

there! The cabman said that he could not imagine what had become

of him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was

last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything

since then to throw any light upon what became of him.”

“It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated,” said

Holmes.

“Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all

the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to

be true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to

separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him,

and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed

strange talk for a wedding-morning, but what has happened since

gives a meaning to it.”

“Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some

unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?”

“Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he

would not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw

happened.”

“But you have no notion as to what it could have been?”

“None.”

“One more question. How did your mother take the matter?”

“She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter

again.”

“And your father? Did you tell him?”

“Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had

happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said,

what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of

the church, and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my

money, or if he had married me and got my money settled on him,

there might be some reason, but Hosmer was very independent about

money and never would look at a shilling of mine. And yet, what

could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, it drives me

half-mad to think of it, and I can’t sleep a wink at night.” She

pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff and began to sob

heavily into it.

“I shall glance into the case for you,” said Holmes, rising, “and

I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the

weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind

dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel

vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life.”

“Then you don’t think I’ll see him again?”

“I fear not.”

“Then what has happened to him?”

“You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an

accurate description of him and any letters of his which you can

spare.”

“I advertised for him in last Saturday’s Chronicle,” said she.

“Here is the slip and here are four letters from him.”

“Thank you. And your address?”

“No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell.”

“Mr. Angel’s address you never had, I understand. Where is your

father’s place of business?”

“He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers

of Fenchurch Street.”

“Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will

leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given

you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it

to affect your life.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be

true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back.”

For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was

something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which

compelled our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon

the table and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever

she might be summoned.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips

still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him,

and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down

from the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a

counsellor, and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with

the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of

infinite languor in his face.

“Quite an interesting study, that maiden,” he observed. “I found

her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way,

is rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you

consult my index, in Andover in ’77, and there was something of

the sort at The Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however,

there were one or two details which were new to me. But the

maiden herself was most instructive.”

“You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite

invisible to me,” I remarked.

“Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to

look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring

you to realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of

thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace.

Now, what did you gather from that woman’s appearance? Describe

it.”

“Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a

feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads

sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her

dress was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little

purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and

were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn’t

observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a

general air of being fairly well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable,

easy-going way.”

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.

“ ’Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have

really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed

everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and

you have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general

impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My

first glance is always at a woman’s sleeve. In a man it is

perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you

observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most

useful material for showing traces. The double line a little

above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table,

was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand type,

leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side

of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the

broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and,

observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I

ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed

to surprise her.”

“It surprised me.”

“But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and

interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots

which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were

really odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and

the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower

buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and

fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly

dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned,

it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry.”

“And what else?” I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by

my friend’s incisive reasoning.

“I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving

home but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right

glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see

that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had

written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been

this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger.

All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back

to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised

description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?”

I held the little printed slip to the light.

“Missing,” it said, “on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman

named Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height;

strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in

the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted

glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen,

in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert

chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over

elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in

Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing—”

“That will do,” said Holmes. “As to the letters,” he continued,

glancing over them, “they are very commonplace. Absolutely no

clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There

is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike

you.”

“They are typewritten,” I remarked.

“Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the

neat little ‘Hosmer Angel’ at the bottom. There is a date, you

see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is

rather vague. The point about the signature is very suggestive—in

fact, we may call it conclusive.”

“Of what?”

“My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it

bears upon the case?”

“I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able

to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were

instituted.”

“No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters,

which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the

other is to the young lady’s stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking

him whether he could meet us here at six o’clock to-morrow

evening. It is just as well that we should do business with the

male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the

answers to those letters come, so we may put our little problem

upon the shelf for the interim.”

I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend’s subtle powers

of reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that

he must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy

demeanour with which he treated the singular mystery which he had

been called upon to fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in

the case of the King of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler

photograph; but when I looked back to the weird business of the

Sign of Four, and the extraordinary circumstances connected with

the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it would be a strange tangle

indeed which he could not unravel.

I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the

conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would

find that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up

to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary

Sutherland.

A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own

attention at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at

the bedside of the sufferer. It was not until close upon six

o’clock that I found myself free and was able to spring into a

hansom and drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too

late to assist at the d�nouement of the little mystery. I found

Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin

form curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable

array of bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly smell

of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent his day in the

chemical work which was so dear to him.

“Well, have you solved it?” I asked as I entered.

“Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta.”

“No, no, the mystery!” I cried.

“Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon.

There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said

yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback

is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel.”

“Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss

Sutherland?”

The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet

opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the

passage and a tap at the door.

“This is the girl’s stepfather, Mr. James Windibank,” said

Holmes. “He has written to me to say that he would be here at

six. Come in!”

The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some

thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a

bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and

penetrating grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of

us, placed his shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a

slight bow sidled down into the nearest chair.

“Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “I think that

this typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an

appointment with me for six o’clock?”

“Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not

quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland

has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far

better not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite

against my wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable,

impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not easily

controlled when she has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I

did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with the

official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family

misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless

expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?”

“On the contrary,” said Holmes quietly; “I have every reason to

believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel.”

Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. “I am

delighted to hear it,” he said.

“It is a curious thing,” remarked Holmes, “that a typewriter has

really quite as much individuality as a man’s handwriting. Unless

they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some

letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one

side. Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that

in every case there is some little slurring over of the ‘e,’ and

a slight defect in the tail of the ‘r.’ There are fourteen other

characteristics, but those are the more obvious.”

“We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office,

and no doubt it is a little worn,” our visitor answered, glancing

keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.

