
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES by ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

[obi/Doyle/Return]
This text is in the Public Domain.

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

             The Adventure of the Empty House

  It was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was
interested, and the fashionable world dismayed. by the murder of
the Honourable Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplica-
ble circumstances. The public has already learned those particu-
lars of the crime which came out in the po]ice investigation, but
a good deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since the case
for the prosecution was so overwhelmingly strong that it was not
necessary to bring forward all the facts. Only now, at the end of
nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those missing links
which make up the whole of that remarkable chain. The crime
was of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to me
compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the
greatest shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life.
Even now, after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as I
think of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy,
amazement, and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind.
Let me say to that public, which has shown some interest in
those glimpses which I have occasionally given them of the
thoughts and actions of a very remarkable man, that they are not
to blame me if I have not shared my knowledge with them, for I
should have considered it my first duty to do so, had I not been
barred by a positive prohibition from his own lips, which was
only withdrawn upon the third of last month.

  It can be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock
Holmes had interested me deeply in crime, and that after his
disappearance I never failed to read with care the various prob-
lems which came before the public. And I even attempted, more
than once, for my own private satisfaction, to employ his meth-
ods in their solution, though with indifferent success. There was
none, however, which appealed to me like this tragedy of Ronald
Adair. As I read the evidence at the inquest, which led up to a
verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons un-
known, I realized more clearly than I had ever done the loss
which the community had sustained by the death of Sherlock
Holmes. There were points about this strange business which
would, I was sure, have specially appealed to him, and the
efforts of the police would have been supplemented, or more
probably anticipated. by the trained observation and the alert
mind of the first criminal agent in Europe. All day. as I drove
upon my round, I turned over the case in my mind and found no
explanation which appeared to me to be adequate. At the risk of
telling a twice-told tale. I will recapitulate the facts as they were
known to the public at the conclusion of the inquest.

  The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl
of Maynooth, at that time governor of one of the Australian
colonies. Adair's mother had returned from Australia to undergo
the operation for cataract, and she, her son Ronald, and her
daughter Hilda were living together at 427 Park Lane. The youth
moved in the best society -- had, so far as was known, no ene-
mies and no particular vices. He had been engaged to Miss Edith
Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement had been broken off
by mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign
that it had left any very profound feeling behind it. For the rest
of the man's life moved in a narrow and conventional circle, for
his habits were quiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it was
upon this easy-going young aristocrat that death came, in most
strange and unexpected form, between the hours of ten and
eleven-twenty on the night of March 30, 1894.

  Ronald Adair was fond of cards -- playing continually, but
never for such stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of
the Baldwin, the Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was
shown that, after dinner on the day of his death, he had played a
rubber of whist at the latter club. He had also played there in the
afternoon. The evidence of those who had played with him -- Mr.
Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran -- showed that the
game was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of the
cards. Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more. His
fortune was a considerable one, and such a loss could not in any
way affect him. He had played nearly every day at one club or
other, but he was a cautious player, and usually rose a winner. It
came out in evidence that, in partnership with Colonel Moran, he
had actually won as much as four hundred and twenty pounds in
a sitting, some weeks before, from Godfrey Milner and Lord
Balmoral. So much for his recent history as it came out at the
inquest.

  On the evening of the crime, he returned from the club exactly
at ten. His mother and sister were out spending the evening with
a relation. The servant deposed that she heard him enter the front
room on the second floor, generally used as his sitting-room. She
had lit a fire there, and as it smoked she had opened the window.
No sound was heard from the room until eleven-twenty, the hour
of the return of Lady Maynooth and her daughter. Desiring to
say good-night, she attempted to enter her son's room. The door
was locked on the inside, and no answer could be got to their
cries and knocking. Help was obtained, and the door forced. The
unfortunate young man was found lying near the table. His head
had been horribly mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet, but
no weapon of any sort was to be found in the room. On the table
lay two banknotes for ten pounds each and seventeen pounds ten
in silver and gold, the money arranged in little piles of varying
amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet of paper,
with the names of some club friends opposite to them, from
which it was conjectured that before his death he was endeav-
ouring to make out his losses or winnings at cards.

  A minute examination of the circumstances served only to
make the case more complex. In the first place, no reason could
be given why the young man should have fastened the door upon
the inside. There was the possibility that the murderer had done
this, and had afterwards escaped by the window. The drop was
at least twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses in full
bloom lay beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any
sign of having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon
the narrow strip of grass which separated the house from the
road. Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who
had fastened the door. But how did he come by his death? No
one could have climbed up to the window without leaving traces.
Suppose a man had fired through the window, he would indeed
be a remarkable shot who could with a revolver inflict so deadly
a wound. Again, Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare; there is
a cab stand within a hundred yards of the house. No one had
heard a shot. And yet there was the dead man, and there the
revolver bullet, which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bul-
lets will, and so inflicted a wound which must have caused
instantaneous death. Such were the circumstances of the Park
Lane Mystery, which were further complicated by entire absence
of motive, since, as I have said, young Adair was not known to
have any enemy, and no attempt had been made to remove the
money or valuables in the room.

  All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to
hit some theory which could reconcile them all, and to find that
line of least resistance which my poor friend had declared to be
the starting-point of every investigation. I confess that I made
little progress. In the evening I strolled across the Park, and
found myself about six o'clock at the Oxford Street end of Park
Lane. A group of loafers upon the pavements, all staring up at a
particular window, directed me to the house which I had come to
see. A tall, thin man with coloured glasses, whom I strongly
suspected of being a plain-clothes detective, was pointing out
some theory of his own, while the others crowded round to listen
to what he said. I got as near him as I could, but his observations
seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again in some disgust.
As I did so I struck against an elderly, deformed man, who had
been behind me, and I knocked down several books which he
was carrying. I remember that as I picked them up, I observed
the title of one of them, The Origin of Tree Worship, and it
struck me that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile, who,
either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure
volumes. I endeavoured to apologize for the accident, but it was
evident that these books which I had so unfortunately maltreated
were very precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a
snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved
back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.

  My observations of No. 427 Park Lane did little to clear up the
problem in which I was interested. The house was separated
from the street by a low wall and railing, the whole not more
than five feet high. It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone
to get into the garden, but the window was entirely inaccessible,
since there was no waterpipe or anything which could help the
most active man to climb it. More puzzled than ever, I retraced
my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study five minutes
when the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me. To
my astonishment it was none other than my strange old book
collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame of
white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least,
wedged under his right arm.

  "You're surprised to see me, sir," said he, in a strange,
croaking voice.

  I acknowledged that I was.

  "Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you
go into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to
myself, I'll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him
that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm
meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my
books."

  "You make too much of a trifle," said I. "May I ask how
you knew who I was?"

  "Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of
yours, for you'll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church
Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect
yourself, sir. Here's British Birds, and Catullus, and The Holy
War -- a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you
could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy, does
it not, sir?"

  I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I
turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across
my study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds
in utter amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted
for the first and the last time in my life. Certainly a gray mist
swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-
ends undone and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips.
Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.

  "My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe
you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so
affected."

  I gripped him by the arms.

  "Holmes!" I cried. "Is it really you? Can it indeed be that
you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out
of that awful abyss?"

  "Wait a moment," said he. "Are you sure that you are really
fit to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my
unnecessarily dramatic reappearance."

  "I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my
eyes. Good heavens! to think that you -- you of all men -- should
be standing in my study." Again I gripped him by the sleeve,
and felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it. "Well, you're not a
spirit, anyhow," said I. "My dear chap, I'm overjoyed to see
you. Sit down, and tell me how you came alive out of that
dreadful chasm."

  He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalant
manner. He was dressed in the seedy frockcoat of the book
merchant, but the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white
hair and old books upon the table. Holmes looked even thinner
and keener than of old, but there was a dead-white tinge in his
aquiline face which told me that his life recently had not been a
healthy one.

  "I am glad to stretch myself, Watson," said he. "It is no joke
when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several
hours on end. Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these
explanations, we have, if I may ask for your cooperation, a hard
and dangerous night's work in front of us. Perhaps it would be
better if I gave you an account of the whole situation when that
work is finished."

  "I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear now."

  "You'll come with me to-night?"

  "When you like and where you like."

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

  "You never were in it?"           

  "No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was abso-
lutely genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to the end of
my career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the
late Professor Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which
led to safety. I read an inexorable purpose in his gray eyes. I
exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, and obtained his
courteous permission to write the short note which you after-
wards received. I left it with my cigarette-box and my stick, and
I walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When I
reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he
rushed at me and threw his long arms around me. He knew that
his own game was up, and was only anxious to revenge himself
upon me. We tottered together upon the brink of the fall. I have
some knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the Japanese system of
wrestling, which has more than once been very useful to me. I
slipped through his grip, and he with a horrible scream kicked
madly for a few seconds, and clawed the air with both his hands.
But for all his efforts he could not get his balance, and over he
went. With my face over the brink, I saw him fall for a long
way. Then he struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the
water."

  I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes
delivered between the puffs of his cigarette.

  "But the tracks!" I cried. "I saw, with my own eyes, that two
went down the path and none returned."

  "It came about in this way. The instant that the Professor had
disappeared, it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky
chance Fate had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not
the only man who had sworn my death. There were at least three
others whose desire for vengeance upon me would only be
increased by the death of their leader. They were all most
dangerous men. One or other would certainly get me. On the
other hand. if all the world was convinced that I was dead they
would take liberties, these men, they would soon lay themselves
open, and sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be
time for me to announce that I was still in the land of the living.
So rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought this all
out before Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom of the
Reichenbach Fall.

  "I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your
picturesque account of the matter, which I read with great inter-
est some months later, you assert that the wall was sheer. That
was not literally true. A few small footholds presented them-
selves, and there was some indication of a ledge. The cliff is so
high that to climb it all was an obvious impossibility, and it was
equally impossible to make my way along the wet path without
leaving some tracks. I might, it is true, have reversed my boots,
as I have done on similar occasions, but the sight of three sets of
tracks in one direction would certainly have suggested a decep-
tion. On the whole, then, it was best that I should risk the climb.
It was not a pleasant business, Watson. The fall roared beneath
me. I am not a fanciful person, but I give you my word that I
seemed to hear Moriarty's voice screaming at me out of the
abyss. A mistake would have been fatal. More than once, as
tufts of grass came out in my hand or my foot slipped in the wet
notches of the rock, I thought that I was gone. But I struggled
upward, and at last I reached a ledge several feet deep and
covered with soft green moss, where I could lie unseen, in the
most perfect comfort. There I was stretched, when you, my dear
Watson, and all your following were investigating in the most
sympathetic and inefficient manner the circumstances of my
death.

  "At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally
erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel, and I was left
alone. l had imagined that I had reached the end of my adven-
tures, but a very unexpected occurrence showed me that there
were surprises still in store for me. A huge rock, falling from
above, boomed past me, struck the path, and bounded over into
the chasm. For an instant I thought that it was an accident, but a
moment later, looking up, I saw a man's head against the
darkening sky, and another stone struck the very ledge upon
which I was stretched, within a foot of my head. Of course, the
meaning of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been alone. A
confederate -- and even that one glance had told me how danger-
ous a man that confederate was -- had kept guard while the
Profcssor had attacked me. From a distance, unseen by me, he
had been a witness of his friend's death and of my escape. He
had waited, and then making his way round to the top of the
cliff, he had endeavoured to succeed where his comrade had
failed.

  "I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I saw
that grim face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the
precursor of another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I
don't think I could have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred
times more difficult than getting up. But I had no time to think of
the danger, for another stone sang past me as I hung by my
hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but,
by the blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the
path. I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the
darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence, with the
certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of me.

  "I had only one confidant -- my brother Mycroft. I owe you
many apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it
should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you
would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy
end had you not yourself thought that it was true. Several times
during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to
you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me
should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my
secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when
you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any
show of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn
attention to my identity and led to the most deplorable and
irreparable results. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in
order to obtain the money which I needed. The course of events
in London did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trial of the
Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own
most vindictive enemies, at liberty. I travelled for two years in
Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa, and
spending some days with the head lama. You may have read of
the remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but
I am sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving
news of your friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at
Mecca, and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at
Khartoum, the results of which I have communicated to the
Foreign Office. Returning to France, I spent some months in a
research into the coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a
laboratory at Montpellier, in the south of France. Having con-
cluded this to my satisfaction and learning that only one of my
enemies was now left in London, I was about to return when my
movements were hastened by the news of this very remarkable
Park Lane Mystery, which not only appealed to me by its own
merits. but which seemed to offer some most peculiar personal
opportunities. I came over at once to London, called in my own
person at Baker Street. threw Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics,
and found that Mycroft had preserved my rooms and my papers
exactly as they had always been. So it was, my dear Watson
that at two o'clock to-day I found myself in my old armchair in
my own old room, and only wishing that I could have seen my
old friend Watson in the other chair which he has so often
adorned."

  Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that
April evening -- a narrative which would have been utterly in-
credible to me had it not been confirmed by the actual sight of
the tall, spare figure and the keen, eager face, which I had never
thought to see again. In some manner he had learned of my own
sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner
rather than in his words. "Work is the best antidote to sorrow,
my dear Watson," said he; "and I have a piece of work for us
both to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclu-
sion, will in itself justify a man's life on this planet." In vain I
begged him to tell me more. "You will hear and see enough
before morning," he answered. "We have three years of the past
to discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start
upon the notable adventure of the empty house."

  It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself
seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and
the thrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern
and silent. As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his
austere features, I saw that his brows were drawn down in
thought and his thin lips compressed. I knew not what wild beast
we were about to hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal
London, but I was well assured, from the bearing of this master
huntsman, that the adventure was a most grave one -- while the
sardonic smile which occasionally broke through his ascetic
gloom boded little good for the object of our quest.

  I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but
Holmes stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I
observed that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance
to right and left, and at every subsequent street corner he took
the utmost pains to assure that he was not followed. Our route
was certainly a singular one. Holmes's knowledge of the byways
of London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he passed
rapidly and with an assured step through a network of mews and
stables, the very existence of which I had never known. We
emerged at last into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses.
which led us into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street.
Here he turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a
wooden gate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key
the back door of a house. We entered together, and he closed it
behind us.

  The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was
an empty house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare
planking, and my outstretched hand touched a wall from which
the paper was hanging in ribbons. Holmes's cold, thin fingers
closed round my wrist and led me forward down a long hall,
until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over the door. Here Holmes
turned suddenly to the right, and we found ourselves in a large,
square, empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly
lit in the centre from the lights of the street beyond. There was
no lamp near, and the window was thick with dust, so that we
could only just discern each other's figures within. My compan-
ion put his hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear.

  "Do you know where we are?" he whispered.

  "Surely that is Baker Street," I answered, staring through the
dim window.

  "Exactly. We are in Camden House, which stands opposite to
our own old quarters."

  "But why are we here?"

  "Because it commands so excellent a view of that picturesque
pile. Might I trouble you, my dear Watson, to draw a little
nearer to the window, taking every precaution not to show
yourself, and then to look up at our old rooms -- the starting-point
of so many of your little fairy-tales? We will see if my three
years of absence have entirely taken away my power to surprise
you."

  I crept forward and looked across at the familiar window. As
my eyes fell upon it, I gave a gasp and a cry of amazement. The
blind was down, and a strong light was burning in the room. The
shadow of a man who was seated in a chair within was thrown in
hard, black outline upon the luminous screen of the window.
There was no mistaking the poise of the head, the squareness of
the shoulders, the sharpness of the features. The face was turned
half-round, and the effect was that of one of those black silhou-
ettes which our grandparents loved to frame. It was a perfect
reproduction of Holmes. So amazed was I that I threw out my
hand to make sure that the man himself was standing beside me.
He was quivering with silent laughter.

  "Well?" said he.

  "Good hcavens!" I cried. "It is marvellous."

  "I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite
variety," said he, and I recognized in his voice the joy and pride
which the artist takes in his own creation. "It really is rather like
me, is it not?"

  "I should be prepared to swear that it was you."

  "The credit of the execution is due to Monsieur Oscar Meunier
of Grenoble, who spent some days in doing the moulding. It is a
bust in wax. The rest I arranged myself during my visit to Baker
Street this afternoon."

  "But why?"

  "Because, my dear Watson, I had the strongest possible rea-
son for wishing certain people to think that I was there when I
was really elsewhere."

  "And you thought the rooms were watched?"

  "I knew that they were watched."

  "By whom?"

  "By my old enemies, Watson. By the charming society whose
leader lies in the Reichenbach Fall. You must remember that
they knew, and only they knew, that I was still alive. Sooner or
later they believed that I should come back to my rooms. They
watched them continuously, and this morning they saw me arrive."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I recognized their sentinel when I glanced out of my
window. He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by name, a
garroter by trade, and a remarkable performer upon the jew's-
harp. I cared nothing for him. But I cared a great deal for the
much more formidable person who was behind him, the bosom
friend of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over the cliff
the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is the
man who is after me to-night, Watson, and that is the man who
is quite unaware that we are after him."

  My friend's plans were gradually revealing themselvcs. From
this convenient retreat, the watchers were being watched and the
trackers tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait.
and we were the hunters. In silence we stood together in the
darkness and watched the hurrying figures who passed and re-
passed in front of us. Holmes was silent and motionless; but I
could tell that he was keenly alert, and that his eyes were fixed
intently upon the stream of passers-by. It was a bleak and
boisterous night, and the wind whistled shrilly down the long
street. Many people were moving to and fro, most of them
muffled in their coats and cravats. Once or twice it seemed to
me that I had seen the same figure before, and I especially
noticed two men who appeared to be sheltering themselves from
the wind in the doorway of a house some distance up the street. I
tried to draw my companion's attention to them; but he gave a
little ejaculation of impatience, and continued to stare into the
street. More than once he fidgeted with his feet and tapped
rapidly with his fingers upon the wall. It was evident to me that
he was becoming uneasy, and that his plans were not working
out altogether as he had hoped. At last, as midnight approached
and the street gradually cleared, he paced up and down the room
in uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make some remark to
him, when I raised my eyes to the lighted window, and again
experienced almost as great a surprise as before. I clutched Holmes's
arm, and pointed upward.

  "The shadow has moved!" I cried.

  It was indeed no longer the profile, but the back, which was
turned towards us.

  Three years had certainly not smoothed the asperities of his
temper or his impatience with a less active intelligence than his
own.

  "Of course it has moved," said he. "Am I such a farcical
bungler, Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and
expect that some of the sharpest men in Europe would be de-
ceived by it? We have been in this room two hours, and Mrs.
Hudson has made some change in that figure eight times, or once
in every quarter of an hour. She works it from the front, so that
her shadow may never be seen. Ah!" He drew in his breath with
a shrill, excited intake. In the dim light I saw his head thrown
forward, his whole attitude rigid with attention. Outside the
street was absolutely deserted. Those two men might still be
crouching in the doorway, but I could no longer see them. All
was still and dark, save only that brilliant yellow screen in front
of us with the black figure outlined upon its centre. Again in the
utter silence I heard that thin, sibilant note which spoke of
intense suppressed excitement. An instant later he pulled me
back into the blackest corner of the room. and I felt his warning
hand upon my lips. The fingers which clutched me were quiver-
ing. Never had I known my friend more moved, and yet the dark
street still stretched lonely and motionless before us.

  But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses had
already distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears,
not from the direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the
very house in which we lay concealed. A door opened and shut.
An instant later steps crept down the passage -- steps which were
meant to be silent, but which reverberated harshly through the
empty house. Holmes crouched back against the wall, and I did
the same, my hand closing upon the handle of my revolver.
Peering through the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a
shade blacker than the blackness of the open door. He stood for
an instant, and then he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into
the room. He was within three yards of us, this sinister figure,
and I had braced myself to meet his spring, before I realized that
he had no idea of our presence. He passed close beside us, stole
over to the window, and very softly and noiselessly raised it for
half a foot. As he sank to the level of this opening, the light of
the street, no longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell full upon his
face. The man seemed to be beside himself with excitement. His
two eyes shone like stars, and his features were working convul-
sively. He was an elderly man, with a thin, projecting nose, a
high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache. An opera
hat was pushed to the back of his head, and an evening dress
shirt-front gleamed out through his open overcoat. His face was
gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In his hand
he carried what appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it down
upon the floor it gave a metallic clang. Then from the pocket of
his overcoat he drew a bulky object, and he busied himself in
some task which ended with a loud, sharp click, as if a spring or
bolt had fallen into its place. Still kneeling upon the floor he bent
forward and threw all his weight and strength upon some lever
with the result that there came a long, whirling, grinding noise,
ending once more in a powerful click. He straightened himself
then, and I saw that what he held in his hand was a sort of gun,
with a curiously misshapen butt. He opened it at the breech, put
something in, and snapped the breech-lock. Then, crouching
down, he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the open
window, and I saw his long moustache droop over the stock and
his eye gleam as it peered along the sights. I heard a little sigh of
satisfaction as he cuddled the butt into his shoulder, and saw that
amazing target, the black man on the yellow ground, standing
clear at the end of his foresight. For an instant he was rigid and
motionless. Then his finger tightened on the trigger. There was a
strange, loud whiz and a long, silvery tinkle of broken glass. At
that instant Holmes sprang like a tiger on to the marksman's
back, and hurled him flat upon his face. He was up again in a
moment, and with convulsive strength he seized Holmes by the
throat, but I struck him on the head with the butt of my revolver,
and he dropped again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as I
held him my comrade blew a shrill call upon a whistle. There
was the clatter of running feet upon the pavement, and two
policemen in uniform, with one plain-clothes detective, rushed
through the front entrance and into the room.

  "That you, Lestrade?" said Holmes.

  "Yes, Mr. Holmes. I took the job myself. It's good to see you
back in London, sir."

  "I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected
murders in one year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the
Molesey Mystery with less than your usual -- that's to say, you
handled it fairly well."

  We had all risen to our feet, our prisoner breathing hard, with
a stalwart constable on each side of him. Already a few loiterers
had begun to collect in the street. Holmes stepped up to the
window, closed it, and dropped the blinds. Lestrade had pro-
duced two candles, and the policemen had uncovered their lan-
terns. I was able at last to have a good look at our prisoner.

  It was a tremendously virile and yet sinister face which was
turned towards us. With the brow of a philosopher above and the
jaw of a sensualist below, the man must have started with great
capacities for good or for evil. But one could not look upon his
cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the
fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow,
without reading Nature's plainest danger-signals. He took no
heed of any of us, but his eyes were fixed upon Holmes's face
with an expression in which hatred and amazement were equally
blended. "You fiend!" he kept on muttering. "You clever,
clever fiend!"

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

  The colonel still stared at my friend like a man in a trance.
"You cunning, cunning fiend!" was all that he could say.

  "I have not introduced you yet," said Holmes. "This, gentle-
men, is Colonel Sebastian Moran, once of Her Majesty's Indian
Army, and the best heavy-game shot that our Eastern Empire has
ever produced. I believe I am correct, Colonel, in saying that
your bag of tigers still remains unrivalled?"

  The fierce old man said nothing, but still glared at my com-
panion. With his savage eyes and bristling moustache he was
wonderfully like a tiger himself.