“And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study,

Mr. Windibank,” Holmes continued. “I think of writing another

little monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its

relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some

little attention. I have here four letters which purport to come

from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case, not

only are the ‘e’s’ slurred and the ‘r’s’ tailless, but you will

observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen

other characteristics to which I have alluded are there as well.”

Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. “I

cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,”

he said. “If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know

when you have done it.”

“Certainly,” said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in

the door. “I let you know, then, that I have caught him!”

“What! where?” shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips

and glancing about him like a rat in a trap.

“Oh, it won’t do—really it won’t,” said Holmes suavely. “There

is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too

transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that

it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That’s

right! Sit down and let us talk it over.”

Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a

glitter of moisture on his brow. “It—it’s not actionable,” he

stammered.

“I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves,

Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a

petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the

course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong.”

The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his

breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up

on the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands

in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed,

than to us.

“The man married a woman very much older than himself for her

money,” said he, “and he enjoyed the use of the money of the

daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a considerable

sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would have

made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it.

The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate

and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with

her fair personal advantages, and her little income, she would

not be allowed to remain single long. Now her marriage would

mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what does her

stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of

keeping her at home and forbidding her to seek the company of

people of her own age. But soon he found that that would not

answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her rights, and

finally announced her positive intention of going to a certain

ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives an

idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the

connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised himself,

covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with

a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice

into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the

girl’s short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off

other lovers by making love himself.”

“It was only a joke at first,” groaned our visitor. “We never

thought that she would have been so carried away.”

“Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very

decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that

her stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never

for an instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the

gentleman’s attentions, and the effect was increased by the

loudly expressed admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began

to call, for it was obvious that the matter should be pushed as

far as it would go if a real effect were to be produced. There

were meetings, and an engagement, which would finally secure the

girl’s affections from turning towards anyone else. But the

deception could not be kept up forever. These pretended journeys

to France were rather cumbrous. The thing to do was clearly to

bring the business to an end in such a dramatic manner that it

would leave a permanent impression upon the young lady’s mind and

prevent her from looking upon any other suitor for some time to

come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a Testament, and

hence also the allusions to a possibility of something happening

on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished Miss

Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as to

his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not

listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her,

and then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished

away by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a

four-wheeler and out at the other. I think that was the chain of

events, Mr. Windibank!”

Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes

had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold

sneer upon his pale face.

“It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but if you

are so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is

you who are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing

actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door

locked you lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal

constraint.”

“The law cannot, as you say, touch you,” said Holmes, unlocking

and throwing open the door, “yet there never was a man who

deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a

friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!”

he continued, flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon

the man’s face, “it is not part of my duties to my client, but

here’s a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat

myself to—” He took two swift steps to the whip, but before he

could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs,

the heavy hall door banged, and from the window we could see Mr.

James Windibank running at the top of his speed down the road.

“There’s a cold-blooded scoundrel!” said Holmes, laughing, as he

threw himself down into his chair once more. “That fellow will

rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and

ends on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not

entirely devoid of interest.”

“I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning,” I

remarked.

“Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr.

Hosmer Angel must have some strong object for his curious

conduct, and it was equally clear that the only man who really

profited by the incident, as far as we could see, was the

stepfather. Then the fact that the two men were never together,

but that the one always appeared when the other was away, was

suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious voice,

which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My

suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in

typewriting his signature, which, of course, inferred that his

handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognise even

the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts,

together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same

direction.”

“And how did you verify them?”

“Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I

knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed

description. I eliminated everything from it which could be the

result of a disguise—the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I

sent it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me

whether it answered to the description of any of their

travellers. I had already noticed the peculiarities of the

typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at his business

address asking him if he would come here. As I expected, his

reply was typewritten and revealed the same trivial but

characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from

Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the

description tallied in every respect with that of their employ�,

James Windibank. Voil� tout!”

“And Miss Sutherland?”

“If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old

Persian saying, ‘There is danger for him who taketh the tiger

cub, and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.’

There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much

knowledge of the world.”

ADVENTURE  II.  THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the

autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a

very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair.

With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when

Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door

behind me.

“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear

Watson,” he said cordially.

“I was afraid that you were engaged.”

“So I am. Very much so.”

“Then I can wait in the next room.”

“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and

helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no

doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of

greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small

fat-encircled eyes.

“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and

putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in

judicial moods. “I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love

of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum

routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by

the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you

will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own

little adventures.”

“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I

observed.

“You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we

went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary

Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary

combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more

daring than any effort of the imagination.”

“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”

“You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my

view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you

until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to

be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call

upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to

be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some

time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique

things are very often connected not with the larger but with the

smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for

doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I

have heard, it is impossible for me to say whether the present

case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is

certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to.

Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to

recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend

Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the

peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every

possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some

slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide

myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my

memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the

facts are, to the best of my belief, unique.”

The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some

little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the

inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the

advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper

flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and

endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the

indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.

I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor

bore every mark of being an average commonplace British

tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey

shepherd’s check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat,

unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy

Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as

an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a

wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether,

look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save

his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and

discontent upon his features.

Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook

his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances.

“Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual

labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has

been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of

writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.”

Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger

upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

“How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr.

Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did

manual labour. It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a ship’s

carpenter.”

“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger

than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more

developed.”

“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”

“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,

especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you

use an arc-and-compass breastpin.”

“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”

“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for

five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the

elbow where you rest it upon the desk?”

“Well, but China?”

“The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right

wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small

study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature

of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes’ scales of a

delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I

see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter

becomes even more simple.”

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I

thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see

that there was nothing in it after all.”

“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake

in explaining. ‘Omne ignotum pro magnifico,’ you know, and my

poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I

am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”

“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red finger

planted halfway down the column. “Here it is. This is what began

it all. You just read it for yourself, sir.”