  "I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old
a shikari," said Holmes. "It must be very familiar to you. Have
you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with your
rifle, and waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty
house is my tree, and you are my tiger. You have possibly had
other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers, or in
the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing you. These,"
he pointed around, "are my other guns. The parallel is exact."

  Colonel Moran sprang forward with a snarl of rage, but the
constables dragged him back. The fury upon his face was terrible
to look at.

  "I confess that you had one small surprise for me," said
Holmes. "I did not anticipate that you would yourself make use
of this empty house and this convenient front window. I had
imagined you as operating from the street, where my friend
Lestrade and his merry men were awaiting you. With that excep-
tion, all has gone as I expected."

  Colonel Moran turned to the official detective.

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

  "Well, that's reasonable enough," said Lestrade. "Nothing
further you have to say, Mr. Holmes, before we go?"

  Holmes had picked up the powerful air-gun from the floor,
and was examining its mechanism.

  "An admirable and unique weapon," said he, "noiseless and
of tremendous power: I knew Von Herder, the blind German
mechanic, who constructed it to the order of the late Professor
Moriarty. For years I have been aware of its existence, though I
have never before had the opportunity of handling it. I commend
it very specially to your attention, Lestrade, and also the bullets
which fit it."

  "You can trust us to look after that, Mr. Holmes," said
Lestrade, as the whole party moved towards the door. "Any-
thing further to say?"

  "Only to ask what charge you intend to prefer?"

  "What charge, sir? Why, of course, the attempted murder of
Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

  "Not so, Lestrade. I do not propose to appear in the matter at
all. To you, and to you only, belongs the credit of the remark-
able arrest which you have effected. Yes, Lestrade, I congratu-
late you! With your usual happy mixture of cunning and audacity,
you have got him."

  "Got him! Got whom, Mr. Holmes?"

  "The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain --
Colonel Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair
with an expanding bullet from an air-gun through the open
window of the second-floor front of No. 427 Park Lane, upon
the thirtieth of last month. That's the charge, Lestrade. And
now, Watson, if you can endure the draught from a broken
window, I think that half an hour in my study over a cigar may
afford you some profitable amusement."

  Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the super-
vision of Mycroft Holmes and the immediate care of Mrs. Hud-
son. As I entered I saw, it is true, an unwonted tidiness, but the
old landmarks were all in their place. There were the chemical
corner and the acid-stained, deal-topped table. There upon a
shelf was the row of formidable scrap-books and books of refer-
ence which many of our fellow-citizens would have been so glad
to burn. The diagrams, the violin-case, and the pipe-rack -- even
the Persian slipper which contained the tobacco -- all met my
eyes as I glanced round me. There were two occupants of the
room -- one, Mrs. Hudson, who beamed upon us both as we
entered -- the other, the strange dummy which had played so
important a part in the evening's adventures. It was a wax-
coloured model of my friend, so admirably done that it was a
perfect facsimile. It stood on a small pedestal table with an old
dressing-gown of Holmes's so draped round it that the illusion
from the street was absolutely perfect.

  "I hope you observed all precautions, Mrs. Hudson?" said
Holmes.

  "I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you told me."

  "Excellent. You carried the thing out very well. Did you
observe where the bullet went?"

  "Yes, sir. I'm afraid it has spoilt your beautiful bust, for it
passed right through the head and flattened itself on the wall. I
picked it up from the carpet. Here it is!"

  Holmes held it out to me. "A soft revolver bullet, as you
perceive, Watson. There's genius in that, for who would expect
to find such a thing fired from an air-gun? All right, Mrs. Hudson.
I am much obliged for your assistance. And now. Watson, let me
see you in your old seat once more, for there are several points
which I should like to discuss with you."

   He had thrown off the seedy frockcoat, and now he was the
Holmes of old in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he
took from his effigy.

   "The old shikari's nerves have not lost their steadiness, nor
his eyes their keenness," said he, with a laugh, as he inspected
the shattered forehead of his bust.

   "Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack
through the brain. He was the best shot in India, and I expect
that there are few better in London. Have you heard the name?"

  "No, I have not."

  "Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember right,
you had not heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who
had one of the great brains of the century. Just give me down
my index of biographies from the shelf."

  He turned over the pages lazily, leaning back in his chair and
blowing great clouds from his cigar.

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

  He handed over the book, and I read:

     Moran, Sebastian, Colonel . Unemployed . Formerly I st

   Bangalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augus-

   tus Moran, C.B., once British Minister to Persia. Educated

   Eton and Oxford. Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan

   Campaign, Charasiab (despatches), Sherpur, and Cabul. Au-

   thor of Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas (1881);

   Three Months in the Jungle (1884). Address: Conduit Street.

   Clubs: The Anglo-lndian, the Tankerville, the Bagatelle

   Card Club.

  On the margin was written, in Holmes's precise hand:

   The second most dangerous man in London.

  "This is astonishing," said I, as I handed back the volume.
"The man's career is that of an honourable soldier."

  "It is true," Holmes answered. "Up to a certain point he did
well. He was always a man of iron nerve, and the story is still
told in India how he crawled down a drain after a wounded
man-eating tiger. There are some trees, Watson, which grow to a
certain height, and then suddenly develop some unsightly eccen-
tricity. You will see it often in humans. I have a theory that the
individual represents in his development the whole procession of
his ancestors, and that such a sudden turn to good or evil stands
for some strong influence which came into the line of his pedi-
gree. The person becomes, as it were, the epitome of the history
of his own family."

  "It is surely rather fanciful."

  "Well, I don't insist upon it. Whatever the cause, Colonel
Moran began to go wrong. Without any open scandal, he still
made India too hot to hold him. He retired, came to London, and
again acquired an evil name. It was at this time that he was
sought out by Professor Moriarty, to whom for a time he was
chief of the staff. Moriarty supplied him liberally with money,
and used him only in one or two very high-class jobs, which no
ordinary criminal could have undertaken. You may have some
recollection of the death of Mrs. Stewart, of Lauder, in 1887.
Not? Well, I am sure Moran was at the bottom of it, but nothing
could be proved. So cleverly was the colonel concealed that,
even when the Moriarty gang was broken up, we could not
incriminate him; You remember at that date, when I called upon
you in your rooms, how I put up the shuners for fear of air-guns?
No doubt you thought me fanciful. I knew exactly what I was
doing, for I knew of the existence of this remarkable gun, and I
knew also that one of the best shots in the world would be
behind it. When we were in Switzerland he followed us with
Moriarty, and it was undoubtedly he who gave me that evil five
minutes on the Reichenbach ledge.

  "You may think that I read the papers with some attention
during my sojourn in France, on the look-out for any chance of
laying him by the heels. So long as he was free in London, my
life would really not have been worth living. Night and day the
shadow would have been over me, and sooner or later his chance
must have come. What could I do? I could not shoot him at
sight, or I should myself be in the dock. There was no use
appealing to a magistrate. They cannot interfere on the strength
of what would appear to them to be a wild suspicion. So I could
do nothing. But I watched the criminal news, knowing that
sooner or later I should get him. Then came the death of this
Ronald Adair. My chance had come at last. Knowing what I did,
was it not certain that Colonel Moran had done it? He had played
cards with the lad, he had followed him home from the club, he
had shot him through the open window. There was not a doubt
of it. The bullets alone are enough to put his head in a noose. I
came over at once. I was seen by the sentinel, who would, I
knew, direct the colonel's attention to my presence. He could not
fail to connect my sudden return with his crime, and to be
terribly alarmed. I was sure that he would make an attempt to get
me out of the way at once, and would bring round his murderous
weapon for that purpose. I left him an excellent mark in the
window, and, having warned the police that they might be
needed -- by the way, Watson, you spotted their presence in that
doorway with unerring accuracy -- I took up what seemed to me
to be a judicious post for observation, never dreaming that he
would choose the same spot for his attack. Now, my dear
Watson, does anything remain for me to explain?"

  "Yes," said I. "You have not made it clear what was Colonel
Moran's motive in murdering the Honourable Ronald Adair?"

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

  "You have formed one, then?"

  "I think that it is not difficult to explain the facts. It came out
in evidence that Colonel Moran and young Adair had, between
them, won a considerable amount of money. Now, Moran un-
doubtedly played foul -- of that I have long been aware. I believe
that on the day of the murder Adair had discovered that Moran
was cheating. Very likely he had spoken to him privately, and
had threatened to expose him unless he voluntarily resigned his
membership of the club, and promised not to play cards again. It
is unlikely that a youngster like Adair would at once make a
hideous scandal by exposing a well known man so much older
than himself. Probably he acted as I suggest. The exclusion from
his clubs would mean ruin to Moran, who lived by his ill-gotten
card-gains. He therefore murdered Adair, who at the time was
endeavouring to work out how much money he should himself
return. since he could not profit by his partner's foul play. He
locked the door lest the ladies should surprise him and insist
upon knowing what he was doing with these names and coins.
Will it pass?"

  "I have no doubt that you have hit upon the truth."

  "It will be verified or disproved at the trial. Meanwhile. come
what may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more. The famous
air-gun of Von Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Mu-
seum, and once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his
life to examining those interesting little problems which the
complex life of London so plentifully presents."

         The Adventure of the Norwood Builder

  "From the point of view of the criminal expert," said Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, "London has become a singularly uninterest-
ing city since the death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty."

  "I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens
to agree with you," I answered.

  "Well, well, I must not be selfish," said he, with a smile, as
he pushed back his chair from the breakfast-table. "The commu-
nity is certainly the gainer, and no one the loser, save the poor
out-of-work specialist, whose occupation has gone. With that
man in the field, one's morning paper presented infinite possibil-
ities. Often it was only the smallest trace, Watson, the faintest
indication, and yet it was enough to tell me that the great
malignant brain was there, as the gentlest tremors of the edges of
the web remind one of the foul spider which lurks in the centre.
Petty thefts, wanton assaults, purposeless outrage -- to the man
who held the clue all could be worked into one connected whole.
To the scientific student of the higher criminal world, no capital
in Europe offered the advantages which London then possessed.
But now --" He shrugged his shoulders in humorous deprecation
of the state of things which he had himself done so much to
produce.

  At the time of which I speak, Holmes had been back for some
months, and I at his request had sold my practice and returned to
share the old quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, named
Vemer, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and given
with astonishingly little demur the highest price that I ventured to
ask -- an incident which only explained itself some years later,
when I found that Vemer was a distant relation of Holmes, and
that it was my friend who had really found the money.

  Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as he
had stated, for I find, on looking over my notes, that this period
includes the case of the papers of ex-President Murillo, and also
the shocking affair of the Dutch steamship Friesland, which so
nearly cost us both our lives. His cold and proud nature was
always averse, however, from anything in the shape of public
applause, and he bound me in the most stringent terms to say no
further word of himself, his methods, or his successes -- a prohi-
bition which, as I have explained, has only now been removed.

  Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after his
whimsical protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in a
leisurely fashion, when our attention was arrested by a tremen-
dous ring at the bell, followed immediately by a hollow drum-
ming sound, as if someone were beating on the outer door with
his fist. As it opened there came a tumultuous rush into the hall,
rapid feet clattered up the stair, and an instant later a wild-eyed
and frantic young man, pale, dishevelled, and palpitating, burst
into the room. He looked from one to the other of us, and under
our gaze of inquiry he became conscious that some apology was
needed for this unceremonious entry.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," he cried. "You mustn't blame me.
I am nearly mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector
McFarlane."

  He made the announcement as if the name alone would ex-
plain both his visit and its manner, but I could seel by my
companion's unresponsive face, that it meant no more to him
than to me.

  "Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane," said he, pushing his case
across. "I am sure that, with your symptoms, my friend Dr.
Watson here would prescribe a sedative. The weather has been
so very warm these last few days. Now, if you feel a little more
composed, I should be glad if you would sit down in that chair,
and tell us very slowly and quietly who you are. and what it is
that you want. You mentioned your name, as if I should recog-
nize it, but I assure you that, beyond the obvious facts that you
are a bachelor, a solicitor, a Freemason, and an asthmatic, I
know nothing whatever about you."

  Familiar as I was with my friend's methods, it was not diffi-
cult for me to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidi-
ness of attire, the sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the
breathing which had prompted them. Our client, however, stared
in amazement.

  "Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes; and, in addition, I am the
most unfortunate man at this moment in London. For heaven's
sake, don't abandon me, Mr. Holmes! If they come to arrest me
before I have finished my story, make them give me time, so
that I may tell you the whole truth. I could go to jail happy if I
knew that you were working for me outside."

  "Arrest you!" said Holmes. "This is really most grati -- most
interesting. On what charge do you expect to be arrested?"

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

  My companion's expressive face showed a sympathy which
was not, I am afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.

  "Dear me," said he, "it was only this moment at breakfast
that I was saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational
cases had disappeared out of our papers."

  Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked up
the Daily Telegraph, which still lay upon Holmes's knee.

  "If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glance
what the errand is on which I have come to you this morning. I
feel as if my name and my misfortune must be in every man's
mouth." He turned it over to expose the central page. "Here it
is, and with your permission I will read it to you. Listen to this,
Mr. Holmes. The headlines are: 'Mysterious Affair at Lower
Norwood. Disappearance of a Well Known Builder. Suspicion of
Murder and Arson. A Clue to the Criminal.' That is the clue
which they are already following, Mr. Holmes, and I know that
it leads infallibly to me. I have been followed from London
Bridge Station, and I am sure that they are only waiting for the
warrant to arrest me. It will break my mother's heart -- it will
break her heart!" He wrung his hands in an agony of apprehen-
sion, and swayed backward and forward in his chair.

  I looked with interest upon this man, who was accused of
being the perpetrator of a crime of violence. He was flaxen-
haired and handsome, in a washed-out negative fashion, with
frightened blue eyes, and a clean-shaven face, with a weak,
sensitive mouth. His age may have been about twenty-seven, his
dress and bearing that of a gentleman. From the pocket of his
light summer overcoat protruded the bundle of endorsed papers
which proclaimed his profession.

  "We must use what time we have," said Holmes. "Watson,
would you have the kindness to take the paper and to read the
paragraph in question?"

  Underneath the vigorous headlines which our client had quoted,
I read the following suggestive narrative:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    some years he has practically withdrawn from the business,

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

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

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

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

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

    fury, and it was impossible to arrest the conflagration until

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

    incident bore the appearance of an ordinary accident, but

    fresh indications seem to point to serious crime. Surprise

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

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

    which showed that he had disappeared from the house. An

    examination of his room revealed that the bed had not been

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

    number of important papers were scattered about the room,

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

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

    oaken walking-stick, which also showed stains of blood

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

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

    the stick found has been identified as the property of this

    person, who is a young London solicitor named John Hector

    McFarlane, junior partner of Graham and McFarlane, of

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

    have evidence in their possession which supplies a very

    convincing motive for the crime, and altogether it cannot be

    doubted that sensational developments will follow.

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

    Hector McFarlane has actually been arrested on the charge

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

    a warrant has been issued. There have been further and

    sinister developments in the investigation at Norwood. Be-

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

    builder it is now known that the French windows of his

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

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

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

    asserted that charred remains have been found among the

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

    sensational crime has been committed, that the victim was

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

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

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

    conduct of the criminal investigation has been left in the

    experienced hands of Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard,

    who is following up the clues with his accustomed energy

    and sagacity."

  Sherlock Holmes listened with closed eyes and fingertips to-
gether to this remarkable account.

  "The case has certainly some points of interest," said he, in
his languid fashion. "May I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane,
how it is that you are still at liberty, since there appears to be
enough evidence to justify your arrest?"

  "I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents,
Mr. Holmes but last night, having to do business very late with
Mr. Jonas Oidacre, I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to
my business from there. I knew nothing of this affair until I was
in the train, when I read what you have just heard. I at once saw
the horrible danger of my position, and I hurried to put the case
into your hands. I have no doubt that I should have been arrested
either at my city office or at my home. A man followed me from
London Bridge Station, and I have no doubt Great heaven!
what is that?"

  It was a clang of the bell, followed instantly by heavy steps
upon the stair. A moment later, our old friend Lestrade appeared
in the doorway. Over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of one or
two uniformed policemen outside.

  "Mr. John Hector McFarlane?" said LestMde.

  Our unfortunate client rose with a ghastly face.

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

  McFarlane turned to us with a gesture of despair, and sank
into his chair once more like one who is crushed.

  "One moment. Lestrade," said Holmes. "Half an hour more
or less can make no difference to you, and the gentleman was
about to give us an account of this very interesting affair, which
might aid us in clearing it up."

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

  "None the less, with your permission, I should be much
interested to hear his account."

  "Well, Mr. Holmes, it is difficult for me to refuse you
anything, for you have been of use to the force once or twice in
the past, and we owe you a good turn at Scotland Yard," said
Lestrade. "At the same time I must remain with my prisoner
and I am bound to warn him that anything he may say will
appear in evidence against him."

  "I wish nothing better," said our client. "All I ask is that you
should hear and recognize the absolute truth."

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

  "I must explain first," said McFarlane, "that I knew nothing
of Mr. Jonas Oldacre. His name was familiar to me, for many
years ago my parents were acquainted with him, but they drifted
apart. I was very much surprised, therefore, when yesterday,
about three o'clock in the afternoon, he walked into my office in
the city. But I was still more astonished when he told me the
object of his visit. He had in his hand several sheets of a
notebook, covered with scribbled writing -- here they are -- and
he laid them on my table.

  " 'Here is my will,' said he. 'I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to
cast it into proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.'

  "I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonish-
ment when I found that, with some reservations, he had left all
his property to me. He was a strange little ferret-like man, with
white eyelashes, and when I looked up at him I found his keen
gray eyes fixed upon me with an amused expression. I could
hardly believe my own senses as I read the terms of the will, but
he explained that he was a bachelor with hardly any living
relation, that he had known my parents in his youth, and that he
had always heard of me as a very deserving young man, and was
assured that his money would be in worthy hands. Of course, I
could only stammer out my thanks. The will was duly finished,
signed, and witnesscd by my clerk. This is it on the blue paper.
and these slips, as I have explained. are the rough draft. Mr.
Jonas Oldacre then informed me that there were a number of
documents -- building leases, title-deeds, mortgages, scrip, and
so forth -- which it was necessary that I should see and understand.
He said that his mind would not be easy until the whole thing
was settled, and he begged me to come out to his house at
Norwood that night, bringing the will with me, and to arrange
matters. 'Remember, my boy, not one word to your parents
about the affair until everything is settled. We will keep it as a
little surprise for them.' He was very insistent upon this point,
and made me promise it faithfully.

  "You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, that I was not in a humour to
refuse him anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor,
and all my desire was to carry out his wishes in every particular.
I sent a telegram home, therefore, to say that I had important
business on hand, and that it was impossible for me to say how
late I might be. Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me
to have supper with him at nine, as he might not be home before
that hour. I had some difficulty in finding his house, however,
and it was nearly half-past before I reached it. I found him --"

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

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

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

  "Exactly," said McFarlane.

  "Pray proceed."

  McFarlane wiped his damp brow, and then continued his
narrative:

  "I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a
frugal supper was laid out. Afterwards, Mr. Jonas Oldacre led
me into his bedroom, in which there stood a heavy safe. This he
opened and took out a mass of documents, which we went over
together. It was between eleven and twelve when we finished.
He remarked that we must not disturb the housekeeper. He
showed me out through his own French window, which had been
open all this time."

  "Was the blind down?" asked Holmes.

  "I will not be sure. but I believe that it was only half down.
Yes, I remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the
window. I could not find my stick, and he said, 'Never mind,
my boy, I shall see a good deal of you now, I hope, and I will
keep your stick until you come back to claim it.' I left him there,
the safe open, and the papers made up in packets upon the table.
It was so latc that I could not get back to Blackheath. so I spent
the night at the Anerley Arms. and I knew nothing more until I
read of this horrible affair in the morning."

  "Anything more that you would like to ask, Mr. Holmes?"
said Lestrade, whose eyebrows had gone up once or twice during
this remarkable explanation.

  "Not until I have been to Blackheath."

  "You mean to Norwood," said Lestrade.

  "Oh, yes, no doubt that is what I must have meant," said
Holmes, with his enigmatical smile. Lestrade had learned by
more experiences than he would care to acknowledge that that
razor-like brain could cut through that which was impenetrable to
him. I saw him look curiously at my companion.

  "I think I should like to have a word with you presently, Mr,
Sherlock Holmes," said he. "Now, Mr. McFarlane, two of my
constables are at the door, and there is a four-wheeler waiting."
The wretched young man arose, and with a last beseeching
glance at us walked from the room. The officers conducted him
to the cab, but Lestrade remained.

  Holmes had picked up the pages which formed the rough draft
of the will, and was looking at them with the keenest interest
upon his face.

  "There are some points about that document, Lestrade, are
there not?" said he, pushing them over.

  The official looked at them with a puzzled expression.

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

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

  "Well, what do you make of it?"

  "That it was written in a train. The good writing represents
stations, the bad writing movement, and the very bad writing
passing over points. A scientific expert would pronounce at once
that this was drawn up on a suburban line, since nowhere save in
the immediate vicinity of a great city could there be so quick a
succession of points. Granting that his whole journey was occu-
pied in drawing up the will, then the train was an express, only
stopping once between Norwood and London Bridge."

  Lestrade began to laugh.

  "You are too many for me when you begin to get on your
theories. Mr. Holmes," said he. "How does this bear on the
case?"

  "Well, it corroborates the young man's story to the extent that
the will was drawn up by Jonas Oldacre in his journey yesterday.
It is curious -- is it not? -- that a man should draw up so important
a document in so haphazard a fashion. It suggests that he did not
think it was going to be of much practical importance. If a man
drew up a will which he did not intend ever to be effective, he
might do it so."

  "Well, he drew up his own death warrant at the same time,"
said Lestrade.

  "Oh, you think so?"

  "Don't you?"

  "Well, it is quite possible, but the case is not clear to me
yet."

  "Not clear? Well, if that isn't clear, what could be clear? Here
is a young man who learns suddenly that, if a certain older man
dies, he will succeed to a fortune. What does he do? He says
nothing to anyone, but he arranges that he shall go out on some
pretext to see his client that night. He waits until the only other
person in the house is in bed, and then in the solitude of a man's
room he murders him, burns his body in the wood-pile, and
departs to a neighbouring hotel. The blood-stains in the room
and also on the stick are very slight. It is probable that he
imagined his crime to be a bloodless one, and hoped that if the
body were consumed it would hide all traces of the method of his
death -- traces which, for some reason, must have pointed to him.
Is not all this obvious?"

  "It strikes me, my good Lestrade, as being just a trifle too
obvious," said Holmes. "You do not add imagination to your
other great qualities, but if you could for one moment put
yourself in the place of this young man, would you choose the
very night after the will had been made to commit your crime?
Would it not seem dangerous to you to make so very close a
relation between the two incidents? Again, would you choose an
occasion when you are known to be in the house, when a servant
has let you in? And, finally, would you take the great pains to
conceal the body, and yet leave your own stick as a sign that you
were the cnminal? Confess, Lestrade, that all this is very unlikely."

  "As to the stick, Mr. Holmes, you know as well as I do that a
criminal is often flurried, and does such things, which a cool
man would avoid. He was very likely afraid to go back to the
room. Give me another theory that would fit the facts."