I took the paper from him and read as follows:

“TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late

Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now

another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a

salary of �4 a week for purely nominal services. All

red-headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age

of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at

eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7

Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”

“What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated after I had twice

read over the extraordinary announcement.

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when

in high spirits. “It is a little off the beaten track, isn’t it?”

said he. “And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us

all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this

advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note,

Doctor, of the paper and the date.”

“It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months

ago.”

“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”

“Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock

Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; “I have a small

pawnbroker’s business at Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not a

very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than

just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants,

but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but

that he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn the

business.”

“What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a youth,

either. It’s hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter

assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better

himself and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after

all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?”

“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employ� who

comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience

among employers in this age. I don’t know that your assistant is

not as remarkable as your advertisement.”

“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “Never was such a

fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought

to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar

like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his

main fault, but on the whole he’s a good worker. There’s no vice

in him.”

“He is still with you, I presume?”

“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple

cooking and keeps the place clean—that’s all I have in the

house, for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very

quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads

and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.

“The first thing that put us out was that advertisement.

Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight

weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says:

“ ‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’

“ ‘Why that?’ I asks.

“ ‘Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another vacancy on the League of the

Red-headed Men. It’s worth quite a little fortune to any man who

gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than

there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits’ end what

to do with the money. If my hair would only change colour, here’s

a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.’

“ ‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a

very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of

my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting

my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn’t know much of what

was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.

“ ‘Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?’ he

asked with his eyes open.

“ ‘Never.’

“ ‘Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one

of the vacancies.’

“ ‘And what are they worth?’ I asked.

“ ‘Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight,

and it need not interfere very much with one’s other

occupations.’

“Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears,

for the business has not been over good for some years, and an

extra couple of hundred would have been very handy.

“ ‘Tell me all about it,’ said I.

“ ‘Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, ‘you can see for

yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address

where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out,

the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah

Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself

red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men;

so, when he died, it was found that he had left his enormous

fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the

interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of

that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to

do.’

“ ‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of red-headed men who

would apply.’

“ ‘Not so many as you might think,’ he answered. ‘You see it is

really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had

started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the

old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your

applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but

real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr.

Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be

worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a

few hundred pounds.’

“Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves,

that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed

to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter I

stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent

Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might

prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for

the day and to come right away with me. He was very willing to

have a holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for

the address that was given us in the advertisement.

“I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From

north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in

his hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement.

Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court

looked like a coster’s orange barrow. I should not have thought

there were so many in the whole country as were brought together

by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they

were—straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay;

but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real

vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I

would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear

of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and

pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up

to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream

upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back

dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found

ourselves in the office.”

“Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” remarked

Holmes as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge

pinch of snuff. “Pray continue your very interesting statement.”

“There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs

and a deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that

was even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate

as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in

them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem

to be such a very easy matter, after all. However, when our turn

came the little man was much more favourable to me than to any of

the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he

might have a private word with us.

“ ‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he is

willing to fill a vacancy in the League.’

“ ‘And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. ‘He has

every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so

fine.’ He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and

gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he

plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my

success.

“ ‘It would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘You will,

however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.’

With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I

yelled with the pain. ‘There is water in your eyes,’ said he as

he released me. ‘I perceive that all is as it should be. But we

have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and

once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler’s wax which

would disgust you with human nature.’ He stepped over to the

window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the

vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below,

and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there

was not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the

manager.

“ ‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of

the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are

you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?’

“I answered that I had not.

“His face fell immediately.

“ ‘Dear me!’ he said gravely, ‘that is very serious indeed! I am

sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the

propagation and spread of the red-heads as well as for their

maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a

bachelor.’

“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was

not to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for

a few minutes he said that it would be all right.

“ ‘In the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection might be

fatal, but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a

head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your

new duties?’

“ ‘Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,’

said I.

“ ‘Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vincent Spaulding.

‘I should be able to look after that for you.’

“ ‘What would be the hours?’ I asked.

“ ‘Ten to two.’

“Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr.

Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just

before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in

the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man,

and that he would see to anything that turned up.

“ ‘That would suit me very well,’ said I. ‘And the pay?’

“ ‘Is �4 a week.’

“ ‘And the work?’

“ ‘Is purely nominal.’

“ ‘What do you call purely nominal?’

“ ‘Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the

building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole

position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You

don’t comply with the conditions if you budge from the office

during that time.’

“ ‘It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,’

said I.

“ ‘No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross; ‘neither sickness

nor business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose

your billet.’

“ ‘And the work?’

“ ‘Is to copy out the Encyclopaedia Britannica. There is the first

volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and

blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be

ready to-morrow?’

“ ‘Certainly,’ I answered.

“ ‘Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you

once more on the important position which you have been fortunate

enough to gain.’ He bowed me out of the room and I went home with

my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased

at my own good fortune.

“Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in

low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the

whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its

object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past

belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay

such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the

Encyclopaedia Britannica. Vincent Spaulding did what he could to

cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the

whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to have a look

at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a

quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for

Pope’s Court.

“Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as

possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross

was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off

upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from

time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o’clock he

bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had

written, and locked the door of the office after me.

“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the

manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my

week’s work. It was the same next week, and the same the week

after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I

left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only

once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in at

all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an

instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet

was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk

the loss of it.

“Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about

Abbots and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and

hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B’s before very

long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly

filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole

business came to an end.”

“To an end?”

“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as

usual at ten o’clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a

little square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the

panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself.”

He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet

of note-paper. It read in this fashion:

THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

IS

DISSOLVED.