  "I could very easily give you half a dozen," said Holmes.
"Here, for example, is a very possible and even probable one. I
make you a free present of it. The older man is showing docu-
ments which are of evident value. A passing tramp sees them
through the window, the blind of which is only half down. Exit
the solicitor. Enter the tramp! He seizes a stick, which he
observes there, kills Oldacre, and departs after burning the body."

  "Why should the tramp burn the body?"

  "For the matter of that, why should McFarlane?"

  "To hide some evidence."

  "Possibly the tramp wanted to hide that any murder at all had
been committed."

  "And why did the tramp take nothing?"

  "Because they were papers that he could not negotiate."

  Lestrade shook his head, though it seemed to me that his
manner was less absolutely assured than before.

  "Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you may look for your tramp,
and while you are finding him we will hold on to our man. The
future will show which is right. Just notice this point, Mr.
Holmes: that so far as we know, none of the papers were
removed, and that the prisoner is the one man in the world who
had no reason for removing them, since he was heir-at-law, and
would come into them in any case."

  My friend seemed struck by this remark.

  "I don't mean to deny that the evidence is in some ways very
strongly in favour of your theory," said he. "I only wish to
point out that there are other theories possible. As you say, the
future will decide. Good-morning! I dare say that in the course
of the day I shall drop in at Norwood and see how you are
getting on."

  When the detective departed, my friend rose and made his
preparations for the day's work with the alert air of a man who
has a congenial task before him.

  "My first movement, Watson," said he. as he bustled into his
frockcoat, "must, as I said, be in the direction of Blackheath."

  "And why not Norwood?"

  "Because we have in this case one singular incident coming
close to the heels of another singular incident. The police are
making the mistake of concentrating their attention upon the
second, because it happens to be the one which is actually
criminal. But it is evident to me that the logical way to approach
the case is to begin by trying to throw some light upon the first
incident -- the curious will, so suddenly made, and to so unex-
pected an heir. It may do something to simplify what followed.
No, my dear fellow, I don't think you can help me. There is no
prospect of danger, or I should not dream of stirring out without
you. I trust that when I see you in the evening, I will be able to
report that I have been able to do something for this unfortunate
youngster, who has thrown himself upon my protection."

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

  "It's all going wrong, Watson -- all as wrong as it can go. I
kept a bold face before Lestrade, but, upon my soul, I believe
that for once the fellow is on the right track and we are on the
wrong. All my instincts are one way, and all the facts are the
other, and I much fear that British juries have not yet attained
that pitch of intelligence when they will give the preference to
my theories over Lestrade's facts."

  "Did you go to Blackheath?"

  "Yes, Watson, I went there, and I found very quickly that the
late lamented Oldacre was a pretty considerable blackguard. The
father was away in search of his son. The mother was at home -- a
little, fluffy, blue-eyed person, in a tremor of fear and indigna-
tion. Of course, she would not admit even the possibility of his
guilt. But she would not express either surprise or regret over the
fate of Oldacre. On the contrary, she spoke of him with such
bitterness that she was unconsciously considerably strengthening
the case of the police for, of course, if her son had heard her
speak of the man in this fashion, it would predispose him
towards hatred and violence. 'He was more like a malignant and
cunning ape than a human being,' said she, 'and he always was,
ever since he was a young man.'

  " 'You knew him at that time?' said I.

  '' 'Yes, I knew him well, in fact, he was an old suitor of
mine. Thank heaven that I had the sense to turn away from him
and to marry a better, if poorer, man. I was engaged to him. Mr.
Holmes, when I heard a shocking story of how he had turned a
cat loose in an aviary, and I was so horrified at his brutal cruelty
that I would have nothing more to do with him.' She rummaged
in a bureau, and presently she produced a photograph of a
woman, shamefully defaced and mutilated with a knife. 'That is
my own photograph.' she said. 'He sent it to me in that state,
with his curse, upon my wedding morning.'

  " 'Well,' said I, 'at least he has forgiven you now, since he
has left all his property to your son.'

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

  "Well, I tried one or two leads, but could get at nothing
which would help our hypothesis, and several points which
would make against it. I gave it up at last, and off I went to
Norwood.

  "This place, Deep Dene House, is a big modern villa of
staring brick, standing back in its own grounds, with a laurel-
clumped lawn in front of it. To the right and some distance back
from the road was the timber-yard which had been the scene of
the fire. Here's a rough plan on a leaf of my notebook. This
window on the left is the one which opens into Oldacre's room.
You can look into it from the road, you see. That is about the
only bit of consolation I have had to-day. Lestrade was not there,
but his head constable did the honours. They had just found a
great treasure-trove. They had spent the morning raking among
the ashes of the burned wood-pile, and besides the charred
organic remains they had secured several discoloured metal discs.
I examined them with care, and there was no doubt that they
were trouser buttons. I even distinguished that one of them was
marked with the name of 'Hyams,' who was Oldacre's tailor. I
then worked the lawn very carefully for signs and traces, but this
drought has made everything as hard as iron. Nothing was to be
seen save that some body or bundle had been dragged through a
low privet hedge which is in a line with the wood-pile. All that,
of course, fits in with the official theory. I crawled about the
lawn with an August sun on my back, but I got up at the end of
an hour no wiser than before.

  "Well, after this fiasco I went into the bedroom and examined
that also. The blood-stains were very slight, mere smears and
discolourations, but undoubtedly fresh. The stick had been re-
moved, but there also the marks were slight. There is no doubt
about the stick belonging to our client. He admits it. Footmarks
of both men could be made out on the carpet, but none of any
third person, which again is a trick for the other side. They were
piling up their score all the time and we were at a standstill.

  "Only one little gleam of hope did I get -- and yet it amounted
to nothing. I examined the contents of the safe, most of which
had been taken out and left on the table. The papers had been
made up into sealed envelopes, one or two of which had been
opened by the police. They were not, so far as I could judge, of
any great value, nor did the bank-book show that Mr. Oldacre
was in such very affluent circumstances. But it seemed to me
that all the papers were not there. There were allusions to some
deeds -- possibly the more valuable -- which I could not find.
This, of course, if we could definitely prove it, would turn
Lestrade's argument against himself; for who would steal a thing
if he knew that he would shortly inherit it?

  "Finally, having drawn every other cover and picked up no
scent, I tried my luck with the housekeeper. Mrs. Lexington is
her name -- a little, dark, silent person, with suspicious and
sidelong eyes. She could tell us somethirig if she would -- I am
convinced of it. But she was as close as wax. Yes, she had let
Mr. McFarlane in at half-past nine. She wished her hand had
withered before she had done so. She had gone to bed at
half-past ten. Her room was at the other end of the house, and
she could hear nothing of what passed. Mr. McFarlane had left
his hat, and to the best of her belief his stick, in the hall. She had
been awakened by the alarm of fire. Her poor, dear master had
certainly been murdered. Had he any enemies? Well, every man
had enemies, but Mr. Oldacre kept himself very much to him-
self, and only met people in the way of business. She had seen
the buttons, and was sure that they belonged to the clothes which
he had worn last night. The wood-pile was very dry, for it had
not rained for a month. It burned like tinder, and by the time she
reached the spot, nothing could be seen but flames. She and all
the firemen smelled the burned flesh from inside it. She knew
nothing of the papers, nor of Mr. Oldacre's private affairs.

  "So, my dear Watson, there's my report of a failure. And
yet -- and yet --" he clenched his thin hands in a paroxysm of
conviction-- "I know it's all wrong. I feel it in my bones. There
is something that has not come out, and that housekeeper knows
it. There was a sort of sulky defiance in her eyes, which only
goes with guilty knowledge. However, there's no good talking
any more about it, Watson; but unless some lucky chance comes
our way I fear that the Norwood Disappearance Case will not
figure in that chronicle of our successes which I foresee that a
patient public will sooner or later have to endure."

  "Surely," said I, "the man's appearance would go far with
any jury?"

  "That is a dangerous argument, my dear Watson. You re-
member that terrible murderer, Bert Stevens, who wanted us to
get him off in '87? Was there ever a more mild-mannered,
Sunday-school young man?"

  "It is true."

  "Unless we succeed in establishing an alternative theory, this
man is lost. You can hardly find a flaw in the case which can
now be presented against him, and all further investigation has
served to strengthen it. By the way, there is one curious little
point about those papers which may serve us as the starting-point
for an inquiry. On looking over the bank-book I found that the
low state of the balance was principally due to large checks
which have been made out during the last year to Mr. Cornelius.
I confess that I should be interested to know who this Mr.
Cornelius may be with whom a retired builder has had such very
large transactions. Is it possible that he has had a hand in the
affair? Cornelius might be a broker, but we have found no scrip
to correspond with these large payments. Failing any other in-
dication, my researches must now take the direction of an in-
quiry at the bank for the gentleman who has cashed these checks.
But I fear, my dear fellow, that our case will end ingloriously by
Lestrade hanging our client, which will certainly be a triumph
for Scotland Yard."

  I do not know how far Sherlock Holmes took any sleep that
night, but when I came down to breakfast I found him pale and
harassed, his bright eyes the brighter for the dark shadows round
them. The carpet round his chair was littered with cigarette-ends
and with the early editions of the morning papers. An open
telegram lay upon the table.

  "What do you think of this, Watson?" he asked, tossing it
across.

  It was from Norwood, and ran as follows:

      Important fresh evidence to hand. McFarlane's guilt defi-

    nitely established. Advise you to abandon case.

                                                      LESTRADE.

  "This sounds serious," said I.

  "It is Lestrade's little cock-a-doodle of victory," Holmes
answered, with a bitter smile. "And yet it may be premature to
abandon the case. After all, important fresh evidence is a two-
edged thing, and may possibly cut in a very different direction to
that which Lestrade imagines. Take your breakfast, Watson, and
we will go out together and see what we can do. I feel as if I
shall need your company and your moral support to-day."

  My friend had no breakfast himself, for it was one of his
peculiarities that in his more intense moments he would permit
himself no food, and I have known him presume upon his iron
strength until he has fainted from pure inanition. "At present I
cannot spare energy and nerve force for digestion," he would
say in answer to my medical remonstrances. I was not surprised,
therefore, when this morning he left his untouched meal behind
him, and started with me for Norwood. A crowd of morbid
sightseers were still gathered round Deep Dene House, which
was just such a suburban villa as I had pictured. Within the gates
Lestrade met us, his face flushed with victory, his manner
grossly triumphant.

  "Well, Mr. Holmes, have you proved us to be wrong yet?
Have you found your tramp?" he cried.

  "I have formed no conclusion whatever," my companion
answered.

  "But we formed ours yesterday, and now it proves to be
correct, so you must acknowledge that we have been a little in
front of you this time, Mr. Holmes."

  "You certainly have the air of something unusual having
occurred," said Holmes.

  Lestrade laughed loudly.

  "You don't like being beaten any more than the rest of us
do," said he. "A man can't expect always to have it his own
way, can he, Dr. Watson? Step this way, if you please, gentle-
men, and I think I can convince you once for all that it was John
McFarlane who did this crime."

  He led us through the passage and out into a dark hall beyond.

  "This is where young McFarlane must have come out to get
his hat after the crime was done," said he. "Now look at this."
With dramatic suddenness he struck a match, and by its light
exposed a stain of blood upon the whitewashed wall. As he held
the match nearer, I saw that it was more than a stain. It was the
well-marked print of a thumb.

  "Look at that with your magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes."

  "Yes, I am doing so."

  "You are aware that no two thumb-marks are alike?"

  "I have heard something of the kind."

  "Well, then, will you please compare that print with this wax
impression of young McFarlane's right thumb, taken by my
orders this morning?"

  As he held the waxen print close to the blood-stain, it did not
take a magnifying glass to see that the two were undoubtedly
from the same thumb. It was evident to me that our unfortunate
client was lost.

  "That is final," said Lestrade.

  "Yes, that is final," I involuntarily echoed.

  "It is final," said Holmes.

  Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at
him. An extraordinary change had come over his face. It was
writhing with inward merriment. His two eyes were shining like
stars. It seemed to me that he was making desperate efforts to
restrain a convulsive attack of laughter.

  "Dear me! Dear me!" he said at last. "Well, now, who
would have thought it? And how deceptive appearances may be,
to be sure! Such a nice young man to look at! It is a lesson to us
not to trust our own judgment, is it not, Lestrade?"

  "Yes, some of us are a little too much inclined to be cock-
sure, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade. The man's insolence was
maddening, but we could not resent it.

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

  "By the way, Lestrade, who made this remarkable discovery?"

  "It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Lexington, who drew the night
constable's attention to it."

  "Where was the night constable?"

  "He remained on guard in the bedroom where the crime was
committed, so as to see that nothing was touched."

  "But why didn't the police see this mark yesterday?"

  "Well, we had no particular reason to make a careful exami-
nation of the hall. Besides, it's not in a very prominent place, as
you see."

  "No, no -- of course not. I suppose there is no doubt that the
mark was there yesterday?"

  Lestrade looked at Holmes as if he thought he was going out
of his mind. I confess that I was myself surprised both at his
hilarious manner and at his' rather wild observation.

  "I don't know whether you think that McFarlane came out of
jail in the dead of the night in order to strengthen the evidence
against himself," said Lestrade. "I leave it to any expert in the
world whether that is not the mark of his thumb."

  "It is unquestionably the mark of his thumb."

  "There, that's enough," said Lestrade. "I am a practical
man, Mr. Holmes, and when I have got my evidence I come to
my conclusions. If you have anything to say, you will find me
writing my report in the sitting-room."

  Holmes had recovered his equanimity, though I still seemed to
detect gleams of amusement in his expression.

  "Dear me, this is a very sad development, Watson, is it not?"
said he. "And yet there are singular points about it which hold
out some hopes for our client."

  "I am delighted to hear it," said I, heartily. "I was afraid it
was all up with him."

  "I would hardly go so far as to say that, my dear Watson. The
fact is that there is one really serious flaw in this evidence to
which our friend attaches so much importance."

  "Indeed, Holmes! What is it?"

  "Only this: that I know that that mark was not there when I
examined the hall yesterday. And now, Watson, let us have a
little stroll round in the sunshine."

  With a confused brain, but with a heart into which some
warmth of hope was returning, I accompanied my friend in a
walk round the garden. Holmes took each face of the house in
turn, and examined it with great interest. He then led the way
inside, and went over the whole building from basement to attic.
Most of the rooms were unfurnished, but none the less Holmes
inspected them all minutely. Finally, on the top corridor, which
ran outside three untenanted bedrooms, he again was seized with
a spasm of merriment.

  "There are really some very unique features about this case,
Watson," said he. "I think it is time now that we took our friend
Lestrade into our confidence. He has had his little smile at our
expense, and perhaps we may do as much by him, if my reading
of this problem proves to be correct. Yes, yes, I think I see how
we should approach it."

  The Scotland Yard inspector was still writing in the parlour
when Holmes interrupted him.

  "I understood that you were writing a report of this case,"
said he.

  "So I am."

  "Don't you think it may be a little premature? I can't help
thinking that your evidence is not complete."

  Lestrade knew my friend too well to disregard his words. He
laid down his pen and looked curiously at him.

  "What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?"

  "Only that there is an important witness whom you have not
seen."

  "Can you produce him?"

  "I think I can."

  "Then do so."

  "I will do my best. How many constables have you?"

  "There are three within call."

  "Excellent!" said Holmes. "May I ask if they are all large,
able-bodied men with powerful voices?"

  "I have no doubt they are, though I fail to see what their
voices have to do with it."

  "Perhaps I can help you to see that and one or two other
things as well," said Holmes. "Kindly summon your men, and I
will try."

  Five minutes later, three policemen had assembled in the hall.

  "In the outhouse you will find a considerable quantity of
straw," said Holmes. "I will ask you to carry in two bundles of it.
I think it will be of the greatest assistance in producing the
witness whom I require. Thank you very much. I believe you
have some matches in your pocket, Watson. Now, Mr. Lestrade,
I will ask you all to accompany me to the top landing."

  As I have said, there was a broad corridor there, which ran
outside three empty bedrooms. At one end of the corridor we
were all marshalled by Sherlock Holmes, the constables grinning
and Lestrade staring at my friend with amazement, expectation,
and derision chasing each other across his features. Holmes
stood before us with the air of a conjurer who is performing a
trick.

  "Would you kindly send one of your constables for two
buckets of water? Put the straw on the floor here. free from the
wall on either side. Now I think that we are all ready."

  Lestrade's face had begun to grow red and angry.

  "I don't know whether you are playing a game with us, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes," said he. "If you know anything, you can
surely say it without all this tomfoolery."

  "I assure you, my good Lestrade, that I have an excellent
reason for everything that I do. You may possibly remember that
you chaffed me a little, some hours ago, when the sun seemed
on your side of the hedge, so you must not grudge me a little
pomp and ceremony now. Might I ask you, Watson, to open that
window, and then to put a match to the edge of the straw?"

  I did so, and driven by the draught, a coil of gray smoke
swirled down the corridor, while the dry straw crackled and
flamed.

  "Now we must see if we can find this witness for you, Lestrade.
Might I ask you all to join in the cry of 'Fire!'? Now then; one,
two, three --"

  "Fire!" we all yelled.

  "Thank you. I will trouble you once again."

  "Fire!"

  "Just once more, gentlemen, and all together."

  "Fire!" The shout must have rung over Norwood.

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

  "Capital!" said Holmes, calmly. "Watson, a bucket of water
over the straw. That will do! Lestrade, allow me to present you
with your principal missing witness, Mr. Jonas Oldacre."

  The detective stared at the newcomer with blank amazement.
The latter was blinking in the bright light of the corridor, and
peering at us and at the smouldering fire. It was an odious
face -- crafty, vicious, malignant, with shifty, light-gray eyes and
white lashes.

  "What's this, then?" said Lestrade, at last. "What have you
been doing all this time, eh?"

  Oldacre gave an uneasy laugh, shrinking back from the furious
red face of the angry detective.

  "I have done no harm."

  "No harm? You have done your best to get an innocent man
hanged. If it wasn't for this gentleman here, I am not sure that
you would not have succeeded."

  The wretched creature began to whimper.

  "I am sure, sir, it was only my practical joke."

  "Oh! a joke, was it? You won't find the laugh on your side, I
promise you. Take him down, and keep him in the sitting-room
until I come. Mr. Holmes," he continued, when they had gone,
"I could not speak before the constables, but I don't mind
saying, in the presence of Dr. Watson, that this is the brightest
thing that you have done yet, though it is a mystery to me how
you did it. You have saved an innocent man's life, and you have
prevented a very grave scandal, which would have ruined my
reputation in the Force."

  Holmes smiled, and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder.

  "Instead of being ruined, my good sir, you will find that your
reputation has been enormously enhanced. Just make a few
alterations in that report which you were writing, and they will
understand how hard it is to throw dust in the eyes of Inspector
Lestrade."

  "And you don't want your name to appear?"

  "Not at all. The work is its own reward. Perhaps I shall get
the credit also at some distant day, when I permit my zealous
historian to lay out his foolscap once more -- eh, Watson? Well,
now, let us see where this rat has been lurking."

  A lath-and-plaster partition had been run across the passage
six feet from the end, with a door cunningly concealed in it. It
was lit within by slits under the eaves. A few articles of furniture
and a supply of food and water were within, together with a
number of books and papers.

  "There's the advantage of being a builder," said Holmes, as we
came out. "He was able to fix up his own little hiding-place
without any confederate -- save, of course, that precious house-
keeper of his, whom I should lose no time in adding to your bag,
Lestrade."

  "I'll take your advice. But how did you know of this place,
Mr. Holmes?"

  "I made up my mind that the fellow was in hiding in the
house. When I paced one corridor and found it six feet shorter
than the corresponding one below, it was pretty clear where he
was. I thought he had not the nerve to lie quiet before an alarm
of fire. We could, of course, have gone in and taken him, but it
amused me to make him reveal himself. Besides, I owed you a
little mystification, Lestrade, for your chaff in the morning."

  "Well, sir, you certainly got equal with me on that. But how
in the world did you know that he was in the house at all?"

  "The thumb-mark, Lestrade. You said it was final; and so it
was, in a very different sense. I knew it had not been there the
day before. I pay a good deal of attention to matters of detail, as
you may have observed, and I had examined the hall, and was
sure that the wall was clear. Therefore, it had been put on during
the night."

  "But how?"

  "Very simply. When those packets were sealed up, Jonas
Oldacre got McFarlane to secure one of the seals by putting his
thumb upon the soft wax. It would be done so quickly and so
naturally, that I daresay the young man himself has no recollec-
tion of it. Very likely it just so happened, and Oldacre had
himself no notion of the use he would put it to. Brooding over
the case in that den of his, it suddenly struck him what abso-
lutely damning evidence he could make against McFarlane by
using that thumb-mark. It was the simplest thing in the world for
him to take a wax impression from the seal, to moisten it in as
much blood as he could get from a pin-prick, and to put the mark
upon the wall during the night, either with his own hand or with
that of his housekeeper. If you examine among those documents
which he took with him into his retreat, I will lay you a wager
that you find the seal with the thumbmark upon it."

  "Wonderful!" said Lestrade. "Wonderful! It's all as clear as
crystal, as you put it. But what is the object of this deep
deception, Mr. Holmes?"

  It was amusing to me to see how the detective's overbearing
manner had changed suddenly to that of a child asking questions
of its teacher.

  "Well, I don't think that is very hard to explain. A very deep,
malicious, vindictive person is the gentleman who is now wait-
ing us downstairs. You know that he was once refused by
McFarlane's mother? You don't! I told you that you should go to
Blackheath first and Norwood afterwards. Well, this injury, as
he would consider it, has rankled in his wicked, scheming brain,
and all his life he has longed for vengeance, but never seen his
chance. During the last year or two, things have gone against
him -- secret speculation, I think -- and he finds himself in a bad
way. He determines to swindle his creditors, and for this purpose
he pays large checks to a certain Mr. Cornelius, who is, I
imagine, himself under another name. I have not traced these
checks yet, but I have no doubt that they were banked under that
name at some provincial town where Oldacre from time to time
led a double existence. He intended to change his name al-
together, draw this money, and vanish, starting life again
elsewhere."

  "Well, that's likely enough."

  "It would strike him that in disappearing he might throw all
pursuit off his track, and at the same time have an ample and
crushing revenge upon his old sweetheart, if he could give the
impression that he had been murdered by her only child. It was a
masterpiece of villainy, and he carried it out like a master. The
idea of the will, which would give an obvious motive for the
crime, the secret visit unknown to his own parents, the retention
of the stick, the blood, and the animal remains and buttons in the
wood-pile, all were admirable. It was a net from which it seemed
to me, a few hours ago, that there was no possible escape. But
he had not that supreme gift of the artist, the knowledge of when
to stop. He wished to improve that which was already perfect -- to
draw the rope tighter yet round the neck of his unfortunate victim --
and so he ruined all. Let us descend, Lestrade. There are just one
or two questions that I would ask him."

  The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour, with a
policeman upon each side of him.