October 9, 1890.

Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the

rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so

completely overtopped every other consideration that we both

burst out into a roar of laughter.

“I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our

client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. “If you can

do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.”

“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from

which he had half risen. “I really wouldn’t miss your case for

the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you

will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it.

Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the

door?”

“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called

at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything

about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant

living on the ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me

what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he had

never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan

Ross was. He answered that the name was new to him.

“ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’

“ ‘What, the red-headed man?’

“ ‘Yes.’

“ ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor

and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new

premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.’

“ ‘Where could I find him?’

“ ‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17

King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’

“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was

a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever

heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.”

“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.

“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my

assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say

that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite

good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place

without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough

to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right

away to you.”

“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an

exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it.

From what you have told me I think that it is possible that

graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear.”

“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four

pound a week.”

“As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I do

not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary

league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some

�30, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have

gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have

lost nothing by them.”

“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are,

and what their object was in playing this prank—if it was a

prank—upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it

cost them two and thirty pounds.”

“We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first,

one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who

first called your attention to the advertisement—how long had he

been with you?”

“About a month then.”

“How did he come?”

“In answer to an advertisement.”

“Was he the only applicant?”

“No, I had a dozen.”

“Why did you pick him?”

“Because he was handy and would come cheap.”

“At half wages, in fact.”

“Yes.”

“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”

“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,

though he’s not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon

his forehead.”

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought

as much,” said he. “Have you ever observed that his ears are

pierced for earrings?”

“Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he

was a lad.”

“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still

with you?”

“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”

“And has your business been attended to in your absence?”

“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of a

morning.”

“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an

opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is

Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.”

“Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had left us, “what

do you make of it all?”

“I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly. “It is a most

mysterious business.”

“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less

mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless

crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is

the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this

matter.”

“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.

“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I

beg that you won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled

himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his

hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his

black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird.

I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and

indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his

chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put

his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

“Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he

remarked. “What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare

you for a few hours?”

“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very

absorbing.”

“Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City

first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that

there is a good deal of German music on the programme, which is

rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is

introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!”

We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short

walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular

story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky,

little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy

two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in

enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded

laurel bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and

uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with

“JABEZ WILSON” in white letters, upon a corner house, announced

the place where our red-headed client carried on his business.

Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side

and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between

puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down

again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally

he returned to the pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped vigorously

upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up

to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a

bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step

in.

“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would

go from here to the Strand.”

“Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly,

closing the door.

“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He is,

in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring

I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known

something of him before.”

“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good

deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you

inquired your way merely in order that you might see him.”

“Not him.”

“What then?”

“The knees of his trousers.”

“And what did you see?”

“What I expected to see.”

“Why did you beat the pavement?”

“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We

are spies in an enemy’s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg

Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it.”

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the

corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a

contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was

one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City

to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense

stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward,

while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of

pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we looked at the line

of fine shops and stately business premises that they really

abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square

which we had just quitted.

“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing

along the line, “I should like just to remember the order of the

houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of

London. There is Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little

newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank,

the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane’s carriage-building

depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now,

Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had some play. A

sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where

all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no

red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.”

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a

very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All

the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect

happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the

music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes

were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the

relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was

possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature

alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and

astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction

against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally

predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from

extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was

never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been

lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his

black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase

would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning

power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were

unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on a

man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him

that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. James’s Hall I

felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set

himself to hunt down.

“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked as we

emerged.

“Yes, it would be as well.”

“And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This

business at Coburg Square is serious.”

“Why serious?”

“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to

believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being

Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help

to-night.”

“At what time?”

“Ten will be early enough.”

“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”

“Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger,

so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket.” He waved his

hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the

crowd.

I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was

always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings

with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had

seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that

he saw clearly not only what had happened but what was about to

happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and

grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought

over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed

copier of the Encyclopaedia down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg

Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me.

What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed?

Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from

Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a

formidable man—a man who might play a deep game. I tried to

puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter aside

until night should bring an explanation.

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my

way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker

Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered

the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering

his room, I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men,

one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the official police

agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a

very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.

“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his

pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack.

“Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me

introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in

to-night’s adventure.”

“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones in

his consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for

starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do

the running down.”

“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,”

observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said

the police agent loftily. “He has his own little methods, which

are, if he won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical

and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It

is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of

the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly

correct than the official force.”

“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the

stranger with deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber.

It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I

have not had my rubber.”

“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will

play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and

that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather,

the stake will be some �30,000; and for you, Jones, it will

be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands.”

“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a

young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his

profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on

any criminal in London. He’s a remarkable man, is young John

Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been

to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and

though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to

find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one week,

and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.

I’ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him

yet.”

“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night.

I’ve had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I

agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is

past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two

will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the

second.”

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive

and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in

the afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit

streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.

“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow

Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the

matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is

not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession.

He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as

tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we

are, and they are waiting for us.”

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had

found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and,

following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a

narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us.

Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive

iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding

stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr.

Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us

down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a

third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all

round with crates and massive boxes.

“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as he

held up the lantern and gazed about him.

“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon

the flags which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite

hollow!” he remarked, looking up in surprise.

“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes

severely. “You have already imperilled the whole success of our

expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit

down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?”

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a

very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his

knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens,

began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few

seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again

and put his glass in his pocket.

“We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “for they can

hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed.

Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their

work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at

present, Doctor—as no doubt you have divined—in the cellar of

the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr.

Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to

you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of

London should take a considerable interest in this cellar at

present.”

“It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had

several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it.”

“Your French gold?”