  "It was a joke, my good sir -- a practical joke, nothing more,"
he whined incessantly. "I assure you, sir, that I simply con-
cealed myself in order to see the effect of my disappearance, and
I am sure that you would not be so unjust as to imagine that I
would have allowed any harm to befall poor young Mr.
McFarlane."

  "That's for a jury to decide," said Lestrade. "Anyhow, we
shall have you on a charge of conspiracy, if not for attempted
murder."

  "And you'll probably find that your creditors will impound
the banking account of Mr. Cornelius," said Holmes.

  The little man started, and turned his malignant eyes upon my
friend.

  "l have to thank you for a good deal," said he. "Perhaps I'll
pay my debt some day."

  Holmes smiled indulgently.

  "I fancy that, for some few years, you will find your time
very fully occupied," said he. "By the way, what was it you put
into the wood-pile besides your old trousers? A dead dog, or
rabbits, or what? You won't tell? Dear me, how very unkind of
you! Well, well, I daresay that a couple of rabbits would account
both for the blood and for the charred ashes. If ever you write an
account, Watson, you can make rabbits serve your turn."

            The Adventure of the Dancing Men

  Holmes had been seated for some hours in silence with his
long, thin back curved over a chemical vessel in which he was
brewing a particularly malodorous product. His head was sunk
upon his breast, and he looked from my point of view like a
strange, lank bird, with dull gray plumage and a black top-knot.

  "So, Watson," said he, suddenly, "you do not propose to
invest in South African securities?"

  I gave a start of astonishment. Accustomed as I was to Holmes's
curious faculties, this sudden intrusion into my most intimate
thoughts was utterly inexplicable.

  "How on earth do you know that?" I asked.

  He wheeled round upon his stool, with a steaming test-tube in
his hand, and a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes.

  "Now, Watson, confess yourself utterly taken aback," said
he.

  "I am."

  "I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect."

  "Why?"

  "Because in five minutes you will say that it is all so absurdly
simple."

  "I am sure that I shall say nothing of the kind."

  "You see, my dear Watson" -- he propped his test-tube in the
rack, and began to lecture with the air of a professor addressing
his class -- "it is not really difficult to construct a series of
inferences, each dependent upon its predecessor and each simple
in itself. If, after doing so, one simply knocks out all the central
inferences and presents one's audience with the starting-point
and the conclusion, one may produce a startling, though possi-
bly a meretricious, effect. Now, it was not really difficult, by an
inspection of the groove between your left forefinger and thumb,
to feel sure that you did not propose to invest your small capital
in the gold fields."

  "I see no connection."

  "Very likely not; but I can quickly show you a close connec-
tion. Here are the missing links of the very simple chain: 1. You
had chalk between your left finger and thumb when you returned
from the club last night. 2. You put chalk there when you play
billiards, to steady the cue. 3. You never play billiards except
with Thurston. 4. You told me, four weeks ago, that Thurston
had an option on some South African property which would
expire in a month, and which he desired you to share with him.
5. Your check book is locked in my drawer, and you have not
asked for the key. 6. You do not propose to invest your money
in this manner."

  "How absurdly simple!" I cried.

  "Quite so!" said he, a little nettled. "Every problem becomes
very childish when once it is explained to you. Here is an
unexplained one. See what you can make of that, friend Wat-
son." He tossed a sheet of paper upon the table, and turned once
more to his chemical analysis.

  I looked with amazement at the absurd hieroglyphics upon the
paper.

  "Why, Holmes, it is a child's drawing," I cried.

  "Oh, that's your idea!"

  "What else should it be?"

  "That is what Mr. Hilton Cubitt, of Riding Thorpe Manor,
Norfolk, is very anxious to know. This little conundrum came by
the first post, and he was to follow by the next train. There's a
ring at the bell, Watson. I should not be very much surprised if
this were he."

  A heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and an instant later
there entered a tall, ruddy, clean-shaven gentleman, whose clear
eyes and florid cheeks told of a life led far from the fogs of
Baker Street. He seemed to bring a whiff of his strong, fresh,
bracing, east-coast air with him as he entered. Having shaken
hands with each of us, he was about to sit down, when his eye
rested upon the paper with the curious markings, which I had
just examined and left upon the table.

  "Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you make of these?" he cried.
"They told me that you were fond of queer mysteries, and I
don't think you can find a queerer one than that. I sent the paper
on ahead, so that you might have time to study it before I
came."

  "It is certainly rather a curious production,'' said Holmes.
"At first sight it would appear to be some childish prank. It
consists of a number of absurd little figures dancing across the
paper upon which they are drawn. Why should you attribute any
importance to so grotesque an object?"

  "I never should, Mr. Holmes. But my wife does. It is fright-
ening her to death. She says nothing, but I can see terror in her
eyes. That's why I want to sift the matter to the bottom."

  Holmes held up the paper so that the sunlight shone full upon
it. It was a page torn from a notebook. The markings were done
in pencil, and ran in this way:

  Holmes examined it for some time, and then, folding it carefully
up, he placed it in his pocketbook.

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

  "I'm not much of a story-teller," said our visitor, nervously
clasping and unclasping his great, strong hands. "You'll just ask
me anything that I don't make clear. I'll begin at the time of my
marriage last year, but I want to say first of all that, though I'm
not a rich man, my people have been at Riding Thorpe for a
matter of five centuries, and there is no better known family in
the County of Norfolk. Last year I came up to London for the
Jubilee, and I stopped at a boardinghouse in Russell Square,
because Parker, the vicar of our parish, was staying in it. There
was an American young lady there -- Patrick was the name --
Elsie Patrick. In some way we became friends, until before my
month was up I was as much in love as man could be. We were
quietly married at a registry office, and we returned to Norfolk a
wedded couple. You'll think it very mad, Mr. Holmes, that a
man of a good old family should marry a wife in this fashion,
knowing nothing of her past or of her people, but if you saw her
and knew her, it would help you to understand.

  "She was very straight about it, was Elsie. I can't say that she
did not give me every chance of getting out of it if I wished to do
so. 'l have had some very disagreeable associations in my life,'
said she, 'I wish to forget all about them. I would rather never
allude to the past, for it is very painful to me. If you take me,
Hilton, you will take a woman who has nothing that she need be
personally ashamed of; but you will have to be content with my
word for it, and to allow me to be silent as to all that passed up
to the time when I became yours. If these conditions are too
hard, then go back to Norfolk, and leave me to the lonely life in
which you found me.' It was only the day before our wedding
that she said those very words to me. I told her that I was content
to take her on her own terms, and I have been as good as my
word.

  "Well, we have been married now for a year, and very happy
we have been. But about a month ago, at the end of June, I saw
for the first time signs of trouble. One day my wife received a
letter from America. I saw the American stamp. She turned
deadly white, read the letter, and threw it into the fire. She made
no allusion to it afterwards, and I made none, for a promise is a
promise, but she has never known an easy hour from that
moment. There is always a look of fear upon her face -- a look as
if she were waiting and expecting. She would do better to trust
me. She would find that I was her best friend. But until she
speaks, I can say nothing. Mind you, she is a truthful woman,
Mr. Holmes, and whatever trouble there may have been in her
past life it has been no fault of hers. I am only a simple Norfolk
squire, but there is not a man in England who ranks his family
honour more highly than I do. She knows it well, and she knew
it well before she married me. She would never bring any stain
upon it -- of that I am sure.

  "Well, now I come to the queer part of my story. About a
week ago -- it was the Tuesday of last week -- I found on one of
the window-sills a number of absurd little dancing figures like
these upon the paper. They were scrawled with chalk. I thought
that it was the stable-boy who had drawn them, but the lad swore
he knew nothing about it. Anyhow, they had come there during
the night. I had them washed out, and I only mentioned the
matter to my wife afterwards. To my surprise, she took it very
seriously, and begged me if any more came to let her see them.
None did come for a week, and then yesterday morning I found
this paper Iying on the sundial in the garden. I showed it to
Elsie, and down she dropped in a dead faint. Since then she has
looked like a woman in a dream, half dazed, and with terror
always lurking in her eyes. It was then that I wrote and sent the
paper to you, Mr. Holmes. It was not a thing that I could take to
the police, for they would have laughed at me, but you will tell
me what to do. I am not a rich man, but if there is any danger
threatening my little woman, I would spend my last copper to
shield her."

  He was a fine creature, this man of the old English soil --
simple, straight, and gentle, with his great, earnest blue eyes and
broad, comely face. His love for his wife and his trust in her
shone in his features. Holmes had listened to his story with the
utmost attention, and now he sat for some time in silent thought.

  "Don't you think, Mr. Cubitt," said he, at last, "that your
best plan would be to make a direct appeal to your wife, and to
ask her to share her secret with you?"

  Hilton Cubitt shook his massive head.

  "A promise is a promise, Mr. Holmes. If Elsie wished to tell
me she would. If not, it is not for me to force her confidence.
But I am justified in taking my own line -- and I will."

  "Then I will help you with all my heart. In the first place,
have you heard of any strangers being seen in your neighbour-
hood?"

  "No."

  "I presume that it is a very quiet place. Any fresh face would
cause comment?"

  "In the immediate neighbourhood, yes. But we have several
small watering-places not very far away. And the farmers take in
lodgers."

  "These hieroglyphics have evidently a meaning. If it is a
purely arbitrary one, it may be impossible for us to solve it. If,
on the other hand, it is systematic, I have no doubt that we shall
get to the bottom of it. But this particular sample is so short that
I can do nothing, and the facts which you have brought me are
so indefinite that we have no basis for an investigation. I would
suggest that you return to Norfolk, that you keep a keen lookout,
and that you take an exact copy of any fresh dancing men which
may appear. It is a thousand pities that we have not a reproduc-
tion of those which were done in chalk upon the window-sill.
Make a discreet inquiry also as to any strangers in the neigh-
bourhood. When you have collected some fresh evidence, come
to me again. That is the best advice which I can give you, Mr.
Hilton Cubitt. If there are any pressing fresh developments, I
shall be always ready to run down and see you in your Norfolk
home."

  The interview left Sherlock Holmes very thoughtful, and sev-
eral times in the next few days I saw him take his slip of paper
from his notebook and look long and earnestly at the curious
figures inscribed upon it. He made no allusion to the affair,
however, until one afternoon a fortnight or so later. I was going
out when he called me back.

  "You had better stay here, Watson."

  "Why?"

  "Because I had a wire from Hilton Cubitt this morning. You
remember Hilton Cubitt, of the dancing men? He was to reach
Liverpool Street at one-twenty. He may be here at any moment.
I gather from his wire that there have been some new incidents
of importance."

  We had not long to wait, for our Norfolk squire came straight
from the station as fast as a hansom could bring him. He was
looking worried and depressed, with tired eyes and a lined
forehead.

  "It's getting on my nerves, this business, Mr. Holmes," said
he, as he sank, like a wearied man, into an armchair. "It's bad
enough to feel that you are surrounded by unseen, unknown folk,
who have some kind of design upon you, but when, in addition
to that, you know that it is just killing your wife by inches, then
it becomes as much as flesh and blood can endure. She's wear-
ing away under it -- just wearing away before my eyes."

  "Has she said anything yet?"

  "No, Mr. Holmes, she has not. And yet there have been times
when the poor girl has wanted to speak, and yet could not quite
bring herself to take the plunge. I have tried to help her, but I
daresay I did it clumsily, and scared her from it. She has spoken
about my old family, and our reputation in the county, and our
pride in our unsullied honour, and I always felt it was leading to
the point, but somehow it turned off before we got there."

  "But you have found out something for yourself?"

  "A good deal, Mr. Holmes. I have several fresh dancing-men
pictures for you to examine, and, what is more important, I have
seen the fellow."

  "What, the man who draws them?"

  "Yes, I saw him at his work. But I will tell you everything in
order. When I got back after my visit to you, the very first thing
I saw next morning was a fresh crop of dancing men. They had
been drawn in chalk upon the black wooden door of the tool-
house, which stands beside the lawn in full view of the front
windows. I took an exact copy, and here it is." He unfolded a
paper and laid it upon the table. Here is a copy of the hiero-
glyphics:

  "Excellent!" said Holmes. "Excellent! Pray continue."

  "When I had taken the copy, I rubbed out the marks, but, two
mornings later, a fresh inscription had appeared. I have a copy of
it here":

  Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.

  "Our material is rapidly accumulating," said he.

  "Three days later a message was left scrawled upon paper,
and placed under a pebble upon the sundial. Here it is. The
characters are, as you see, exactly the same as the last one. After
that I determined to lie in wait, so I got out my revolver and I sat
up in my study, which overlooks the lawn and garden. About
two in the morning I was seated by the window, all being dark
save for the moonlight outside, when I heard steps behind me,
and there was my wife in her dressing-gown. She implored me to
come to bed. I told her frankly that I wished to see who it was
who played such absurd tricks upon us. She answered that it was
some senseless practical joke, and that I should not take any
notice of it.

  " 'If it really annoys you, Hilton, we might go and travel, you
and I, and so avoid this nuisance.'

  "'What, be driven out of our own house by a practical
joker?' said I. 'Why, we should have the whole county laughing
at us.'

  " 'Well, come to bed.' said she, 'and we can discuss it in the
morning.'

  "Suddenly, as she spoke, I saw her white face grow whiter
yet in the moonlight, and her hand tightened upon my shoulder.
Something was moving in the shadow of the tool-house. I saw a
dark, creeping figure which crawled round the corner and squat-
ted in front of the door. Seizing my pistol, I was rushing out,
when my wife threw her arms round me and held me with
convulsive strength. I tried to throw her off, but she clung to me
most desperately. At last I got clear, but by the time I had
opened the door and reached the house the creature was gone.
He had left a trace of his presence, however, for there on the
door was the very same arrangement of dancing men which had
already twice appeared, and which I have copied on that paper.
There was no other sign of the fellow anywhere, though I ran all
over the grounds. And yet the amazing thing is that he must have
been there all the time, for when I examined the door again in
the morning, he had scrawled some more of his pictures under
the line which I had already seen."

  "Have you that fresh drawing?"

  "Yes, it is very short, but I made a copy of it, and here it is."

  Again he produced a paper. The new dance was in this form:

  "Tell me," said Holmes -- and I could see by his eyes that he
was much excited -- "was this a mere addition to the first or did
it appear to be entirely separate?"

  "It was on a different panel of the door."

  "Excellent! This is far the most important of all for our
purpose. It fills me with hopes. Now, Mr. Hilton Cubitt, please
continue your most interesting statement."

  "I have nothing more to say, Mr. Holmes, except that I was
angry with my wife that night for having held me back when I
might have caught the skulking rascal. She said that she feared
that I might come to harm. For an instant it had crossed my mind
that perhaps what she really feared was that he might come to
harm, for I could not doubt that she knew who this man was, and
what he meant by these strange signals. But there is a tone in my
wife's voice, Mr. Holmes, and a look in her eyes which forbid
doubt, and I am sure that it was indeed my own safety that was
in her mind. There's the whole case, and now I want your advice
as to what I ought to do. My own inclination is to put half a
dozen of my farm lads in the shrubbery, and when this fellow
comes again to give him such a hiding that he will leave us in
peace for the future."

  "I fear it is too deep a case for such simple remedies," said
Holmes. "How long can you stay in London?"

  "I must go back today. I would not leave my wife alone all
night for anything. She is very nervous, and begged me to come
back."

  "I daresay you are right. But if you could have stopped. I
might possibly have been able to return with you in a day or two.
Meanwhile you will leave me these papers, and I think that it is
very likely that I shall be able to pay you a visit shortly and to
throw some light upon your case."

  Sherlock Holmes preserved his calm professional manner until
our visitor had left us, although it was easy for me, who knew
him so well, to see that he was profoundly excited. The moment
that Hilton Cubitt's broad back had disappeared through the door
my comrade rushed to the table, laid out all the slips of paper
containing dancing men in front of him, and threw himself into
an intricate and elaborate calculation. For two hours I watched
him as he covered sheet after sheet of paper with figures and
letters, so completely absorbed in his task that he had evidently
forgotten my presence. Sometimes he was making progress and
whistled and sang at his work; sometimes he was puzzled, and
would sit for long spells with a furrowed brow and a vacant eye.
Finally he sprang from his chair with a cry of satisfaction, and
walked up and down the room rubbing his hands together. Then
he wrote a long telegram upon a cable form. "If my answer to
this is as I hope, you will have a very pretty case to add to your
collection, Watson," said he. "I expect that we shall be able to
go down to Norfolk tomorrow, and to take our friend some very
definite news as to the secret of his annoyance."

  I confess that I was filled with curiosity, but I was aware that
Holmes liked to make his disclosures at his own time and in his
own way, so I waited until it should suit him to take me into his
confidence.

  But there was a delay in that answering telegram, and two
days of impatience followed, during which Holmes pricked up
his ears at every ring of the bell. On the evening of the second
there came a letter from Hilton Cubitt. All was quiet with him,
save that a long inscription had appeared that morning upon the
pedestal of the sundial. He inclosed a copy of it, which is here
reproduced:

  Holmes bent over this grotesque frieze for some minutes, and
then suddenly sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise
and dismay. His face was haggard with anxiety.

  "We have let this affair go far enough," said he. "Is there a
train to North Walsham to-night?"

  I turned up the time-table. The last had just gone.

  "Then we shall breakfast early and take the very first in the
morning," said Holmes. "Our presence is most urgently needed.
Ah! here is our expected cablegram. One moment, Mrs. Hudson,
there may be an answer. No, that is quite as I expected. This
message makes it even more essential that we should not lose an
hour in letting Hilton Cubitt know how matters stand, for it is a
singular and a dangerous web in which our simple Norfolk squire
is entangled."

  So, indeed, it proved, and as I come to the dark conclusion of
a story which had seemed to me to be only childish and bizarre, I
experience once again the dismay and horror with which I was
filled. Would that I had some brighter ending to communicate to
my readers, but these are the chronicles of fact, and I must
follow to their dark crisis the strange chain of events which for
some days made Riding Thorpe Manor a household word through
the length and breadth of England.

  We had hardly alighted at North Walsham, and mentioned the
name of our destination, when the stationmaster hurried towards
us. "I suppose that you are the detectives from London?" said
he.

  A look of annoyance passed over Holmes's face.

  "What makes you think such a thing?"

  "Because Inspector Martin from Norwich has just passed
through. But maybe you are the surgeons. She's not dead -- or
wasn't by last accounts. You may be in time to save her yet --
though it be for the gallows."

  Holmes's brow was dark with anxiety.

  "We are going to Riding Thorpe Manor," said he, "but we
have heard nothing of what has passed there."

  "It's a terrible business," said the stationmaster. "They are
shot, both Mr. Hilton Cubitt and his wife. She shot him and then
herself -- so the servants say. He's dead and her life is despaired
of. Dear, dear, one of the oldest families in the county of
Norfolk, and one of the most honoured."

  Without a word Holmes hurried to a carriage, and during the
long seven miles' drive he never opened his mouth. Seldom have
I seen him so utterly despondent. He had been uneasy during all
our journey from town, and I had observed that he had turned
over the morning papers with anxious attention, but now this
sudden realization of his worst fears left him in a blank melan-
choly. He leaned back in his seat, lost in gloomy speculation.
Yet there was much around to interest us, for we were passing
through as singular a countryside as any in England, where a few
scattered cottages represented the populatlon of to-day, while on
every hand enormous square-towered churches bristled up from
the flat green landscape and told of the glory and prosperity of
old East Anglia. At last the violet rim of the German Ocean
appeared over the green edge of the Norfolk coast, and the driver
pointed with his whip to two old brick and timber gables which
projected from a grove of trees. "That's Riding Thorpe Manor,"
said he.

  As we drove up to the porticoed front door, I observed in front
of it, beside the tennis lawn, the black tool-house and the
pedestalled sundial with which we had such strange associations.
A dapper little man, with a quick, alert manner and a waxed
moustache, had just descended from a high dog-cart. He intro-
duced himself as Inspector Martin, of the Norfolk Constabulary
and he was considerably astonished when he heard the name of
my companion.

  "Why, Mr. Holmes, the crime was only committed at three
this morning. How could you hear of it in London and get to the
spot as soon as l?"

  "I anticipated it. I came in the hope of preventing it."

  "Then you must have important evidence, of which we are
ignorant, for they were said to be a most united couple."

  "I have only the evidence of the dancing men," said Holmes.
"I will explain the matter to you later. Meanwhile, since it is too
late to prevent this tragedy, I am very anxious that I should use
the knowledge which I possess in order to insure that justice be
done. Will you associate me in your investigation, or will you
prefer that I should act independently?"

  "I should be proud to feel that we were acting together, Mr.
Holmes," said the inspector, earnestly.

  "In that case I should be glad to hear the evidence and to
examine the premises without an instant of unnecessary delay."

  Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow my friend to do
things in his own fashion, and contented himself with carefully
noting the results. The local surgeon, an old, white-haired man,
had just come down from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt's room, and he
reported that her injuries were serious, but not necessarily fatal.
The bullet had passed through the front of her brain, and it
would probably be some time before she could regain conscious-
ness. On the question of whether she had been shot or had shot
herself, he would not venture to express any decided opinion.
Certainly the bullet had been discharged at very close quarters.
There was only the one pistol found in the room, two barrels of
which had been emptied. Mr. Hilton Cubitt had been shot through
the heart. It was equally conceivable that he had shot her and then
himself, or that she had been the criminal, for the revolver lay
upon the floor midway between them.

  "Has he been moved?" asked Holmes.

  "We have moved nothing except the lady. We could not leave
her lying wounded upon the floor."

  "How long have you been here, Doctor?"

  "Since four o'clock."

  "Anyone else?"

  "Yes, the constable here."

  "And you have touched nothing?"

  "Nothing."

  "You have acted with great discretion. Who sent for you?"

  "The housemaid, Saunders."

  "Was it she who gave the alarm?"

  "She and Mrs. King, the cook."

  "Where are they now?"

  "In the kitchen, I believe."

  "Then I think we had better hear their story at once."

  The old hall, oak-panelled and high-windowed, had been
turned into a court of investigation. Holmes sat in a great,
old-fashioned chair, his inexorable eyes gleaming out of his
haggard face. I could read in them a set purpose to devote his
life to this quest until the client whom he had failed to save
should at last be avenged. The trim Inspector Martin, the old,
gray-headed country doctor, myself, and a stolid village police-
man made up the rest of that strange company.

  The two women told their story clearly enough. They had
been aroused from their sleep by the sound of an explosion,
which had been followed a minute later by a second one. They
slept in adjoining rooms, and Mrs. King had rushed in to Saunders.
Together they had descended the stairs. The door of the study
was open, and a candle was burning upon the table. Their master
lay upon his face in the centre of the room. He was quite dead.
Near the window his wife was crouching, her head leaning
against the wall. She was horribly wounded, and the side of her
face was red with blood. She breathed heavily, but was incapa-
ble of saying anything. The passage, as well as the room, was
full of smoke and the smell of powder. The window was cer-
tainly shut and fastened upon the inside. Both women were
positive upon the point. They had at once sent for the doctor and
for the constable. Then, with the aid of the groom and the
stable-boy, they had conveyed their injured mistress to her room.
Both she and her husband had occupied the bed. She was clad in
her dress -- he in his dressing-gown, over his night-clothes. Noth-
ing had been moved in the study. So far as they knew, there had
never been any quarrel between husband and wife. They had
always looked upon them as a very united couple.