“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources

and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of

France. It has become known that we have never had occasion to

unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The

crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between

layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at

present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the

directors have had misgivings upon the subject.”

“Which were very well justified,” observed Holmes. “And now it is

time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an

hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr.

Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern.”

“And sit in the dark?”

“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and

I thought that, as we were a partie carr�e, you might have your

rubber after all. But I see that the enemy’s preparations have

gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And,

first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men,

and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us

some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate,

and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a

light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no

compunction about shooting them down.”

I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case

behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front

of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness—such an absolute

darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot

metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready

to flash out at a moment’s notice. To me, with my nerves worked

up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and

subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the

vault.

“They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back

through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have

done what I asked you, Jones?”

“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”

“Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent

and wait.”

What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but

an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must

have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs

were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my

nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my

hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle

breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper,

heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note

of the bank director. From my position I could look over the case

in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint

of a light.

At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then

it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then,

without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand

appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the

centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the

hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then

it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark

again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between

the stones.

Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending,

tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon

its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed

the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut,

boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand

on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and

waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another

instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after

him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face

and a shock of very red hair.

“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the

bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!”

Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the

collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of

rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed

upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes’ hunting crop came

down on the man’s wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone

floor.

“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly. “You have no

chance at all.”

“So I see,” the other answered with the utmost coolness. “I fancy

that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his

coat-tails.”

“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes.

“Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I

must compliment you.”

“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new

and effective.”

“You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker

at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the

derbies.”

“I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,”

remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists.

“You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have

the goodness, also, when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and

‘please.’ ”

“All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would

you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry

your Highness to the police-station?”

“That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow

to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the

detective.

“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them

from the cellar, “I do not know how the bank can thank you or

repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated

in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts

at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience.”

“I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr.

John Clay,” said Holmes. “I have been at some small expense over

this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond

that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in

many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of

the Red-headed League.”

“You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning

as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it

was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible

object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of

the League, and the copying of the Encyclopaedia, must be to get

this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of

hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but,

really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was

no doubt suggested to Clay’s ingenious mind by the colour of his

accomplice’s hair. The �4 a week was a lure which must draw

him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands?

They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary

office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and

together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the

week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for

half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive

for securing the situation.”

“But how could you guess what the motive was?”

“Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a

mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The

man’s business was a small one, and there was nothing in his

house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and

such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something

out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant’s

fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the

cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then

I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I

had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in

London. He was doing something in the cellar—something which

took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once

more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel

to some other building.

“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I

surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was

ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind.

It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the

assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had

never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his

face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have

remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of

those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they

were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and

Suburban Bank abutted on our friend’s premises, and felt that I

had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I

called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank

directors, with the result that you have seen.”

“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt

to-night?” I asked.

“Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that

they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence—in other

words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential

that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the

bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than

any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape.

For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night.”

“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in unfeigned

admiration. “It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings

true.”

“It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I already

feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort

to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little

problems help me to do so.”

“And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of

some little use,” he remarked. “ ‘L’homme c’est rien—l’oeuvre

c’est tout,’ as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand.”

ADVENTURE  I.  A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA

I.

To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard

him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses

and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt

any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that

one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but

admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect

reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a

lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never

spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They

were admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the

veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner

to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely

adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which

might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a

sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power

lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a

nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and

that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable

memory.

I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us

away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the

home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first

finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to

absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of

society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in

Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from

week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the

drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still,

as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his

immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in

following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which

had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time

to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons

to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up

of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee,

and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so

delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland.

Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely

shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of

my former friend and companion.

One night—it was on the twentieth of March, 1888—I was

returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to

civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I

passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated

in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the

Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes

again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers.

His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw

his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against

the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head

sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who

knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their

own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his

drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new

problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which

had formerly been in part my own.

His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I

think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly

eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars,

and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he

stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular

introspective fashion.

“Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you have

put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.”

“Seven!” I answered.

“Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more,

I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not

tell me that you intended to go into harness.”

“Then, how do you know?”

“I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting

yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and

careless servant girl?”

“My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You would certainly

have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true

that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful

mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can’t imagine how you

deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has

given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it

out.”

He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands

together.

“It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my eyes tell me that on the

inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it,

the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they

have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round

the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it.

Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile

weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting

specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a

gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black

mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge

on the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted

his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce

him to be an active member of the medical profession.”

I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his

process of deduction. “When I hear you give your reasons,” I

remarked, “the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously

simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each

successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you

explain your process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good

as yours.”

“Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing

himself down into an armchair. “You see, but you do not observe.

The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen

the steps which lead up from the hall to this room.”

“Frequently.”

“How often?”

“Well, some hundreds of times.”

“Then how many are there?”

“How many? I don’t know.”

“Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is

just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps,

because I have both seen and observed. By the way, since you are

interested in these little problems, and since you are good

enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you

may be interested in this.” He threw over a sheet of thick,

pink-tinted notepaper which had been lying open upon the table.

“It came by the last post,” said he. “Read it aloud.”

The note was undated, and without either signature or address.

“There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight

o’clock,” it said, “a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a

matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of

the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may

safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance which

can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from all

quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that hour, and do

not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask.”

“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine that

it means?”

“I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before

one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit

theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself.

What do you deduce from it?”

I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was

written.

“The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked,

endeavouring to imitate my companion’s processes. “Such paper

could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly

strong and stiff.”

“Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an

English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.”

I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a

large “G” with a small “t” woven into the texture of the paper.

“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.