  These were the main points of the servants' evidence. In
answer to Inspector Martin, they were clear that every door was
fastened upon the inside, and that no one could have escaped
from the house. In answer to Holmes, they both remembered that
they were conscious of the smell of powder from the moment
that they ran out of their rooms upon the top floor. "I commend
that fact very carefully to your attention." said Holmes to his
professional colleague. "And now I think that we are in a
position to undertake a thorough examination of the room."

  The study proved to be a small chamber, lined on three sides
with books, and with a writing-table facing an ordinary window,
which looked out upon the garden. Our first attention was given
to the body of the unfortunate squire, whose huge frame lay
stretched across the room. His disordered dress showed that he
had been hastily aroused from sleep. The bullet had been fired at
him from the front, and had remained in his body, after penetrat-
ing the heart. His death had certainly been instantaneous and
painless. There was no powder-marking either upon his dressing-
gown or on his hands. According to the country surgeon, the
lady had stains upon her face, but none upon her hand.

  "The absence of the latter means nothing, though its presence
may mean everything," said Holmes. "Unless the powder from
a badly fitting cartridge happens to spurt backward, one may fire
many shots without leaving a sign. I would suggest that Mr.
Cubitt's body may now be removed. I suppose, Doctor, you
have not recovered the bullet which wounded the lady?"

  "A serious operation will be necessary before that can be
done. But there are still four cartridges in the revolver. Two have
been fired and two wounds inflicted, so that each bullet can be
accounted for."

  "So it would seem," said Holmes. "Perhaps you can account
also for the bullet which has so obviously struck the edge of the
window?"

  He had turned suddenly, and his long, thin finger was pointing
to a hole which had been drilled right through the lower window-
sash. about an inch above the bottom.

  "By George!" cried the inspector. "How ever did you see
that?"

  "Because I looked for it."

  "Wonderful!" said the counlry doctor. "You are certainly
right, sir. Then a third shot has been fired, and therefore a third
person must have been present. But who could that have been,
and how could he have got away?"

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

  "Yes, sir; but I confess I did not quite follow you."

  "It suggested that at the time of the firing, the window as well
as the door of the room had been open. Otherwise the fumes of
powder could not have been blown so rapidly through the house.
A draught in the room was necessary for that. Both door and
window were only open for a very short time, however."

  "How do you prove that?"

  "Because the candle was not guttered."

  "Capital!" cried the inspector. "Capital!"

  "Feeling sure that the window had been open at the time of
the tragedy, I conceived that there might have been a third
person in the affair, who stood outside this opening and fired
through it. Any shot directed at this person might hit the sash. I
looked, and there, sure enough, was the bullet mark!"

  "But how came the window to be shut and fastened?"

  "The woman's first instinct would be to shut and fasten the
window. But, halloa! what is this?"

   It was a lady's hand-bag which stood upon the study table -- a
trim little handbag of crocodile-skin and silver. Holmes opened it
and turned the contents out. There were twenty fifty-pound notes
of the Bank of England, held together by an india-rubber band --
nothing else.           

   "This must be preserved, for it will figure in the trial," said
Holmes, as he handed the bag with its contents to the inspector.
"It is now necessary that we should try to throw some light upon
this third bullet, which has clearly, from the splintering of the
wood, been fired from inside the room. I should like to see Mrs.
King, the cook, again. You said, Mrs. King, that you were
awakened by a loud explosion. When you said that, did you
mean that it seemed to you to be louder than the second one?"

   "Well, sir, it wakened me from my sleep, so it is hard to
judge. But it did seem very loud."

   "You don't think that it might have been two shots fired
almost at the same instant?"

  "I am sure I couldn't say, sir."

  "I believe that it was undoubtedly so. I rather think, Inspector
Mattin, that we have now exhausted all that this room can teach
us. If you will kindly step round with me, we shall see what
fresh evidence the garden has to offer."

  A flower-bed extended up to the study window, and we all
broke into an exclamation as we approached it. The flowers were
trampled down, and the soft soil was imprinted all over with
footmarks. Large, masculine feet they were, with peculiarly
long, sharp toes. Holmes hunted about among the grass and
leaves like a retriever after a wounded bird. Then, with a cry of
satisfaction, he bent forward and picked up a little brazen cylinder.

  "I thought so," said he; "the revolver had an ejector, and
here is the third cartridge. I really think, Inspector Martin, that
our case is almost complete."

  The country inspector's face had shown his intense amazement
at the rapid and masterful progress of Holmes's investigation. At
first he had shown some disposition to assert his own position,
but now he was overcome with admiration, and ready to follow
without question wherever Holmes led.

  "Whom do you suspect?" he asked.

  "I'll go into that later. There are several points in this problem
which I have not been able to explain to you yet. Now that I
have got so far, I had best proceed on my own lines, and then
clear the whole matter up once and for all."

  "Just as you wish, Mr. Holmes, so long as we get our man."

  "I have no desire to make mysteries, but it is impossible at the
moment of action to enter into long and complex explanations. I
have the threads of this affair all in my hand. Even if this lady
should never recover consciousness, we can still reconstruct the
events of last night, and insure that justice be done. First of all, I
wish to know whether there is any inn in this neighbourhood
known as 'Elrige's'?"

  The servants were cross-questioned, but none of them had
heard of such a place. The stable-boy threw a light upon the
matter by remembering that a farmer of that name lived some
miles off, in the direction of East Ruston.

  "Is it a lonely farm?"

  "Very lonely, sir."

  "Perhaps they have not heard yet of all that happened here
during the night?"

  "Maybe not, sir."

  Holmes thought for a little, and then a curious smile played
over his face.

  "Saddle a horse, my lad," said he. "I shall wish you to take a
note to Elrige's Farm."

  He took from his pocket the various slips of the dancing men.
With these in front of him he worked for some time at the
study-table. Finally he handed a note to the boy, with directions
to put it into the hands of the person to whom it was addressed,
and especially to answer no questions of any sort which might be
put to him. I saw the outside of the note, addressed in straggling,
irregular characters, very unlike Holmes's usual precise hand. It
was consigned to Mr. Abe Slaney, Elrige's Farm, East Ruston,
Norfolk.

  "I think, Inspector," Holmes remarked, "that you would do
well to telegraph for an escort, as, if my calculations prove to be
correct, you may have a particularly dangerous prisoner to con-
vey to the county jail. The boy who takes this note could no
doubt forward your telegram. If there is an afternoon train to
town, Watson, I think we should do well to take it, as I have a
chemical analysis of some interest to finish, and this investiga-
tion draws rapidly to a close."

  When the youth had been dispatched with the note, Sherlock
Holmes gave his instructions to the servants. If any visitor were
to call asking for Mrs. Hilton Cubitt, no information should be
given as to her condition, but he was to be shown at once into
the drawing-room. He impressed these points upon them with the
utmost earnestness. Finally he led the way into the drawing-room,
with the remark that the business was now out of our hands, and
that we must while away the time as best we might until we
could see what was in store for us. The doctor had departed to
his patients and only the inspector and myself remained.

  "I think that I can help you to pass an hour in an interesting
and profitable manner," said Holmes, drawing his chair up to
the table, and spreading out in front of him the various papers
upon which were recorded the antics of the dancing men. "As to
you, friend Watson, I owe you every atonement for having
allowed your natural curiosity to remain so long unsatisfied. To
you, Inspector, the whole incident may appeal as a remarkable
professional study. I must tell you, first of all, the interesting
circumstances connected with the previous consultations which
Mr. Hilton Cubitt has had with me in Baker Street." He then
shortly recapitulated the facts which have already been recorded.
"I have here in front of me these singular productions, at which
one might smile, had they not proved themselves to be the
forerunners of so terrible a tragedy. I am fairly familiar with all
forms of secret writings, and am myself the author of a trifling
monograph upon the subject, in which I analyze one hundred and
sixty separate ciphers, but I confess that this is entirely new to
me. The object of those who invented the system has apparently
been to conceal that these characters convey a message, and to
give the idea that they are the mere random sketches of children.

  "Having once recognized, however, that the symbols stood
for letters, and having applied the rules which guide us in all
forms of secret writings, the solution was easy enough. The first
message submitted to me was so short that it was impossible for
me to do more than to say, with some confidence, that the
symbol ~ stood for E. As you are aware, E is the most common
letter in the English alphabet, and it predominates to so marked
an extent that even in a short sentence one would expect to find
it most often. Out of fifteen symbols in the first message, four
were the same, so it was reasonable to set this down as E. It is
true that in some cases the figure was bearing a flag, and in some
cases not, but it was probable, from the way in which the flags
were distributed, that they were used to break the sentence up
into words. I accepted this as a hypothesis, and noted that E was
represented by ~.

  "But now came the real difficulty of the inquiry. The order of
the English letters after E is by no means well marked, and any
preponderance which may be shown in an average of a printed
sheet may be reversed in a single short sentence. Speaking
roughly, T, A, 0, I, N, S, H, R, D, and L are the numerical
order in which letters occur; but T, A, 0, and I are very nearly
abreast of each other, and it would be an endless task to try each
combination until a meaning was arrived at. I therefore waited
for fresh material. In my second interview with Mr. Hilton
Cubitt he was able to give me two other short sentences and one
message, which appeared -- since there was no flag -- to be a
single word. Here are the symbols. Now, in the single word I
have already got the two E's coming second and fourth in a word
of five letters. It might be 'sever.' or 'lever,' or 'never.' There
can be no question that the latter as a reply to an appeal is far the
most probable, and the circumstances pointed to its being a reply
written by the lady. Accepting it as correct, we are now able to say
that the symbols ~~~ stand respectively for N, V, and R.

  "Even now I was in considerable difficulty, but a happy
thought put me in possession of several other letters. It occurred
to me that if these appeals came, as I expected, from someone
who had been intimate with the lady in her early life, a combina-
tion which contained two E's with three letters between might
very well stand for the name 'ELSIE.' On examination I found
that such a combination formed the termination of the message
which was three times repeated. It was certainly some appeal to
'Elsie.' In this way I had got my L, S, and I. But what appeal
could it be? There were only four letters in the word which
preceded 'Elsie,' and it ended in E. Surely the word must be
'COME.' I tried all other four letters ending in E, but could find
none to fit the case. So now I was in possession of C. 0, and
M, and I was in a position to attack the first message once more,
dividing it into words and putting dots for each symbol which
was still unknown. So treated, it worked out in this fashion:

              . M . ERE . . E SL . NE.

  "Now the first letter can only be A, which is a most useful
discovery, since it occurs no fewer than three times in this short
sentence, and the H is also apparent in the second word. Now it
becomes:

              AM HERE A . E SLANE.

  Or, filling in the obvious vacancies in the name:

              AM HERE ABE SLANEY.

I had so many letters now that I could proceed with considerable
confidence to the second message, which worked out in this
fashion:

             A . ELRI . ES

Here I could only make sense by putting T and G for the missing
letters, and supposing that the name was that of some house or
inn at which the writer was staying."

  Inspector Martin and I had listened with the utmost interest to
the full and clear account of how my friend had produced results
which had led to so complete a command over our difficulties.

  "What did you do then, sir?" asked the inspector.

  "I had every reason to suppose that this Abe Slaney was an
American, since Abe is an American contraction, and since a
letter from America had been the starting-point of all the trouble.
I had also every cause to think that there was some criminal
secret in the matter. The lady's allusions to her past, and her
refusal to take her husband into her confidence, both pointed in
that direction. I therefore cabled to my friend, Wilson Hargreave,
of the New York Police Bureau, who has more than once made
use of my knowledge of London crime. I asked him whether the
name of Abe Slaney was known to him. Here is his reply: 'The
most dangerous crook in Chicago.' On the very evening upon
which I had his answer, Hilton Cubitt sent me the last message
from Slaney. Working with known letters, it took this form:

               ELSIE . RE . ARE TO MEET THY GO.

The addition of a P and a D completed a message which showed
me that the rascal was proceeding from persuasion to threats, and
my knowledge of the crooks of Chicago prepared me to find that
he might very rapidly put his words into action. I at once came
to Norfolk with my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, but,
unhappily, only in time to find that the worst had already
occurred."

  "It is a privilege to be associated with you in the handling of a
case," said the inspector, warmly. "You will excuse me, how-
ever, if I speak frankly to you. You are only answerable to
yourself, but I have to answer to my superiors. If this Abe
Slaney, living at Elrige's, is indeed the murderer, and if he has
made his escape while I am seated here, I should certainly get
into serious trouble."

  "You need not be uneasy. He will not try to escape."

  "How do you know?"

  "To fly would be a confession of guilt."

  "Then let us go to arrest him."

  "I expect him here every instant."

  "But why should he come?"

  "Because I have written and asked him."

  "But this is incredible, Mr. Holmes! Why should he come
because you have asked him? Would not such a request rather
rouse his suspicions and cause him to fly?"

  "I think I have known how to frame the letter," said Sherlock
Holmes. "In fact, if I am not very much mistaken, here is the
gentleman himself coming up the dnve."

  A man was striding up the path which led to the door. He was
a tall, handsome, swarthy fellow, clad in a suit of gray flannel,
with a Panama hat, a bristling black beard, and a great, aggres-
sive hooked nose, and flourishing a cane as he walked. He
swaggered up the path as if the place belonged to him, and we
heard his loud, confident peal at the bell.

  "I think, gentlemen," said Holmes, quietly, "that we had
best take up our position behind the door. Every precaution is
necessary when dealing with such a fellow. You will need your
handcuffs, Inspector. You can leave the talking to me."

  We waited in silence for a minute -- one of those minutes
which one can never forget. Then the door opened and the man
stepped in. In an instant Holmes clapped a pistol to his head, and
Martin slipped the handcuffs over his wrists. It was all done so
swiftly and deftly that the fellow was helpless before he knew
that he was attacked. He glared from one to the other of us with
a pair of blazing black eyes. Then he burst into a bitter laugh.

  "Well, gentlemen, you have the drop on me this time. I seem
to have knocked up against something hard. But I came here in
answer to a letter from Mrs. Hilton Cubitt. Don't tell me that she
is in this? Don't tell me that she helped to set a trap for me?"

  "Mrs. HiLton Cubitt was seriously injured, and is at death's
door."

  The man gave a hoarse cry of grief, which rang through the
house.

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

  "She was found, badly wounded, by the side of her dead
husband."

  He sank with a deep groan on to the settee, and buried his face
in his manacled hands. For five minutes he was silent. Then he
raised his face once more, and spoke with the cold composure of
despair.

  "I have nothing to hide from you, gentlemen," said he. "If I
shot the man he had his shot at me, and there's no murder in
that. But if you think I could have hurt that woman, then you
don't know either me or her. I tell you, there was never a man in
this world loved a woman more than I loved her. I had a right to
her. She was pledged to me years ago. Who was this Englishman
that he should come between us? I tell you that I had the first
right to her, and that I was only claiming my own."

  "She broke away from your influence when she found the
man that you are," said Holmes, sternly. "She fled from Amer-
ica to avoid you, and she married an honourable gentleman in
England. You dogged her and followed her and made her life a
misery to her, in order to induce her to abandon the husband
whom she loved and respected in order to fly with you, whom
she feared and hated. You have ended by bringing about the
death of a noble man and driving his wife to suicide. That is
your record in this business, Mr. Abe Slaney, and you will
answer for it to the law.

  "If Elsie dies, I care nothing what becomes of me," said the
American. He opened one of his hands, and looked at a note
crumpled up in his palm. "See here, mister," he cried, with a
gleam of suspicion in his eyes, "you're not trying to scare me
over this, are you? If the lady is hurt as bad as you say, who was
it that wrote this note?" He tossed it forward on to the table.

  "I wrote it, to bring you here."

  "You wrote it? There was no one on earth outside the Joint
who knew the secret of the dancing men. How came you to write
it?"

  "What one man can invent another can discover," said Holmes.
"There is a cab coming to convey you to Norwich, Mr. Slaney.
But, meanwhile, you have time to make some small reparation
for the injury you have wrought. Are you aware that Mrs. Hilton
Cubitt has herself lain under grave suspicion of the murder of her
husband, and that it was only my presence here, and the knowl-
edge which I happened to possess, which has saved her from the
accusation? The least that you owe her is to make it clear to the
whole world that she was in no way, directly or indirectly,
responsible for his tragic end."

  "I ask nothing better," said the American. "I guess the very
best case I can make for myself is the absolute naked truth."

  "It is my duty to warn you that it will be used against you,"
cried the inspector, with the magnificent fair play of the British
criminal law.

  Slaney shrugged his shoulders.

  "I'll chance that," said he. "First of all, I want you gentle-
men to understand that I have known this lady since she was a
child. There were seven of us in a gang in Chicago, and Elsie's
father was the boss of the Joint. He was a clever man, was old
Patrick. It was he who invented that writing, which would pass
as a child's scrawl unless you just happened to have the key to it.
Well Elsie learned some of our ways. but she couldn't stand
the business, and she had a bit of honest money of her own. so
she gave us all the slip and got away to London. She had been
engaged to me, and she would have married me, I believe, if I
had taken over another profession, but she would have nothing to
do with anything on the cross. It was only after her marriage to
this Englishman that I was able to find out where she was. I
wrote to her, but got no answer. After that I came over, and, as
letters were no use, I put my messages where she could read
them.

  "Well, I have been here a month now. I lived in that farm,
where I had a room down below, and could get in and out every
night, and no one the wiser. I tried all I could to coax Elsie
away. I knew that she read the messages, for once she wrote an
answer under one of them. Then my temper got the better of me,
and I began to threaten her. She sent me a letter then, imploring
me to go away, and saying that it would break her heart if any
scandal should come upon her husband. She said that she would
come down when her husband was asleep at three in the morn-
ing, and speak with me through the end window, if I would go
away afterwards and leave her in peace. She came down and
brought money with her, trying to bribe me to go. This made
me mad and I caught her arm and tried to pull her through
the window. At that moment in rushed the husband with his
revolver in his hand. Elsie had sunk down upon the floor,
and we were face to face. I was heeled also, and I held up my
gun to scare him off and let me get away. He fired and missed
me. I pulled off almost at the same instant, and down he
dropped. I made away across the garden, and as I went I heard
the window shut behind me. That's God's truth, gentlemen,
every word of it: and I heard no more about it until that lad came
riding up with a note which made me walk in here, like a jay,
and give myself into your hands."

  A cab had driven up whilst the American had been talking.
Two uniformed policemen sat inside. Inspector Martin rose and
touched his prisoner on the shoulder.

  "It is time for us to go."

  "Can I see her first?"

  "No, she is not conscious. Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I only hope
that, if ever again I have an important case, I shall have the
good fortune to have you by my side."

  We stood at the window and watched the cab drive away. As I
turned back, my eye caught the pellet of paper which the pris-
oner had tossed upon the table. It was the note with which
Holmes had decoyed him.

  "See if you can read it, Watson," said he, with a smile.

  It contained no word, but this little line of dancing men:

  "If you use the code which I have explained," said Holmes,
"you will find that it simply means 'Come here at once.' I was
convinced that it was an invitation which he would not refuse,
since he could never imagine that it could come from anyone but
the lady. And so, my dear Watson, we have ended by turning the
dancing men to good when they have so often been the agents of
evil, and I think that I have fulfilled my promise of giving you
something unusual for your notebook. Three-forty is our train,
and I fancy we should be back in Baker Street for dinner."

  Only one word of epilogue. The American, Abe Slaney, was
condemned to death at the winter assizes at Norwich, but his
penalty was changed to penal servitude in consideration of miti-
gating circumstances, and the certainty that Hilton Cubitt had
fired the first shot. Of Mrs. Hilton Cubitt I only know that I have
heard she recovered entirely, and that she still remains a widow,
devoting her whole life to the care of the poor and to the
administration of her husband's estate.

         The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist

  From the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive, Mr. Sherlock Holmes
was a very busy man. It is safe to say that there was no public
case of any difficulty in which he was not consulted during those
eight years, and there were hundreds of private cases, some of
them of the most intricate and extraordinary character. in which
he played a prominent part. Many startling successes and a few
unavoidable failures were the outcome of this long period of
continuous work. As I have preserved very full notes of all these
cases, and was myself personally engaged in many of them it
may be imagined that it is no easy task to know which I should
select to lay before the public. I shall, however. preserve my
former rule, and give the preference to those cases which derive
their interest not so much from the brutality of the crime as from
the ingenuity and dramatic quality of the solution. For this
reason I will now lay before the reader the facts connected with
Miss Violet Smith. the solitary cyclist of Charlington, and the
curious sequel of our investigation. which culminated in unex-
pected tragedy. It is true that the circumstance did not admit of
any striking illustration of those powers for which my friend was
famous, but there were some points about the case which made it
stand out in those long records of crime from which I gather the
material for these little narratives.

  On refering to my notebook for the year 1895, I find that it
was upon Saturday, the 23d of April, that we first heard of Miss
Violet Smilh. Her visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome
to Holmes, for he was immersed at the moment in a very
abstruse and complicated problem concerning the peculiar perse-
cution to which John Vincent Harden, the well known tobacco
millionaire, had been subjected. My friend, who loved above all
things precision and concentration of thought, resented anything
which distracted his attention from the matter in hand. And yet
without a harshness which was foreign to his nature, it was
impossible to refuse to listen to the story of the young and
beautiful woman, tall, graceful, and queenly, who presented
herself at Baker Street late in the evening, and implored his
assistance and advice. It was vain to urge that his time was
already fully occupied, for the young lady had come with the
determination to tell her story, and it was evident that nothing
short of force could get her out of the room until she had done
so. With a resigned air and a somewhat weary smile, Holmes
begged the beautiful intruder to take a seat. and to inform us
what it was that was troubling her.

  "At least it cannot be your health," said he, as his keen eyes
darted ovel her: "so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy."

  She glanlced down in surprise at her own feet, and I observed
the slight roughening of the side of the sole caused by the
friction of the edge of the pedal.

  "Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes. and that has
something to do with my visit to you to-day."

  My friend took the lady's ungloved hand, and examined it
with as close an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist
would show to a specimen.

  "You willl cxcuse me. I am sure. It is my business," said he,
as he dropped it. "I nearly fell into the error of supposing that
you were typewriting. Of course, it is obvious that it is music.
You observe the spatulate finger-ends, Watson, which is com-
mon to both professions? There is a spirituality about the face,
however" -- she gently turned it towards thc light -- "which the
typewriter does not generate. This lady is a musician."

  "Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music."

  "In the country, I presume, from your complexion."

  "Yes, sir, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey."

  "A beautiful neighbourhood, and full of the most interesting
association. You remember, Watson, that it was near there that
we took Archie Stamford, the forger. Now, Miss Violet, what
has happened to you, near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?"

  The young lady, with great clearness and composure, made
the following curious statement:

  "My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith, who
conducted the orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre. My mother
and I were left without a relation in the world except one uncle
Ralph Smith, who went to Africa twenty-five years ago, and we
have never had a word from him since. When father died, we
were left very poor, but one day we were told that there was an
advertisement in the Times, inquiring for our whereabouts. You
can imagine how excited we were, for we thought that someone
had left us a fortune. We went at once to the lawyer whose name
was given in the paper. There we met two gentlemen, Mr.
Carruthers and Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from
South Africa. They said that my uncle was a friend of theirs
that he had died some months before in great poverty in Johan-
nesburg, and that he had asked them with his last breath to hunt
up his relations, and see that they were in no want. It seemed
strange to us that Uncle Ralph, who took no notice of us when
he was alive should be so careful to look after us when he was
dead, but Mr. Carruthers explained that the reason was that my
uncle had just heard of the death of his brother, and so felt
responsible for our fate."

  "Excuse me." said Holmes. "When was this interview?"

  "Last December -- four months ago."

  "Pray proceed."

  "Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person. He
was for ever making eyes at me -- a coarse, puffy-faced, red-
moustached young man, with his hair plastered down on each
side of his forehead. I thought that he was perfectly hateful -- and
I was sure that Cyril would not wish me to know such a
person."

  "Oh, Cyril is his name!" said Holmes, smiling.

  The young lady blushed and laughed.

  "Yes, Mr. Holmes, Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and
we hope to be married at the end of the summer. Dear me, how
did I get talking about him? What I wished to say was that Mr.
Woodley was perfectly odious, but that Mr. Carruthers, who was
a much older man, was more agreeable. He was a dark, sallow,
clean-shaven, silent person, but he had polite manners and a
pleasant smile. He inquired how we were left, and on finding
that we were very poor, he suggested that I should come and
teach music to his only daughter, aged ten. I said that I did not
like to leave my mother, on which he suggested that I should go
home to her every week-end, and he offered me a hundred a
year, which was certainly splendid pay. So it ended by my
accepting, and I went down to Chiltern Grange, about six miles
from Farnham. Mr. Carruthers was a widower, but he had
engaged a lady housekeeper, a very respectable, elderly person,
called Mrs. Dixon, to look after his establishment. The child was
a dear, and everything promised weli. Mr. Carruthers was very
kind and very musical, and we had most pleasant evenings
together. Every week-end I went home to my mother in town.

  "The first flaw in my happiness was the arrival of the red-
moustached Mr. Woodley. He came for a visit of a week, and
oh! it seemed three months to me. He was a dreadful person -- a
bully to everyone else, but to me something infinitely worse. He
made odious love to me, boasted of his wealth, said that if I
married him I could have the finest diamonds in London, and
finally, when I would have nothing to do with him, he seized me
in his arms one day after dinner -- he was hideously strong -- and
swore that he would not let me go until I had kissed him. Mr.
Carruthers came in and tore him from me, on which he turned
upon his own host, knocking him down and cutting his face open.
That was the end of his visit, as you can imagine. Mr. Carruthers
apologized to me next day, and assured me that I should never
be exposed to such an insult again. I have not seen Mr. Woodley
since.                 

  "And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special thing
which has caused me to ask your advlce to-day. You must know
that every Saturday forenoon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham
Station, in order to get the 12:22 to town. The road from
Chiltern Grange is a lonely one, and at one spot it is particularly
so, for it lies for over a mile between Charlington Heath upon
one side and the woods which lie round Charlington Hall upon the
other. You could not find a more lonely tract of road anywhere,
and it is quite rare to meet so much as a cart, or a peasant, until
you reach the high road near Crooksbury Hill. Two weeks ago I
was passing this place, when I chanced to look back over my
shoulder, and about two hundred yards behind me I saw a man,
also on a bicycle. He seemed to be a middle-aged man, with a
short, dark beard. I looked back before I reached Farnham, but
the man was gone, so I thought no more about it. But you can
imagine how surprised I was, Mr. Holmes, when, on my return
on the Monday, I saw the same man on the same stretch of road.
My astonishment was increased when the incident occurred again,
exactly as before, on the following Saturday and Monday. He
always kept his distance and did not molest me in any way, but
still it certainly was very odd. I mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers,
who seemed interested in what I said, and told me that he had
ordered a horse and trap, so that in future I should not pass over
these lonely roads without some companion.

  "The horse and trap were to have come this week, but for
some reason they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to
the station. That was this morning. You can think that I looked
out when I came to Charlington Heath, and there, sure enough,
was the man, exactly as he had been the two weeks before. He
always kept so far from me that I could not clearly see his face,
but it was certainly someone whom I did not know. He was
dressed in a dark suit with a cloth cap. The only thing about his
face that I could clearly see was his dark beard. To-day I was not
alarmed, but I was filled with curiosity, and I determined to find
out who he was and what he wanted. I slowed down my ma-
chine, but he slowed down his. Then I stopped altogether, but he
stopped also. Then I laid a trap for him. There is a sharp turning
of the road, and I pedalled very quickly round this, and then I
stopped and waited. I expected him to shoot round and pass me
before he could stop. But he never appeared. Then I went back
and looked round the corner. I could see a mile of road, but he
was not on it. To make it the more extraordinary, there was no
side road at this point down which he could have gone."

  Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. "This case certainly
presents some features of its own," said he. "How much time
elapsed between your turning the corner and your discovery that
the road was clear?"

  "Two or three minutes."

  "Then he could not have retreated down the road, and you say
that there are no side roads?"

  "None."

  "Then he certainly took a footpath on one side or the other."

  "It could not have been on the side of the heath, or I should
have seen him."

  "So, by the process of exclusion, we arrive at the fact that he
made his way toward Charlington Hall, which, as I understand
is situated in its own grounds on one side of the road. Anything
else?"

  "Nothing, Mr. Holmes, save that I was so perplexed that I felt
I should not be happy until I had seen you and had your advice."

  Holmes sat in silence for some little time.

  "Where is the gentleman to whom you are engaged?" he
asked at last.

  "He is in the Midland Electrical Company, at Coventry."

  "He would not pay you a surprise visit?"
- "Oh, Mr. Holmes! As if I should not know him!"

  "Have you had any other admirers?"

  "Several before I knew Cyril."

  "And since?"

  "There was this dreadful man, Woodley, if you can call him
an admirer."

  "No one else?"

  Our fair client seemed a little confused.

  "Who was he?" asked Holmes.

  "Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine; but it had seemed to me
sometimes that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal
of interest in me. We are thrown rather together. I play his
accompaniments in the evening. He has never said anything.
He is a perfect gentleman. But a girl always knows."

  "Ha!" Holmes looked grave. "What does he do for a living?"

  "He is a rich man."

  "No carriages or horses?"

  "Well, at least he is fairly well-to-do. But he goes into the
city two or three times a week. He is deeply interested in South
African gold shares."

  "You will let me know any fresh development, Miss Smith. I
am very busy just now, but I will find time to make some
inquiries into your case. In the meantime, take no step without
letting me know. Good-bye, and I trust that we shall have
nothing but good news from you."

  "It is part of the settled order of Nature that such a girl should
have followers," said Holmes, as he pulled at his meditative
pipe. "but for choice not on bicycles in lonely country roads.
Some secretive lover, beyond all doubt. But there are curious
and suggestive details about the case. Watson."

  "That he should appear only at that point?"

  "Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who are the tenants
of Charlington Hall. Then, again, how about the connection
between Carruthers and Woodley, since they appear to be men of
such a different type? How came they both to be so keen upon
looking up Ralph Smith's relations? One more point. What sort
of a menage is it which pays double the market price for a
governess but does not keep a horse, although six miles from the
station? Odd, Watson -- very odd!"

  "You will go down?"

  "No, my dear fellow, you will go down. This may be some
trifling intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research
for the sake of it. On Monday you will arrive early at Farnham;
you will conceal yourself near Charlington Heath; you will ob-
serve these facts for yourself, and act as your own judgment
advises. Then, having inquired as to the occupants of the Hall,
you will come back to me and report. And now, Watson, not
another word of the matter until we have a few solid stepping-
stones on which we may hope to get across to our solution."

  We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the
Monday by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9:50, so I started
early and caught the 9:13. At Farnham Station I had no diffi-
culty in being directed to Charlington Heath. It was impossible
to mistake the scene of the young lady's adventure, for the road
runs between the open heath on one side and an old yew hedge
upon the other, surrounding a park which is studded with mag-
nificent trees. There was a main gateway of lichen-studded
stone, each side pillar surmounted by mouldering heraldic em-
blems, but besides this central carriage drive I observed several
points where there were gaps in the hedge and paths leading
through them. The house was invisible from the road, but the
surroundings all spoke of gloom and decay.

  The heath was covered with golden patches of flowering
gorse, gleaming magnificently in the light of the bright spring
sunshine. Behind one of these clumps I took up my position, so
as to command both the gateway of the Hall and a long stretch of
the road upon either side. It had been deserted when I leift it, but
now I saw a cyclist riding down it from the opposite direction to
that in which I had come. He was clad in a dark suit, and I saw
that he had a black beard. On reaching the end of the Chdrlington
grounds, he sprang from his machine and led it through a gap in
the hedge, disappearing from my view.

  A quarter of an hour passed, and then a second cyclist ap-
peared. This time it was the young lady coming from the station.
I saw her look about her as she came to the Charlington hedge.
An instant later the man emerged from his hiding-place, sprang
upon his cycle, and followed her. In all the broad landscape
those were the only moving figures, the graceful girl sitting very
straight upon her machine, and the man behind her bending low
over his handle-bar with a curiously furtive suggestion in every
movement. She locked back at him and slowed her pace. He
slowed also. She stopped. He at once stopped, too, keeping two
hundred yards behind her. Her next movement was as unex-
pected as it was spirited. She suddenly whisked her wheels round
and dashed straight at him. He was as quick as she, however,
and darted off in desperate flight. Presently she came back up the
road again, her head haughtily in the air, not deigning to take
any further notice of her silent attendant. He had turned also, and
still kept his distance until the curve of the road hid them from
my sight.

  I remained in my hiding-place, and it was well that I did so,
for presently the man reappeared, cycling slowly back. He turned
in at the Hall gates, and dismounted from his machine. For some
minutes I could see him standing among the trees. His hands
were raised, and he seemed to be settling his necktie. Then he
mounted his cycle and rode away from me down the drive
towards the Hall. I ran across the heath and peered through the
trees. Far away I could catch glimpses of the old gray building
with its bristling Tudor chimneys, but the drive ran through a
dense shrubbery, and I saw no more of my man.

  However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly good
morning's work, and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham.
The local house agent could tell me nothing about Charlington
Hall, and referred me to a well known firm in Pall Mall. There I
halted on my way home, and met with courtesy from the repre-
sentative. No, I could not have Charlington Hall for the summer.
I was just too late. It had been let about a month ago. Mr.
Williamson was the name of the tenant. He was a respectable,
elderly gentleman. The polite agent was afraid he could say no
more, as the affairs of his clients were not matters which he
could discuss.

  Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report
which I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not
elicit that word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should
have valued. On the contrary. his austere face was even more
severe than usual as he commented upon the things that I had
done and the things that I had not.

  "Your hiding-place, my dear Watson, was very faulty. You
should have been behind the hedge, then you would have had a
close view of this interesting person. As it is, you were some
hundreds of yards away and can tell me even less than Miss Smith.
She thinks she does not know the man; I am convinced she does.
Why, otherwise, should he be so desperately anxious that she
should not get so near him as to see his features? You describe him
as bending over the handle-bar. Concealment again, you see. You
really have done remarkably badly. He returns to the house, and you
want to find out who he is. You come to a London house agent!"

  "What should I have done?" I cried, with some heat.

  "Gone to the nearest public-house. That is the centre of
country gossip. They would have told you every name, from the
master to the scullery-maid. Williamson? It conveys nothing to
my mind. If he is an elderly man he is not this active cyclist who
sprints away from that young lady's athletic pursuit. What have
we gained by your expedition? The knowledge that the girl's
story is true. I never doubted it. That there is a connection
between the cyclist and the Hall. I never doubted that either.
That the Hall is tenanted by Williamson. Who's the better for
that? Well, well, my dear sir, don't look so depressed. We can
do little more until next Saturday, and in the meantime I may
make one or two inquiries myself."

  Next morning, we had a note from Miss Smith, recounting
shortly and accurately the very incidents which I had seen, but
the pith of the letter lay in the postscript:

      I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr.

    Holmes, when I tell you that my place here has become

    difficult, owing to the fact that my employer has proposed

    marriage to me. I am convinced that his feelings are most

    deep and most honourable. At the same time, my promise is

    of course given. He took my refusal very seriously, but also

    very gently. You can understand, however, that the situa-

    tion is a little strained.

  "Our young friend seems to be getting into deep waters," said
Holmes, thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. "The case cer-
tainly presents more features of interest and more possibility of
development than I had originally thought. I should be none the
worse for a quiet, peaceful day in the country, and I am inclined
to run down this afternoon and test one or two theories which I
have formed."

  Holmes's quiet day in the country had a singular termination,
for he arrived at Baker Street late in the evening, with a cut lip
and a discoloured lump upon his forehead, besides a general air
of dissipation which would have made his own person the fitting
object of a Scotland Yard investigation. He was immensely
tickled by his own adventures and laughed heartily as he re-
counted them.

  "I get so little active exercise that it is always a treat," said
he. "You are aware that I have some proficiency in the good old
British sport of boxing. Occasionally, it is of service; today, for
example, I should have come to very ignominious grief without
it."

  I begged him to tell me what had occurred.

  "I found that country pub which I had already recommended
to your notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries. I was in
the bar, and a garrulous landlord was giving me all that I
wanted. Williamson is a white-bearded man, and he lives alone
with a small staff of servants at the Hall. There is some rumor
that he is or has been a clergyman, but one or two incidents of
his short residence at the Hall struck me as peculiarly unec-
clesiastical. I have already made some inquiries at a clerical
agency, and they tell me that there was a man of that name in
orders, whose career has been a singularly dark one. The land-
lord further informed me that there are usually weekend visitors -- 'a
warm lot, sir' -- at the Hall, and especially one gentleman with a
red moustache, Mr. Woodley by name, who was always there.
We had got as far as this, when who should walk in but the
gentleman himself, who had been drinking his beer in the tap-
room and had heard the whole conversation. Who was l? What
did I want? What did I mean by asking questions? He had a fine
flow of language, and his adjectives were very vigorous. He
ended a string of abuse by a vicious backhander, which I failed to
entirely avoid. The next few minutes were delicious. It was a
straight left against a slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me.
Mr. Woodley went home in a cart. So ended my country trip,
and it must be confessed that, however enjoyable, my day on the
Surrey border has not been much more profitable than your
own."

  The Thursday brought us another letter from our client.

      You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes [said she] to hear

    that I am leaving Mr. Carruthers's employment. Even the

    high pay cannot reconcile me to the discomforts of my

    situation. On Saturday I come up to town, and I do not

    intend to return. Mr. Carruthers has got a trap, and so the

    dangers of the lonely road, if there ever were any dangers,

    are now over.

      As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the

    strained situation with Mr. Carruthers, but it is the reap-

    pearance of that odious man, Mr. Woodley. He was always

    hideous, but he looks more awful than ever now, for he

    appears to have had an accident, and he is much disfigured.

    I saw him out of the window, but I am glad to say I did not

    meet him. He had a long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who

    seemed much excited afterwards. Woodley must be staying

    in the neighbourhood, for he did not sleep here, and yet I

    caught a glimpse of him again this morning, slinking about

    in the shrubbery. I would sooner have a savage wild animal

    loose about the place. I loathe and fear him more than I can

    say. How can Mr. Carruthers endure such a creature for a

    moment? However, all my troubles will be over on Saturday.

  "So I trust, Watson, so I trust," said Holmes, gravely. "There
is some deep intrigue going on round that little woman, and it is
our duty to see that no one molests her upon that last journey. I
think, Watson, that we must spare time to run down together on
Saturday morning and make sure that this curious and inclusive
investigation has no untoward ending."

  I confess that I had not up to now taken a very serious view of
the case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre
than dangerous. That a man should lie in wait for and follow a
very handsome woman is no unheard-of thing, and if he has so
little audacity that he not only dared not address her, but even
fled from her approach. he was not a very formidable assailant.
The ruffian Woodley was a very different person, but, except on
one occasion, he had not molested our client, and now he visited
the house of Carruthers without intruding upon her presence. The
man on the bicycle was doubtless a member of those week-end
parties at the Hall of which the publican had spoken, but who he
was, or what he wanted, was as obscure as ever. It was the
severity of Holmes's manner and the fact that he slipped a
revolver into his pocket before leaving our rooms which im-
pressed me with the feeling that tragedy might prove to lurk
behind this curious train of events.

  A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and
the heath-covered countryside. with the glowing clumps of flow-
ering gorse, seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were
weary of the duns and drabs and slate grays of London. Holmes
and I walked along the broad, sandy road inhaling the fresh
morning air and rejoicing in the music of the birds and the fresh
breath of the spring. From a rise of the road on the shoulder of
Crooksbury Hill, we could see the grim Hall bristling out from
amidst the ancient oaks, which, old as they were, were still
younger than the building which they surrounded. Holmes pointed
down the long tract of road which wound, a reddish yellow
band, between the brown of the heath and the budding green of
the woods. Far away, a black dot, we could see a vehicle
moving in our direction. Holmes gave an exclamation of
impatience.

  "I have given a margin of half an hour," said he. "If that is
her trap, she must be making for the earlier train. I fear, Watson,
that she will be past Charlington before we can possibly meet
her."

  From the instant that we passed the rise, we could no longer
see the vehicle, but we hastened onward at such a pace that my
sedentary life began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to fall
behind. Holmes, however, was always in training, for he had
inexhaustible stores of nervous energy upon which to draw. His
springy step never slowed until suddenly, when he was a hun-
dred yards in front of me, he halted, and I saw him throw up his
hand with a gesture of grief and despair. At the same instant an
empty dog-cart, the horse cantering, the reins trailing, appeared
round the curve of the road and rattled swiftly towards us.

  "Too late, Watson, too late!" cried Holmes, as I ran panting
to his side. "Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train!
It's abduction, Watson -- abduction! Murder! Heaven knows whatl
Block the road! Stop the horse! That's right. Now, jump in, and
let us see if I can repair the consequences of my own blunder."

  We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turning
the horse, gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back
along the road. As we turned the curve, the whole stretch of road
between the Hall and the heath was opened up. I grasped Holmes's
arm.

  "That's the man!" I gasped.

  A solitary cyclist was coming towards us. His head was down
and his shoulders rounded, as he put every ounce of energy that
he possessed on to the pedals. He was flying like a racer.
Suddenly he raised his bearded face, saw us close to him, and
pulled up, springing from his machine. That coal-black beard
was in singular contrast to the pallor of his face, and his eyes
were as bright as if he had a fever. He stared at us and at the
dog-cart. Then a look oF amazement came over his face.

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

  Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down from the
cart.

  "You're the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet
Smith?" he said, in his quick, clear way.

  "That's what I'm asking you. You're in her dog-cart. You
ought to know where she is."

  "We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it. We
drove back to help the young lady."

  "Good Lord! Good Lord! What shall I do?" cried the stranger
in an ecstasy of despair. "They've got her, that hell-hound
Woodley and the blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you
really are her friend. Stand by me and we'll save her, if I have to
leave my carcass in Charllington Wood."

  He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in the
hedge. Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazing
beside the road, followed Holmes.

  "This is where they came through," said he, pointing to the
marks of several feet upon the muddy path. "Halloa! Stop a
minute! Who's this in the bush?"

  It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler
with leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees
drawn up, a terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but
alive. A glance at his wound told me that it had not penetrated
the bone.

  "That's Peter, the groom," cried the stranger. "He drove her.
The beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie: we
can't do him any good, but' we may save her from the worst fate
that can befall a woman." 

  We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the
trees. We had reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house
when Holmes pulled up.

  "They didn't go to the house. Here are their marks on the
left -- here, beside the laurel bushes. Ah! I said so."

  As he spoke, a woman's shrill scream -- a scream which vi-
brated with a frenzy of horror -- burst from the thick, green
clump of bushes in front of us. It ended suddenly on its highest
note with a choke and a gurgle.

  "This way! This way! They are in the bowling-alley," cried
the stranger, darting through the bushes. "Ah, the cowardly
dogs! Follow me, gentlemen! Too late! too late! by the living
Jingo!"

  We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greensward
surrounded by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the
shadow of a mighty oak, there stood a singular group of three
people. One was a woman, our client, drooping and faint, a
handkerchief round her mouth. Opposite her stood a brutal,
heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his gaitered legs parted
wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving a riding crop, his whole
attitude suggesive of triumphant bravado. Between them an el-
derly, gray-bearded man, wearing a short surplice over a light
tweed suit, had evidently just completed the wedding service, for
he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared, and slapped the
sinister bridegroom upon the back in jovial congratulation.

  "They're married?" I gasped.

  "Come on!" cried our guide; "come on!" He rushed across
the glade, Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the lady
staggered against the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson,
the ex-clergyman, bowed to us with mock politeness, and the
bully, Woodley, advanced with a shout of brutal and exultant
laughter.

  "You can take your beard off, Bob," said he. "I know you,
right enough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for
me to be able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley."

  Our guide's answer was a singular one. He snatched off the
dark beard which had disguised him and threw it on the ground,
disclosing a long, sallow, clean-shaven face below it. Then he
raised his revolver and covered the young ruffian, who was
advancing upon him with his dangerous riding crop swinging in
his hand.

  "Yes," said our ally, "I am Bob Carruthers. and I'll see this
woman righted, if I have to swing for it. I told you what I'd do if
you molested her, and, by the Lord! I'll be as good as my
word."

  "You're too late. She's my wife."

  "No, she's your widow."

  His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the front
of Woodley's waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell
upon his back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dread-
ful mottled pallor. The old man, still clad in his surplice, burst
into such a string of foul oaths as I have never heard, and pulled
out a revolver of his own, but, before he could raise it, he was
looking down the barrel of Holmes's weapon.

  "Enough of this," said my friend, coldly. "Drop that pistol!
Watson, pick it up! Hold it to his head! Thank you. You
Carruthers, give me that revolver. We'll have no more violence
Come, hand it over!"

  "Who are you, then?"

  "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

  "Good Lord!"

  "You have heard of me, I see. I will represent the official
police until their arrival. Here, you!" he shouted to a frightened
groom, who had appeared at the edge of the glade. "Come here.
Take this note as hard as you can ride to Farnham." He scrib-
bled a few words upon a leaf from his notebook. "Give it to the
superintendent at the police-station. Until he comes, I must
detain you all under my personal custody."

  The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated the
tragic scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands. William-
son and Carruthers found themselves carrying the wounded
Woodley into the house, and I gave my arm to the frightened
girl. The injured man was laid on his bed, and at Holmes's
request I examined him. I carried my report to where he sat in
the old tapestry-hung dining-room with his two prisoners before
him.

  "He will live," said I.

  "What!" cried Carruthers, springing out of his chair. "I'll go
upstairs and finish him first. Do you tell me that that girl, that
angel, is to be tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?"

  "You need not concern yourself about that," said Holmes.
"There are two very good reasons why she should, under no
circumstances, be his wife. In the first place, we are very safe in
questioning Mr. Williamson's right to solemnize a marriage."

  "I have been ordained," cried the old rascal.

  "And also unfrocked."

  "Once a clergyman, always a clergyman."