“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”

“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for

‘Gesellschaft,’ which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a

customary contraction like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for

‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let us glance at our Continental

Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves.

“Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking

country—in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable as being

the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous

glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you

make of that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue

triumphant cloud from his cigarette.

“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.

“Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you

note the peculiar construction of the sentence—‘This account of

you we have from all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian

could not have written that. It is the German who is so

uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover

what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and

prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if

I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.”

As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and

grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the

bell. Holmes whistled.

“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing

out of the window. “A nice little brougham and a pair of

beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in

this case, Watson, if there is nothing else.”

“I think that I had better go, Holmes.”

“Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my

Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity

to miss it.”

“But your client—”

“Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he

comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best

attention.”

A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and

in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there

was a loud and authoritative tap.

“Come in!” said Holmes.

A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six

inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His

dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked

upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed

across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while

the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined

with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch

which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended

halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with

rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence

which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a

broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper

part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black

vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment,

for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower

part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character,

with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive

of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.

“You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a

strongly marked German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He

looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to

address.

“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and

colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me

in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?”

“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman.

I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour

and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most

extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate

with you alone.”

I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me

back into my chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say

before this gentleman anything which you may say to me.”

The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,” said

he, “by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at

the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At

present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it

may have an influence upon European history.”

“I promise,” said Holmes.

“And I.”

“You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “The

august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to

you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have

just called myself is not exactly my own.”

“I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly.

“The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution

has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense

scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of

Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House

of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia.”

“I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself

down in his armchair and closing his eyes.

Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid,

lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him

as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe.

Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his

gigantic client.

“If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he

remarked, “I should be better able to advise you.”

The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in

uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he

tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. “You

are right,” he cried; “I am the King. Why should I attempt to

conceal it?”

“Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken

before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich

Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and

hereditary King of Bohemia.”

“But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting down

once more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, “you

can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in

my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not

confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I

have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting

you.”

“Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.

“The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a

lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known

adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.”

“Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes without

opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of

docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it

was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not

at once furnish information. In this case I found her biography

sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a

staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea

fishes.

“Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year

1858. Contralto—hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera

of Warsaw—yes! Retired from operatic stage—ha! Living in

London—quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled

with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and

is now desirous of getting those letters back.”

“Precisely so. But how—”

“Was there a secret marriage?”

“None.”

“No legal papers or certificates?”

“None.”

“Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should

produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is

she to prove their authenticity?”

“There is the writing.”

“Pooh, pooh! Forgery.”

“My private note-paper.”

“Stolen.”

“My own seal.”

“Imitated.”

“My photograph.”

“Bought.”

“We were both in the photograph.”

“Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an

indiscretion.”

“I was mad—insane.”

“You have compromised yourself seriously.”

“I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now.”

“It must be recovered.”

“We have tried and failed.”

“Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.”

“She will not sell.”

“Stolen, then.”

“Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked

her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice

she has been waylaid. There has been no result.”

“No sign of it?”

“Absolutely none.”

Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” said he.

“But a very serious one to me,” returned the King reproachfully.

“Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the

photograph?”

“To ruin me.”

“But how?”

“I am about to be married.”

“So I have heard.”

“To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the

King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her

family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a

doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end.”

“And Irene Adler?”

“Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I

know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul

of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and

the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry

another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not

go—none.”

“You are sure that she has not sent it yet?”

“I am sure.”

“And why?”

“Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the

betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday.”

“Oh, then we have three days yet,” said Holmes with a yawn. “That

is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to

look into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in

London for the present?”

“Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the

Count Von Kramm.”

“Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress.”

“Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.”

“Then, as to money?”

“You have carte blanche.”

“Absolutely?”

“I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom

to have that photograph.”

“And for present expenses?”

The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak

and laid it on the table.

“There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in

notes,” he said.

Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and

handed it to him.

“And Mademoiselle’s address?” he asked.

“Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”

Holmes took a note of it. “One other question,” said he. “Was the

photograph a cabinet?”

“It was.”

“Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon

have some good news for you. And good-night, Watson,” he added,

as the wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. “If

you will be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three

o’clock I should like to chat this little matter over with you.”

II.

At three o’clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had

not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the

house shortly after eight o’clock in the morning. I sat down

beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him,

however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in his

inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and

strange features which were associated with the two crimes which

I have already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the

exalted station of his client gave it a character of its own.

Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my

friend had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of

a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a

pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the

quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most

inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable

success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to

enter into my head.

It was close upon four before the door opened, and a

drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an

inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room.

Accustomed as I was to my friend’s amazing powers in the use of

disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it

was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence he

emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old.

Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in

front of the fire and laughed heartily for some minutes.

“Well, really!” he cried, and then he choked and laughed again

until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the

chair.

“What is it?”

“It’s quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I

employed my morning, or what I ended by doing.”

“I can’t imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the

habits, and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler.”

“Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you,

however. I left the house a little after eight o’clock this

morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a

wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of

them, and you will know all that there is to know. I soon found

Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but

built out in front right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock

to the door. Large sitting-room on the right side, well

furnished, with long windows almost to the floor, and those

preposterous English window fasteners which a child could open.

Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window

could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round

it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without

noting anything else of interest.

“I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that

there was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the

garden. I lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses,

and received in exchange twopence, a glass of half-and-half, two

fills of shag tobacco, and as much information as I could desire

about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people in

the neighbourhood in whom I was not in the least interested, but

whose biographies I was compelled to listen to.”

“And what of Irene Adler?” I asked.

“Oh, she has turned all the men’s heads down in that part. She is

the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the

Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts,

drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for

dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings.

Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark,

handsome, and dashing, never calls less than once a day, and

often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See

the advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven him

home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him.