  "I think not. How about the licence?"

  "We had a licence for the marriage. I have it here in my
pocket."

  "Then you got it by a trick. But, in any case, a forced
marriage is no marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you
will discover before you have finished. You'll have time to think
the point out during the next ten years or so, unless I am
mistaken. As to you, Carruthers, you would have done better to
keep your pistol in your pocket."

  "I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes, but when I thought of all
the precaution I had taken to shield this girl -- for I loved her,
Mr. Holmes, and it is the only time that ever I knew what love
was -- it fairly drove me mad to think that she was in the power
of the greatest brute and bully in South Africa -- a man whose
name is a holy terror from Kimberley to Johannesburg. Why,
Mr. Holmes, you'll hardly believe it, but ever since that girl has
been in my employment I never once let her go past this house
where I knew the rascals were lurking, without following her
on my bicycle, just to see that she came to no harm. I kept
my distance from her, and I wore a beard, so that she should
not recognize me, for she is a good and high-spirited girl,
and she wouldn't have stayed in my employment long if
she had thought that I was following her about the country
roads."

  "Why didn't you tell her of her danger?"

  "Because then, again, she would have left me, and I couldn't
bear to face that. Even if she couldn't love me, it was a great
deal to me just to see her dainty form about the house, and to
hear the sound of her voice."

  "Well," said I, "you call that love, Mr. Carruthers, but I
should call it selfishness."

  "Maybe the two things go together. Anyhow, I couldn't let
her go. Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that she
should have someone near to look after her. Then, when the
cable came, I knew they were bound to make a move."

  "What cable?"

  Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket.

  "That's it," said he.

  It was short and concise:

               THE OLD MAN IS DEAD.

  "Hum!" said Holmes. "I think I see how things worked, and
I can understand how this message would, as you say, bring
them to a head. But while you wait, you might tell me what you
can."

  The old reprobate with thc surplice burst into a volley of bad
language.

  "By heaven!" said he, "if you squeal on us, Bob Carruthers
I'll serve you as you served Jack Woodley. You can bleat about
the girl to your heart's content, for that's your own affair, but if
you round on your pals to this plain-clothes copper, it will be the
worst day's work that ever you did."

  "Your reverence need not be excited," said Holmes, lighting
a cigarette. "The case is clear enough against you, and all I ask
is a few details for my private curiosity. However, if there's any
difficulty in your telling me, I'll do the talking, and then you
will see how far you have a chance of holding back your secrets.
In the first place, three of you came from South Africa on this
game -- you Williamson, you Carruthers, and Woodley."

  "Lie number one," said the old man; "I never saw either of
them until two months ago, and I have never been in Africa in
my life, so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr.
Busybody Holmes!"

  "What he says is true," said Carruthers

  "Well, well, two of you came over. His reverence is our own
homemade article. You had known Ralph Smith in South Africa.
You had reason to believe he would not live long. You found out
that his niece would inherit his fortune. How's that -- eh?"

  Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

  "She was next of kin, no doubt, and you were aware that the
old fellow would make no will."

  "Couldn't read or write, " said Carruthers.

  "So you came over, the two of you, and hunted up the girl
The idea was that one of you was to marry her, and the other
have a share of the plunder. For some reason, Woodley was
chosen as the husband. Why was that?"

  "We played cards for her on the voyage. He won."

  "I see. You got the young lady into your service, and there
Woodley was to do the courting. She recognized the drunken
brute that he was, and would have nothing to do with him.
Meanwhile, your arrangement was rather upset by the fact that
you had yourself fallen in love with the lady. You could no
longer bear the idea of this ruffian owning her?"

  "No, by George. I couldn't!"

  "There was a quarrel between you. He left you in a rage, and
began to make his own plans independently of you."

  "It strikes me, Williamson, there isn't very much that we can
tell this gentleman," cried Carruthers, with a bitter laugh. "Yes,
we quarreled, and he knocked me down. I am level with him on
that, anyhow. Then I lost sight of him. That was when he picked
up with this outcast padre here. I found that they had set up
housekeeping together at this place on the line that she had to
pass for the station. I kept my eye on her after that, for I knew
there was some devilry in the wind. I saw them from time to
time, for I was anxious to know what they were after. Two days
ago Woodley came up to my house with this cable, which
showed that Ralph Smith was dead. He asked me if I would
stand by the bargain. I said I would not. He asked me if I would
marry the girl myself and give him a share. I said I would
willingly do so, but that she would not have me. He said, 'Let us
get her married first, and after a week or two she may see things
a bit different.' I said I would have nothing to do with violence.
So he went off cursing, like the foul-mouthed blackguard that he
was, and swearing that he would have her yet. She was leaving
me this week-end, and I had got a trap to take her to the station,
but I was so uneasy in my mind that I followed her on my
bicycle. She had got a statt, however, and before I could catch
her, the mischief was done. The first thing I knew about it was
when I saw you two gentlemen driving back in her dog-cart."

  Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate.
"I have been very obtuse, Watson," said he. "When in your
report you said that you had seen the cyclist as you thought
arrange his necktie in the shrubbery, that alone should have told
me all. However, we may congratulate ourselves upon a curious
and, in some respects, a unique case. I perceive three of the
county constabulary in the drive, and I am glad to see that the
little ostler is able to keep pace with them, so it is likely that
neither he nor the interesting bridegroom will be permanently
damaged by their morning's adventures. I think, Watson, that in
your medical capacity, you might wait upon Miss Smith and tell
her that if she is sufficiently recovered, we shall be happy to
escort her to her mother's home. If she is not quite convalescent,
you will find that a hint that we were about to telegraph to a
young electrician in the Midlands would probably complete the
cure. As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I think that you have done what
you could to make amends for your share in an evil plot. There
is my card, sir, and if my evidence can be of help in your trial, it
shall be at your disposal."

  In the whirl of our incessant activity, it has often been difficult
for me, as the reader has probably observed, to round off my
narratives, and to give those final details which the curious might
expect. Each case has been the prelude to another, and the crisis
once over, the actors have passed for ever out of our busy lives.
I find, however, a short note at the end of my manuscript dealing
with this case, in which I have put it upon record that Miss
Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large fortune, and that she is
now the wife of Cyril Morton, the senior partner of Morton &
Kennedy, the famous Westminster electricians. Williamson and
Woodley were both tried for abduction and assault, the former
getting seven years and the latter ten. Of the fate of Carruthers, I
have no record, but I am sure that his assault was not viewed
very gravely by the court, since Woodley had the reputation of
being a most dangerous ruffian, and I think that a few months
were sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice.

       The Adventure of the Priory School

  We have had some dramatic entrances and exits upon our small
stage at Baker Street, but I cannot recollect anything more
sudden and startling than the first appearance of Thorneycroft
Huxtable, M.A., Ph.D., etc. His card, which seemed too small
to carry the weight of his academic distinctions, preceded him by
a few seconds, and then he entered himself -- so large, so pomp-
ous, and so dignified that he was the very embodiment of
self-possession and solidity. And yet his first action, when the
door had closed behind him, was to stagger against the table,
whence he slipped down upon the floor, and there was that
majestic figure prostrate and insensible upon our bearskin hearthrug.

  We had sprung to our feet, and for a few moments we stared
in silent amazement at this ponderous piece of wreckage, which
told of some sudden and fatal storm far out on the ocean of life.
Then Holmes hurried with a cushion for his head. and I with
brandy for his lips. The heavy, white face was seamed with lines
of trouble, the hanging pouches under the closed eyes were
leaden in colour, the loose mouth drooped dolorously at the
corners, the rolling chins were unshaven. Collar and shirt bore
the grime of a long journey, and the hair bristled unkempt from
the well-shaped head. It was a sorely stricken man who lay
before us.

  "What is it, Watson?" asked Holmes.

  "Absolute exhaustion -- possibly mere hunger and fatigue,"
said I, with my finger on the thready pulse, where the stream of
life trickled thin and small.

  "Return ticket from Mackleton, in the north of England,"
said Holmes, drawing it from the watch-pocket. "It is not twelve
o'clock yet. He has certainly been an early starter."

  The puckered eyelids had begun to quiver, and now a pair of
vacant gray eyes looked up at us. An instant later the man had
scrambled on to his feet, his face crimson with shame.

  "Forgive this weakness, Mr. Holmes, I have been a little
overwrought. Thank you, if I might have a glass of milk and a
biscuit, I have no doubt that I should be better. I came person-
ally, Mr. Holmes, in order to insure that you would return with
me. I feared that no telegram would convince you of the absolute
urgency of the case."

  "When you are quite restored --"

  "I am quite well again. I cannot imagine how I came to be so
weak. I wish you, Mr. Holmes, to come to Mackleton with me
by the next train."

  My friend shook his head.

  "My colleague, Dr. Watson, could tell you that we are very
busy at present. I am retained in this case of the Ferrers Docu-
ments, and the Abergavenny murder is coming up for trial. Only
a very important issue could call me from London at present."

  "Important!" Our visitor threw up his hands. "Have you
heard nothing of the abduction of the only son of the Duke of
Holdernesse?"

  "What! the late Cabinet Minister?"

  "Exactly. We had tried to keep it out of the papers, but there
was some rumor in the Globe last night. I thought it might have
reached your ears."

  Holmes shot out his long, thin arm and picked out Volume
"H" in his encyclopaedia of reference.

  " 'Holdernesse, 6th Duke, K.G., P.C.' -- half the alphabet!
'Baron Beverley, Earl of Carston' -- dear me, what a list! 'Lord
Lieutenant of Hallamshire since 1900. Married Edith, daughter
of Sir Charles Appledore, 1888. Heir and only child, Lord
Saltire. Owns about two hundred and fifty thousand acres. Min-
erals in Lancashire and Wales. Address: Carlton House Terrace;
Holdernesse Hall, Hallamshire; Carston Castle, Bangor, Wales.
Lord of the Admiralty, 1872; Chief Secretary of State for --'
Well, well, this man is certainly one of the greatest subjects of
the Crown!"

  "The greatest and perhaps the wealthiest. I am aware, Mr.
Holmes, that you take a very high line in professional matters,
and that you are prepared to work for the work's sake. I may tell
you, however, that his Grace has already intimated that a check
for five thousand pounds will be handed over to the person who
can tell him where his son is, and another thousand to him who
can name the man or men who have taken him."

  "It is a princely offer," said Holmes. "Watson, I think that
we shall accompany Dr. Huxtable back to the north of England.
And now, Dr. Huxtable, when you have consumed that milk,
you will kindly tell me what has happened, when it happened,
how it happened, and, finally, what Dr. Thorneycroft Huxtable,
of the Priory School, near Mackleton, has to do with the matter,
and why he comes three days after an event -- the state of your
chin gives the date -- to ask for my humble services."

  Our visitor had consumed his milk and biscuits. The light had
come back to his eyes and the colour to his cheeks, as he set
himself with great vigour and lucidity to explain the situation.

  "I must inform you, gentlemen, that the Priory is a prepara-
tory school, of which I am the founder and principal. Huxtable's
Sidelights on Horace may possibly recall my name to your
memories. The Priory is, without exception, the best and most
select preparatory school in England. Lord Leverstoke, the Earl
of Blackwater, Sir Cathcart Soames -- they all have intrusted
their sons to me. But I felt that my school had reached its zenith
when, three weeks ago, the Duke of Holdernesse sent Mr. James
Wilder, his secretary, with the intimation that young Lord Sal-
tire, ten years old, his only son and heir, was about to be
committed to my charge. Little did I think that this would be the
prelude to the most crushing misfortune of my life.

  "On May 1st the boy arrived, that being the beginning of the
summer term. He was a charming youth, and he soon fell into
our ways. I may tell you -- I trust that I am not indiscreet, but
half-confidences are absurd in such a case -- that he was not
entirely happy at home. It is an open secret that the Duke's
married life had not been a peaceful one, and the matter had
ended in a separation by mutual consent, the Duchess taking up
her residence in the south of France. This had occurred very
shortly before, and the boy's sympathies are known to have been
strongly with his mother. He moped after her departure from
Holdernesse Hall, and it was for this reason that the Duke
desired to send him to my establishment. In a fortnight the boy
was quite at home with us and was apparently absolutely happy.

  "He was last seen on the night of May 13th -- that is, the night
of last Monday. His room was on the second floor and was
approached through another larger room, in which two boys
were sleeping. These boys saw and heard nothing, so that it is
certain that young Saltire did not pass out that way. His window
was open, and there is a stout ivy plant leading to the ground.
We could trace no footmarks below, but it is sure that this is the
only possible exit.

  "His absence was discovered at seven o'clock on Tuesday
morning. His bed had been slept in. He had dressed himself
fully, before going off, in his usual school suit of black Eton
jacket and dark gray trousers. There were no signs that anyone
had entered the room, and it is quite certain that anything in the
nature of cries or a struggle would have been heard, since
Caunter, the elder boy in the inner room, is a very light sleeper.

  "When Lord Saltire's disappearance was discovered, I at once
called a roll of the whole establishment -- boys, masters, and
servants. It was then that we ascertained that Lord Saltire had not
been alone in his flight. Heidegger, the German master, was
missing. His room was on the second floor, at the farther end of
the building, facing the same way as Lord Saltire's. His bed had
also been slept in, but he had apparently gone away partly
dressed, since his shirt and socks were lying on the floor. He had
undoubtedly let himself down by the ivy, for we could see the
marks of his feet where he had landed on the lawn. His bicycle
was kept in a small shed beside this lawn, and it also was gone.

  "He had been with me for two years, and came with the best
references, but he was a silent, morose man, not very popular
either with masters or boys. No trace could be found of the
fugitives, and now, on Thursday morning, we are as ignorant as
we were on Tuesday. Inquiry was, of course, made at once at
Holdernese Hall. It is only a few miles away, and we imagined
that, in some sudden attack of homesickness, he had gone back
to his father, but nothing had been heard of him. The Duke is
greatly agitated, and, as to me, you have seen yourselves the
state of nervous prostration to which the suspense and the re-
sponsibility have reduced me. Mr. Holmes, if ever you put
forward your full powers, I implore you to do so now, for never
in your life could you have a case which is more worthy of
them."

  Sherlock Holmes had listened with the utmost intentness to the
statement of the unhappy schoolmaster. His drawn brows and the
deep furrow between them showed that he needed no exhortation
to concentrate all his attention upon a problem which, apart from
the tremendous interests involved, must appeal so directly to his
love of the complex and the unusual. He now drew out his
notebook and jotted down one or two memoranda.

  "You have been very remiss in not coming to me sooner,"
said he, severely. "You start me on my investigation with a very
serious handicap. It is inconceivable for example, that this ivy
and this lawn would have yielded nothing to an expert observer."

  "I am not to blame, Mr. Holmes. His Grace was extremely
desirous to avoid all public scandal. He was afraid of his family
unhappiness being dragged before the world. He has a deep
horror of anything of the kind."

  "But there has been some official investigation?"

  "Yes, sir, and it has proved most disappointing. An apparent
clue was at once obtained, since a boy and a young man were
reported to have been seen leaving a neighbouring station by an
early train. Only last night we had news that the couple had been
hunted down in Liverpool, and they prove to have no connection
whatever with the matter in hand. Then it was that in my despair
and disappointment, after a sleepless night, I came straight to
you by the early train."

  "I suppose the local investigation was relaxed while this false
clue was being followed up?"

  "It was entirely dropped."

  "So that three days have been wasted. The affair has been
most deplorably handled."

  "I feel it and admit it."

  "And yet the problem should be capable of ultimate solution.
I shall be very happy to look into it. Have you been able to trace
any connection between the missing boy and this German master?"

  "None at all."

  "Was he in the master's class?"

  "No, he never exchanged a word with him, so far as I
know."

  "That is certainly very singular. Had the boy a bicycle?"

  "No."

  "Was any other bicycle missing?"

  "No."

  "Is that certain?"

  "Quite."

  "Well, now, you do not mean to seriously suggest that this
German rode off upon a bicycle in the dead of the night, bearing
the boy in his arms?"

  "Certainly not."

  "Then what is the theory in your mind?"

  "The bicycle may have been a blind. It may have been hidden
somewhere, and the pair gone off on foot."

  "Quite so, but it seems rather an absurd blind, does it not?
Were there other bicycles in this shed?"

  "Several."

  "Would he not have hidden a couple, had he desired to give
the idea that they had gone off upon them?"

  "I suppose he would."

  "Of course he would. The blind theory won't do. But the
incident is an admirable starting-point for an investigation. After
all, a bicycle is not an easy thing to conceal or to destroy. One
other question. Did anyone call to see the boy on the day before
he disappeared?"

  "No."

  "Did he get any letters?"

  "Yes, one letter."

  "From whom?"

  "From his father."

  "Do you open the boys' letters?"

  "No."

  "How do you know it was from the father?"

  "The coat of arms was on the envelope, and it was addressed
in the Duke's peculiar stiff hand. Besides, the Duke remembers
having written."

  "When had he a letter before that?"

  "Not for several days."

  "Had he ever one from France?"

  "No, never."

  "You see the point of my questions, of course. Either the boy
was carried off by force or he went of his own free will. In the
latter case, you would expect that some prompting from outside
would be needed to make so young a lad do such a thing. If he
has had no visitors, that prompting must have come in letters;
hence I try to find out who were his correspondents."

  "I fear I cannot help you much. His only correspondent, so
far as I know, was his own father."

  "Who wrote to him on the very day of his disappearance.
Were the relations between father and son very friendly?"

  "His Grace is never very friendly with anyone. He is com-
pletely immersed in large public questions, and is rather inacces-
sible to all ordinary emotions. But he was always kind to the boy
in hls own way."

  "But the sympathies of the latter were with the mother?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he say so?"

  "No."

  "The Duke, then?"

  "Good heaven, no!"

  "Then how could you know?"

  "I have had some confidential talks with Mr. James Wilder,
his Grace's secretary. It was he who gave me the information
about Lord Saltire's feelings."

  "I see. By the way, that last letter of the Duke's -- was it
found in the boy's room after he was gone?"

  "No, he had taken it with him. I think, Mr. Holmes, it is time
that we were leaving for Euston."

  "I will order a four-wheeler. In a quarter of an hour, we shall
be at your service. If you are telegraphing home, Mr. Huxtable,
it would be well to allow the people in your neighbourhood to
imagine that the inquiry is still going on in Liverpool, or wher-
ever else that red herring led your pack. In the meantime I will
do a little quiet work at your own doors, and perhaps the scent is
not so cold but that two old hounds like Watson and myself may
get a sniff of it."

  That evening found us in the cold, bracing atmosphere of the
Peak country, in which Dr. Huxtable's famous school is situated.
It was already dark when we reached it. A card was lying on the
hall table, and the butler whispered something to his master, who
turned to us with agitation in every heavy feature.

  "The Duke is here," said he. "The Duke and Mr. Wilder are
in the study. Come, gentlemen, and I will introduce you."

  I was, of course, familiar with the pictures of the famous
statesman, but the man himself was very different from his
representation. He was a tall and stately person, scrupulously
dressed, with a drawn, thin face, and a nose which was grotes-
quely curved and long. His complexion was of a dead pallor,
which was more startling by contrast with a long, dwindling
beard of vivid red, which flowed down over his white waistcoat,
with his watch-chain gleaming through its fringe. Such was the
stately presence who looked stonily at us from the centre of Dr.
Huxtable's hearthrug. Beside him stood a very young man,
whom I understood to be Wilder, the private secretary. He was
small, nervous, alert, with intelligent light-blue eyes and mobile
features. It was he who at once, in an incisive and positive tone,
opened the conversation.

  "I called this morning, Dr. Huxtable, too late to prevent you
from starting for London. I learned that your object was to invite
Mr. Sherlock Holmes to undertake the conduct of this case. His
Grace is surprised, Dr. Huxtable, that you should have taken
such a step without consulting him."

  "When I learned that the police had failed --"

  "His Grace is by no means convinced that the police have
failed."

  "But surely, Mr. Wilder --"

  "You are well aware, Dr. Huxtable, that his Grace is particu-
larly anxious to avoid all public scandal. He prefers to take as
few people as possible into his confidence."

  "The matter can be easily remedied," said the browbeaten
doctor; "Mr. Sherlock Holmes can return to London by the
morning train."

  "Hardly that, Doctor, hardly that," said Holmes, in his blandest
voice. "This northern air is invigorating and pleasant, so I
propose to spend a few days upon your moors, and to occupy my
mind as best I may. Whether I have the shelter of your roof or of
the village inn is, of course, for you to decide."

  I could see that the unfortunate doctor was in the last stage of
indecision, from which he was rescued by the deep, sonorous
voice of the red-bearded Duke, which boomed out like a
dinner-gong.

  "I agree with Mr. Wilder, Dr. Huxtable, that you would have
done wisely to consult me. But since Mr. Holmes has already
been taken into your confidence, it would indeed be absurd that
we should not avail ourselves of his services. Far from going to
the inn, Mr. Holmes, I should be pleased if you would come and
stay with me at Holdernesse Hall."

  "I thank your Grace. For the purposes of my investigation, I
think that it would be wiser for me to remain at the scene of the
mystery."

  "Just as you like, Mr. Holmes. Any information which Mr.
Wilder or I can give you is, of course, at your disposal."

  "It will probably be necessary for me to see you at the Hall,"
said Holmes. "I would only ask you now, sir, whether you have
formed any explanation in your own mind as to the mysterious
disappearance of your son?"

  "No, sir, I have not."

  "Excuse me if I allude to that which is painful to you. but I
have no alternative. Do you think that the Duchess had anything
to do with the matter?"

  The great minister showed perceptible hesitation.

  "I do not think so," he said, at last.

  "The other most obvious explanation is that the child has been
kidnapped for the purpose of levying ransom. You have not had
any demand of the sort?"

  "No, sir."

  "One more question, your Grace. I understand that you wrote
to your son upon the day when this incident occurred."

  "No, I wrote upon the day before."

  "Exactly. But he received it on that day?"

  "Yes."

  "Was there anything in your letter which might have unbal-
anced him or induced him to take such a step?"

  "No, sir, cenainly not."

  "Did you post that letter yourself?"

  The nobleman's reply was interrupted by his secretary, who
broke in with some heat.

  "His Grace is not in the habit of posting letters himself," said
he. "This letter was laid with others upon the study table, and I
myself put them in the post-bag."

  "You are sure this one was among them?"

  "Yes, I observed it."

  "How many letters did your Grace write that day?"

  "Twenty or thirty. I have a large correspondence. But surely
this is somewhat irrelevant?"

  "Not entirely," said Holmes.

  "For my own part," the Duke continued, "I have advised the
police to turn their attention to the south of France. I have
already said that I do not believe that the Duchess would encour-
age so monstrous an action. but the lad had the most wrong-
headed opinions, and it is possible that he may have fled to her,
aided and abetted by this German. I think, Dr. Huxtable, that we
will now return to the Hall."

  I could see that there were other questions which Holmes
would have wished to put, but the nobleman's abrupt manner
showed that the interview was at an end. It was evident that to
his intensely aristocratic nature this discussion of his intimate
family affairs with a stranger was most abhorrent. and that he
feared lest every fresh question would throw a fiercer light into
the discreetly shadowed corners of his ducal history.