When I had listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk up

and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan

of campaign.

“This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the

matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the

relation between them, and what the object of his repeated

visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the

former, she had probably transferred the photograph to his

keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this

question depended whether I should continue my work at Briony

Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman’s chambers in the

Temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened the field of my

inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to

let you see my little difficulties, if you are to understand the

situation.”

“I am following you closely,” I answered.

“I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab

drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a

remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached—evidently

the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a

great hurry, shouted to the cabman to wait, and brushed past the

maid who opened the door with the air of a man who was thoroughly

at home.

“He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch

glimpses of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and

down, talking excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see

nothing. Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than

before. As he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from

his pocket and looked at it earnestly, ‘Drive like the devil,’ he

shouted, ‘first to Gross & Hankey’s in Regent Street, and then to

the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if

you do it in twenty minutes!’

“Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do

well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau,

the coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under

his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of

the buckles. It hadn’t pulled up before she shot out of the hall

door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment,

but she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for.

“ ‘The Church of St. Monica, John,’ she cried, ‘and half a

sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’

“This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing

whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her

landau when a cab came through the street. The driver looked

twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could

object. ‘The Church of St. Monica,’ said I, ‘and half a sovereign

if you reach it in twenty minutes.’ It was twenty-five minutes to

twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in the wind.

“My cabby drove fast. I don’t think I ever drove faster, but the

others were there before us. The cab and the landau with their

steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid

the man and hurried into the church. There was not a soul there

save the two whom I had followed and a surpliced clergyman, who

seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all three

standing in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side

aisle like any other idler who has dropped into a church.

Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the altar faced round to

me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could towards

me.

“ ‘Thank God,’ he cried. ‘You’ll do. Come! Come!’

“ ‘What then?’ I asked.

“ ‘Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won’t be legal.’

“I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was

I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear,

and vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally

assisting in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to

Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and

there was the gentleman thanking me on the one side and the lady

on the other, while the clergyman beamed on me in front. It was

the most preposterous position in which I ever found myself in my

life, and it was the thought of it that started me laughing just

now. It seems that there had been some informality about their

license, that the clergyman absolutely refused to marry them

without a witness of some sort, and that my lucky appearance

saved the bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets in

search of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean

to wear it on my watch chain in memory of the occasion.”

“This is a very unexpected turn of affairs,” said I; “and what

then?”

“Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if

the pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate

very prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church

door, however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and

she to her own house. ‘I shall drive out in the park at five as

usual,’ she said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove

away in different directions, and I went off to make my own

arrangements.”

“Which are?”

“Some cold beef and a glass of beer,” he answered, ringing the

bell. “I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to

be busier still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want

your co-operation.”

“I shall be delighted.”

“You don’t mind breaking the law?”

“Not in the least.”

“Nor running a chance of arrest?”

“Not in a good cause.”

“Oh, the cause is excellent!”

“Then I am your man.”

“I was sure that I might rely on you.”

“But what is it you wish?”

“When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to

you. Now,” he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that

our landlady had provided, “I must discuss it while I eat, for I

have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must

be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns

from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her.”

“And what then?”

“You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to

occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You must

not interfere, come what may. You understand?”

“I am to be neutral?”

“To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small

unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being

conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the

sitting-room window will open. You are to station yourself close

to that open window.”

“Yes.”

“You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you.”

“Yes.”

“And when I raise my hand—so—you will throw into the room what

I give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of

fire. You quite follow me?”

“Entirely.”

“It is nothing very formidable,” he said, taking a long cigar-shaped

roll from his pocket. “It is an ordinary plumber’s smoke-rocket,

fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting.

Your task is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire,

it will be taken up by quite a number of people. You may then

walk to the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in ten

minutes. I hope that I have made myself clear?”

“I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you,

and at the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry

of fire, and to wait you at the corner of the street.”

“Precisely.”

“Then you may entirely rely on me.”

“That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I

prepare for the new role I have to play.”

He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in

the character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist

clergyman. His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white

tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and

benevolent curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have

equalled. It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His

expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every

fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as

science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in

crime.

It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still

wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in

Serpentine Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just

being lighted as we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge,

waiting for the coming of its occupant. The house was just such

as I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes’ succinct description,

but the locality appeared to be less private than I expected. On

the contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was

remarkably animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed men

smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors-grinder with his

wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a nurse-girl, and

several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down with

cigars in their mouths.

“You see,” remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of

the house, “this marriage rather simplifies matters. The

photograph becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are

that she would be as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey

Norton, as our client is to its coming to the eyes of his

princess. Now the question is, Where are we to find the

photograph?”

“Where, indeed?”

“It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is

cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman’s

dress. She knows that the King is capable of having her waylaid

and searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We

may take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her.”

“Where, then?”

“Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But

I am inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive,

and they like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it

over to anyone else? She could trust her own guardianship, but

she could not tell what indirect or political influence might be

brought to bear upon a business man. Besides, remember that she

had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be where she

can lay her hands upon it. It must be in her own house.”

“But it has twice been burgled.”

“Pshaw! They did not know how to look.”

“But how will you look?”

“I will not look.”

“What then?”

“I will get her to show me.”

“But she will refuse.”

“She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is

her carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter.”

As he spoke the gleam of the sidelights of a carriage came round

the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which

rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of

the loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in

the hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another

loafer, who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce

quarrel broke out, which was increased by the two guardsmen, who

took sides with one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder,

who was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was struck, and

in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was

the centre of a little knot of flushed and struggling men, who

struck savagely at each other with their fists and sticks. Holmes

dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but, just as he reached

her, he gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood

running freely down his face. At his fall the guardsmen took to

their heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while

a number of better dressed people, who had watched the scuffle

without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady and to

attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her,

had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her

superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking

back into the street.

“Is the poor gentleman much hurt?” she asked.

“He is dead,” cried several voices.

“No, no, there’s life in him!” shouted another. “But he’ll be

gone before you can get him to hospital.”

“He’s a brave fellow,” said a woman. “They would have had the

lady’s purse and watch if it hadn’t been for him. They were a

gang, and a rough one, too. Ah, he’s breathing now.”

“He can’t lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?”

“Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable

sofa. This way, please!”

Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out

in the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings

from my post by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the

blinds had not been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay

upon the couch. I do not know whether he was seized with

compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I

know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life

than when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I was

conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which she waited

upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery

to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had intrusted

to me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under

my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are

but preventing her from injuring another.

Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man

who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the

window. At the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the

signal I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of “Fire!” The

word was no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of

spectators, well dressed and ill—gentlemen, ostlers, and

servant maids—joined in a general shriek of “Fire!” Thick clouds

of smoke curled through the room and out at the open window. I

caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later the voice

of Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false alarm.

Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way to the corner

of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my

friend’s arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar.

He walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we

had turned down one of the quiet streets which lead towards the

Edgeware Road.

“You did it very nicely, Doctor,” he remarked. “Nothing could

have been better. It is all right.”

“You have the photograph?”

“I know where it is.”

“And how did you find out?”

“She showed me, as I told you she would.”

“I am still in the dark.”

“I do not wish to make a mystery,” said he, laughing. “The matter

was perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the

street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening.”

“I guessed as much.”

“Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in

the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand

to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick.”

“That also I could fathom.”

“Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else

could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room

which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was

determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for

air, they were compelled to open the window, and you had your

chance.”

“How did that help you?”

“It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on

fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she

values most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have

more than once taken advantage of it. In the case of the

Darlington Substitution Scandal it was of use to me, and also in

the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby;

an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to

me that our lady of to-day had nothing in the house more precious

to her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to secure it.

The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting were

enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The

photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the

right bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a

glimpse of it as she half drew it out. When I cried out that it

was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed

from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose, and, making

my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether to

attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had

come in, and as he was watching me narrowly, it seemed safer to

wait. A little over-precipitance may ruin all.”

“And now?” I asked.

“Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King

to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be

shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is

probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the

photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain

it with his own hands.”

“And when will you call?”

“At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall

have a clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage

may mean a complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to

the King without delay.”

We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was

searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:

“Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes.”

There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the

greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had

hurried by.

“I’ve heard that voice before,” said Holmes, staring down the

dimly lit street. “Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have

been.”

III.

I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our

toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed

into the room.

“You have really got it!” he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by

either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.

“Not yet.”

“But you have hopes?”

“I have hopes.”

“Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone.”

“We must have a cab.”

“No, my brougham is waiting.”

“Then that will simplify matters.” We descended and started off

once more for Briony Lodge.

“Irene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes.

“Married! When?”

“Yesterday.”

“But to whom?”

“To an English lawyer named Norton.”

“But she could not love him.”

“I am in hopes that she does.”

“And why in hopes?”

“Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future

annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your

Majesty. If she does not love your Majesty, there is no reason

why she should interfere with your Majesty’s plan.”

“It is true. And yet—! Well! I wish she had been of my own

station! What a queen she would have made!” He relapsed into a

moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up in

Serpentine Avenue.

The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood

upon the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped

from the brougham.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she.

“I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion, looking at her with a

questioning and rather startled gaze.

“Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She

left this morning with her husband by the 5:15 train from Charing

Cross for the Continent.”

“What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and

surprise. “Do you mean that she has left England?”

“Never to return.”

“And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely. “All is lost.”

“We shall see.” He pushed past the servant and rushed into the

drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was

scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and

open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before

her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small

sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a

photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler

herself in evening dress, the letter was superscribed to

“Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for.” My friend

tore it open, and we all three read it together. It was dated at

midnight of the preceding night and ran in this way:

“MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—You really did it very well. You

took me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a

suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I

began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had

been told that, if the King employed an agent, it would certainly

be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this,

you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became

suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind

old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress

myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage

of the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to

watch you, ran upstairs, got into my walking clothes, as I call

them, and came down just as you departed.

“Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was

really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock

Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and

started for the Temple to see my husband.

“We both thought the

best resource was flight, when pursued by so formidable an

antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you call

to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I

love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what

he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I

keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which

will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the

future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and

I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

“Very truly yours,            

“IRENE NORTON, n�e ADLER.”

“What a woman—oh, what a woman!” cried the King of Bohemia, when

we had all three read this epistle. “Did I not tell you how quick

and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen?

Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?”

“From what I have seen of the lady, she seems, indeed, to be on a

very different level to your Majesty,” said Holmes coldly. “I am

sorry that I have not been able to bring your Majesty’s business

to a more successful conclusion.”

“On the contrary, my dear sir,” cried the King; “nothing could be

more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The

photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire.”

“I am glad to hear your Majesty say so.”

“I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can

reward you. This ring—” He slipped an emerald snake ring from

his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.

“Your Majesty has something which I should value even more

highly,” said Holmes.

“You have but to name it.”

“This photograph!”

The King stared at him in amazement.

“Irene’s photograph!” he cried. “Certainly, if you wish it.”

“I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the

matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good morning.” He

bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the

King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his

chambers.

And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom

of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were

beaten by a woman’s wit. He used to make merry over the

cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And

when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her

photograph, it is always under the honourable title of the woman.