  When the nobleman and his secretary had left, my friend
flung himself at once with characteristic eagerness into the
investigation.

  The boy's chamber was carefully examined, and yielded noth-
ing save the absolute conviction that it was only through the
window that he could have escaped. The German master's room
and effects gave no further clue. In his case a trailer of ivy
had given way under his weight, and we saw by the light of a
lantern the mark on the lawn where his heels had come down.
That one dint in the short, green grass was the only material
witness left of this inexplicable nocturnal flight.

  Sherlock Holmes left the house alone, and only returned after
eleven. He had obtained a large ordnance map of the neighbour-
hood, and this he brought into my room, where he laid it out on
the bed, and, having balanced the lamp in the middle of it, he
began to smoke over it, and occasionally to point out objects of
interest with the reeking amber of his pipe.

  "This case grows upon me, Watson," said he. "There are
decidedly some points of interest in connection with it. In this
early stage, I want you to realize those geographical features
which may have a good deal to do with our investigation.

  "Look at this map. This dark square is the Priory School. I'll
put a pin in it. Now, this line is the main road. You see that it
runs east and west past the school, and you see also that there is
no side road for a mile either way. If these two folk passed away
by road, it was this road."

  "Exactly."

  "By a singular and happy chance, we are able to some extent
to check what passed along this road during the night in ques-
tion. At this point, where my pipe is now resting, a county
constable was on duty from twelve to six. It is, as you perceive,
the first cross-road on the east side. This man declares that he
was not absent from his post for an instant, and he is positive
that neither boy nor man could have gone that way unseen. I
have spoken with this policeman to-night, and he appears to me
to be a perfectly reliable person. That blocks this end. We have
now to deal with the other. There is an inn here, the Red Bull,
the landlady of which was ill. She had sent to Mackleton for a
doctor, but he did not arrive until morning, being absent at
another case. The people at the inn were alert all night, awaiting
his coming, and one or other of them seems to have continually
had an eye upon the road. They declare that no one passed. If
their evidence is good, then we are fortunate enough to be able
to block the west, and also to be able to say that the fugitives did
not use the road at all."

  "But the bicycle?" I objected.

  "Quite so. We will come to the bicycle presently. To continue
our reasoning: if these people did not go by the road, they must
have traversed the country to the north of the house or to the
south of the house. That is certain. Let us weigh the one against
the other. On the south of the house is, as you perceive, a large
district of arable land, cut up into small fields, with stone walls
between them. There, I admit that a bicycle is impossible. We
can dismiss the idea. We turn to the country on the north. Here
there lies a grove of trees, marked as the 'Ragged Shaw,' and on
the farther side stretches a great rolling moor, Lower Gill Moor,
extending for ten miles and sloping gradually upward. Here, at
one side of this wilderness, is Holdernesse Hall, ten miles by
road, but only six across the moor. It is a peculiarly desolate
plain. A few moor farmers have small holdings, where they rear
sheep and cattle. Except these, the plover and the curlew are the
only inhabitants until you come to the Chesterfield high road.
There is a church there, you see, a few cottages, and an inn.
Beyond that the hills become precipitous. Surely it is here to the
north that our quest must lie."

  "But the bicycle?" I persisted.

  "Well, well!" said Holmes, impatiently. "A good cyclist does
not need a high road. The moor is intersected with paths, and the
moon was at the full. Halloa! what is this?"

  There was an agitated knock at the door, and an instant
afterwards Dr. Huxtable was in the room. In his hand he held a
blue cricket-cap with a white chevron on the peak.

  "At last we have a clue!" he cried. "Thank heaven! at last we
are on the dear boy's track! It is his cap."

  "Where was it found?"

  "In the van of the gipsies who camped on the moor. They left
on Tuesday. To-day the police traced them down and examined
their caravan. This was found."

  "How do they account for it?"

  "They shuffled and lied -- said that they found it on the moor
on Tuesday morning. They know where he is. the rascals! Thank
goodness, they are all safe under lock and key. Either the fear of
the law or the Duke's purse will certainly get out of them all that
they know."

  "So far, so good," said Holmes, when the doctor had at last
left the room. "It at least bears out the theory that it is on the
side of the Lower Gill Moor that we must hope for results. The
police have really done nothing locally, save the arrest of these
gipsies. Look here, Watson! There is a watercourse across the
moor. You see it marked here in the map. In some parts it
widens into a morass. This is particularly so in the region
between Holdernesse Hall and the school. It is vain to look
elsewhere for tracks in this dry weather, but at that point there is
certainly a chance of some record being left. I will call you early
to-morrow morning, and you and I will try if we can throw some
little light upon the mystery."

  The day was just breaking when I woke to find the long, thin
form of Holmes by my bedside. He was fully dressed, and had
apparently already been out.

  "I have done the lawn and the bicycle shed," said he. "I have
also had a ramble through the Ragged Shaw. Now, Watson
there is cocoa ready in the next room. I must beg you to hurry, for
we have a great day before us."

  His eyes shone, and his cheek was flushed with the exhilara-
tion of the master workman who sees his work lie ready before
him. A very different Holmes, this active, alert man, from the
introspective and pallid dreamer of Baker Street. I felt, as I
looked upon that supple figure, alive with nervous energy, that it
was indeed a strenuous day that awaited us.

  And yet it opened in the blackest disappointment. With high
hopes we struck across the peaty, russet moor, intersected with a
thousand sheep paths, until we came to the broad, light-green
belt which marked the morass between us and Holdernesse.
Certainly, if the lad had gone homeward, he must have passed
this, and he could not pass it without leaving his traces. But no
sign of him or the German could be seen. With a darkening face
my friend strode along the margin, eagerly observant of every
muddy stain upon the mossy surface. Sheep-marks there were in
profusion, and at one place, some miles down, cows had left
their tracks. Nothing more.

  "Check number one," said Holmes, looking gloomily over
the rolling expanse of the moor. "There is another morass down
yonder, and a narrow neck between. Halloa! halloa! halloa! what
have we here?"

  We had come on a small black ribbon of pathway. In the
middle of it, clearly marked on the sodden soil, was the track of
a bicycle.

  "Hurrah!" I cried. "We have it."

  But Holmes was shaking his head, and his face was puzzled
and expectant rather than joyous.

  "A bicycle, certainly, but not the bicycle " said he. "I am
familiar with forty-two different impressions left by tyres. This
as you perceive, is a Dunlop, with a patch upon the outer cover.
Heidegger's tyres were Palmer's, leaving longitudinal stripes.
Aveling, the mathematical master, was sure upon the point.
Therefore, it is not Heidegger's track."

  "The boy's then?"

  "Possibly, if we could prove a bicycle to have been in his
possession. But this we have utterly failed to do. This track, as
you perceive, was made by a rider who was going from the
direction of the school."

  "Or towards it?"

  "No, no, my dear Watson. The more deeply sunk impression
is, of course, the hind wheel, upon which the weight rests. You
perceive several places where it has passed across and obliterated
the more shallow mark of the front one. It was undoubtedly
heading away from the school. It may or may not be connected
with our inquiry, but we will follow it backwards before we go
any farther."

  We did so, and at the end of a few hundred yards lost the
tracks as we emerged from the boggy portion of the moor.
Following the path backwards, we picked out another spot,
where a spring trickled across it. Here, once again, was the mark
of the bicycle, though nearly obliterated by the hoofs of cows.
After that there was no sign, but the path ran right on into
Ragged Shaw, the wood which backed on to the school. From
this wood the cycle must have emerged. Holmes sat down on a
boulder and rested his chin in his hands. I had smoked two
cigarettes before he moved.

  "Well, well," said he, at last. "It is, of course, possible that
a cunning man might change the tyres of his bicycle in order to
leave unfamiliar tracks. A criminal who was capable of such a
thought is a man whom I should be proud to do business with.
We will leave this question undecided and hark back to our
morass again, for we have left a good deal unexplored."

  We continued our systematic survey of the edge of the sodden
portion of the moor, and soon our perseverance was gloriously
rewarded. Right across the lower part of the bog lay a miry path.
Holmes gave a cry of delight as he approached it. An impression
like a fine bundle of telegraph wires ran down the centre of it. It
was the Palmer tyres.

  "Here is Herr Heidegger, sure enough!" cried Holmes, exul-
tantly. "My reasoning seems to have been pretty sound, Watson."

  "I congratulate you."

  "But we have a long way still to go. Kindly walk clear of the
path. Now let us follow the trail. I fear that it will not lead very
far."

  We found, however, as we advanced that this portion of the
moor is intersected with soft patches, and, though we frequently
lost sight of the track, we always succeeded in picking it up once
more.

  "Do you observe," said Holmes, "that the rider is now
undoubtedly forcing the pace? There can be no doubt of it. Look
at this impression, where you get both tyres clear. The one is as
deep as the other. That can only mean that the rider is throwing
his weight on to the handle-bar, as a man does when he is
sprinting. By Jove! he has had a fall."

  There was a broad, irregular smudge covering some yards of
the track. Then there were a few footmarks, and the tyres
reappeared once more.

  "A side-slip," I suggested.

  Holmes held up a crumpled branch of flowering gorse. To my
horror I perceived that the yellow blossoms were all dabbled
with crimson. On the path, too, and among the heather were
dark stains of clotted blood.

  "Bad!" said Holmes. "Bad! Stand clear, Watson! Not an
unnecessary footstep! What do I read here? He fell wounded -- he
stood up -- he remounted -- he proceeded. But there is no other
track. Cattle on this side path. He was surely not gored by a
bull? Impossible! But I see no traces of anyone else. We must
push on, Watson. Surely, with stains as well as the track to
guide us, he cannot escape us now."

  Our search was not a very long one. The tracks of the tyre
began to curve fantastically upon the wet and shining path.
Suddenly, as I looked ahead, the gleam of metal caught my eye
from amid the thick gorse-bushes. Out of them we dragged a
bicycle, Palmer-tyred, one pedal bent, and the whole front of it
horribly smeared and slobbered with blood. On the other side of
the bushes, a shoe was projecting. We ran round, and there lay
the unfortunate rider. He was a tall man, full-bearded, with
spectacles, one glass of which had been knocked out.The cause
of his death was a frightful blow upon the head, which had
crushed in part of his skull. That he could have gone on after
receiving such an injury said much for the vitality and courage of
the man. He wore shoes, but no socks, and his open coat
disclosed a nightshirt beneath it. It was undoubtedly the German
master.

  Holmes turned the body over reverently, and examined it with
great attention. He then sat in deep thought for a time, and I
could see by his ruffled brow that this grim discovery had not, in
his opinion, advanced us much in our inquiry.

  "It is a little difficult to know what to do, Watson," said he,
at last. "My own inclinations are to push this inquiry on, for we
have already lost so much time that we cannot afford to waste
another hour. On the other hand, we are bound to inform the
police of the discovery, and to see that this poor fellow's body is
looked after."

  "I could take a note back."

  "But I need your company and assistance. Wait a bit! There is
a fellow cutting peat up yonder. Bring him over here, and he will
guide the police."

  I brought the peasant across, and Holmes dispatched the fright-
ened man with a note to Dr. Huxtable.

  "Now, Watson," said he, "we have picked up two clues this
morning. One is the bicycle with the Palmer tyre, and we see
what that has led to. The other is the bicycle with the patched
Dunlop. Before we start to investigate that, let us try to realize
what we do know, so as to make the most of it, and to separate
the essential from the accidental."

  "First of all, I wish to impress upon you that the boy certainly
left of his own free-will. He got down from his window and he
went off, either alone or with someone. That is sure."

  I assented.

  "Well, now, let us turn to this unfortunate German master.
The boy was fully dressed when he fled. Therefore he foresaw
what he would do. But the German went without his socks. He
certainly acted on very short notice."

  "Undoubtedly."

  "Why did he go? Because, from his bedroom window, he saw
the flight of the boy because he wished to overtake him and
bring him back. He seized his bicycle, pursued the lad, and in
pursuing him met his death."

  "So it would seem."

  "Now I come to the critical part of my argument. The natural
action of a man in pursuing a little boy would be to run after
him. He would know that he could overtake him. But the
German does not do so. He turns to his bicycle. I am told that he
was an excellent cyclist. He would not do this, if he did not see
that the boy had some swift means of escape."

  "The other bicycle."

  "Let us continue our reconstruction. He meets his death five
miles from the school -- not by a bullet, mark you, which even a
lad might conceivably discharge, but by a savage blow dealt by a
vigorous arm. The lad, then, had a companion in his flight. And
the flight was a swift one, since it took five miles before an
expert cyclist could overtake them. Yet we survey the ground
round the scene of the tragedy. What do we find? A few cattle-
tracks, nothing more. I took a wide sweep round, and there is no
path within fifty yards. Another cyclist could have had nothing
to do with the actual murder, nor were there any human
footmarks."

  "Holmes," I cried, "this is impossible."

  "Admirable!" he said. "A most illuminating remark. It is
impossible as I state it, and therefore I must in some respect have
stated it wrong. Yet you saw for yourself. Can you suggest any
fallacy?"

  "He could not have fractured his skull in a fall?"

  "In a morass, Watson?"

  "I am at my wit's end."

  "Tut, tut, we have solved some worse problems. At least we
have plenty of material, if we can only use it. Come, then, and,
having exhausted the Palmer, let us see what the Dunlop with the
patched cover has to offer us."

  We picked up the track and followed it onward for some
distance, but soon the moor rose into a long, heather-tufted
curve, and we left the watercourse behind us. No further help
from tracks could be hoped for. At the spot where we saw the
last of the Dunlop tyre it might equally have led to Holdernesse
Hall, the stately towers of which rose some miles to our left, or
to a low, gray village which lay in front of us and marked the
position of the Chesterfield high road.

  As we approached the forbidding and squalid inn, with the
sign of a game-cock above the door, Holmes gave a sudden
groan, and clutched me by the shoulder to save himself from
falling. He had had one of those violent strains of the ankle
which leave a man helpless. With difficulty he limped up to the
door, where a squat, dark, elderly man was smoking a black clay
pipe.

  "How are you, Mr. Reuben Hayes?" said Holmes.

  "Who are you, and how do you get my name so pat?" the
countryman answered, with a suspicious flash of a pair of cun-
ning eyes.

  "Well, it's printed on the board above your head. It's easy to
see a man who is master of his own house. I suppose you
haven't such a thing as a carriage in your stables?"

  "No, I have not."

  "I can hardly put my foot to the ground."

  "Don't put it to the ground."

  "But I can't walk."

  "Well, then, hop."

  Mr. Reuben Hayes's manner was far from gracious, but Holmes
took it with admirable good-humour.

  "Look here, my man," said he. "This is really rather an
awkward fix for me. I don't mind how I get on."

  "Neither do I," said the morose landlord.

  "The matter is very important. I would offer you a sovereign
for the use of a bicycle."

  The landlord pricked up his ears.

  "Where do you want to go?"

  "To Holdernesse Hall."

  "Pals of the Dook, I suppose?" said the landlord, surveying
our mud-stained garments with ironical eyes.

  Holmes laughed good-naturedly.

  "He'll be glad to see us, anyhow."

  "Why?"

  "Because we bring him news of his lost son."

  The landlord gave a very visible start.

  "What, you're on his track?"

  "He has been heard of in Liverpool. They expect to get him
every hour."

  Again a swift change passed over the heavy, unshaven face.
His manner was suddenly genial.

  "I've less reason to wish the Dook well than most men,"
said he, "for I was his head coachman once, and cruel bad he
treated me. It was him that sacked me without a character on the
word of a lying corn-chandler. But I'm glad to hear that the
young lord was heard of in Liverpool, and I'll help you to take
the news to the Hall."

  "Thank you," said Holmes. "We'll have some food first.
Then you can bring round the bicycle."

  "I haven't got a bicycle."

  Holmes held up a sovereign.

  "I tell you, man, that I haven't got one. I'll let you have two
horses as far as the Hall."

  "Well, well," said Holmes, "we'll talk about it when we've
had something to eat."

  When we were left alone in the stone-flagged kitchen, it was
astonishing how rapidly that sprained ankle recovered. It was
nearly nightfall, and we had eaten nothing since early morning,
so that we spent some time over our meal. Holmes was lost in
thought, and once or twice he walked over to the window and
stared earnestly out. It opened on to a squalid courtyard. In the
far corner was a smithy, where a grimy lad was at work. On the
other side were the stables. Holmes had sat down again after one
of these excursions, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair
with a loud exclamation.

  "By heaven, Watson, I believe that I've got it!" he cried.
"Yes, yes, it must be so. Watson, do you remember seeing any
cow-tracks to-day?"

  "Yes, several."

  "Where?"

  "Well, everywhere. They were at the morass, and again on
the path, and again near where poor Heidegger met his death."

  "Exactly. Well, now, Watson, how many cows did you see
on the moor?"

  "I don't remember seeing any."

  "Strange, Watson, that we should see tracks all along our
line, but never a cow on the whole moor. Very strange, Watson,
eh?"

  "Yes, it is strange."

  "Now, Watson, make an effort, throw your mind back. Can
you see those tracks upon the path?"

  "Yes, I can."

  "Can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that,
Watson" -- he arranged a number of bread-crumbs in this fashion -- :
: : : : -- "and sometimes like this" -- : . : . : . : . -- "and
occasionally like this" -- . ' . ' . ' . ' "Can you remember that?"

  "No, I cannot."

  "But I can. I could swear to it. However, we will go back at
our leisure and verify it. What a blind beetle I have been, not to
draw my conclusion."

  "And what is your conclusion?"

  "Only that it is a remarkable cow which walks, canters, and
gallops. By George! Watson, it was no brain of a country
publican that thought out such a blind as that. The coast seems to
be clear, save for that lad in the smithy. Let us slip out and see
what we can see."

  There were two rough-haired, unkempt horses in the tumble-
down stable. Holmes raised the hind leg of one of them and
laughed aloud.

  "Old shoes, but newly shod -- old shoes, but new nails. This
case deserves to be a classic. Let us go across to the smithy."

  The lad continued his work without regarding us. I saw Holmes's
eye darting to right and left among the litter of iron and wood
which was scattered about the floor. Suddenly, however, we
heard a step behind us, and there was the landlord, his heavy
eyebrows drawn over his savage eyes, his swarthy features con-
vulsed with passion. He held a short, metal-headed stick in his
hand, and he advanced in so menacing a fashion that I was right
glad to feel the revolver in my pocket.

  "You infernal spies!" the man cried. "What are you doing
there?"

  "Why, Mr. Reuben Hayes," said Holmes, coolly, "one might
think that you were afraid of our finding something out."

  The man mastered himself with a violent effort, and his grim
mouth loosened into a false laugh, which was more menacing
than his frown.

  "You're welcome to all you can find out in my smithy," said
he. "But look here, mister, I don't care for folk poking about
my place without my leave, so the sooner you pay your score
and get out of this the better I shall be pleased."

  "All right, Mr. Hayes, no harm meant," said Holmes. "We
have been having a look at your horses, but I think I'll walk,
after all. It's not far, I believe."

  "Not more than two miles to the Hall gates. That's the road to
the left." He watched us with sullen eyes until we had left his
premises.

  We did not go very far along the road, for Holmes stopped the
instant that the curve hid us from the landlord's view.

  "We were warm, as the children say, at that inn," said he. "I
seem to grow colder every step that I take away from it. No, no,
I can't possibly leave it."

  "I am convinced," said I, "that this Reuben Hayes knows all
about it. A more self-evident villain I never saw."

  "Oh! he impressed you in that way, did he? There are the
horses, there is the smithy. Yes, it is an interesting place, this
Fighting Cock. I think we shall have another look at it in an
unobtrusive way."

  A long, sloping hillside, dotted with gray limestone boulders,
stretched behind us. We had turned off the road, and were
making our way up the hill, when, looking in the direction of
Holdemesse Hall, I saw a cyclist coming swiftly along.

  "Get down, Watson!" cried Holmes, with a heavy hand upon
my shoulder. We had hardly sunk from view when the man flew
past us on the road. Amid a rolling cloud of dust, I caught a
glimpse of a pale, agitated face -- a face with horror in every
lineament, the mouth open, the eyes staring wildly in front. It
was like some strange caricature of the dapper James Wilder
whom we had seen the night before.

  "The Duke's secretary!" cried Holmes. "Come, Watson, let
us see what he does."

  We scrambled from rock to rock, until in a few moments we
had made our way to a point from which we could see the front
door of the inn. Wilder's bicycle was leaning against the wall
beside it. No one was moving about the house, nor could we
catch a glimpse of any faces at the windows. Slowly the twilight
crept down as the sun sank behind the high towers of Holdemesse
Hall. Then, in the gloom, we saw the two side-lamps of a trap
light up in the stable-yard of the inn, and shortly afterwards
heard the rattle of hoofs, as it wheeled out into the road and tore
off at a furious pace in the direction of Chesterfield.

  "What do you make of that, Watson?" Holmes whispered.

  "It looks like a flight."

  "A single man in a dog-cart, so far as I could see. Well, it
cedrtnainly was not Mr. James Wilder, for there he is at the door."

  A red square of light had sprung out of the darkness. In the
middle of it was the black figure of the secretary, his head
advanced, peering out into the night. It was evident that he was
expecting someone. Then at last there were steps in the road, a
second figure was visible for an instant against the light, the door
shut, and all was black once more. Five minutes later a lamp was
lit in a room upon the first floor.

  "It seems to be a curious class of custom that is done by the
Fighting Cock," said Holmes.

  "The bar is on the other side."

  "Quite so. These are what one may call the private guests.
Now, what in the world is Mr. James Wilder doing in that den at
this hour of night, and who is the companion who comes to meet
him there? Come, Watson, we must really take a risk and try to
investigate this a little more closely."

  Together we stole down to the road and crept across to the
door of the inn. The bicycle still leaned against the wall. Holmes
struck a match and held it to the back wheel, and I heard him
chuckle as the light fell upon a patched Dunlop tyre. Up above
us was the lighted window.

  "I must have a peep through that, Watson. If you bend your
back and support yourself upon the wall, I think that I can
manage."

  An instant later, his feet were on my shoulders, but he was
hardly up before he was down again.

  "Come, my friend," said he, "our day's work has been quite
long enough. I think that we have gathered all that we can. It's a
long walk to the school, and the sooner we get started the
better."

  He hardly opened his lips during that weary trudge across the
moor, nor would he enter the school when he reached it, but
went on to Mackleton Station, whence he could send some
telegrams. Late at night I heard him consoling Dr. Huxtable,
prostrated by the tragedy of his master's death, and later still he
entered my room as alen and vigorous as he had been when he
started in the morning. "All goes well, my friend," said he. "I
promise that before to-morrow evening we shall have reached the
solution of the mystery."

  At eleven o'clock next morning my friend and I were walking
up the famous yew avenue of Holdemesse Hall. We were ush-
ered through the magnificent Elizabethan doorway and into his
Grace's study. There we found Mr. James Wilder, demure and
courtly, but with some trace of that wild terror of the night
before still lurking in his furtive eyes and in his twitching
features.

  "You have come to see his Grace? I am sorry, but the fact is
that the Duke is far from well. He has been very much upset by
the tragic news. We received a telegram from Dr. Huxtable
yesterday afternoon, which told us of your discovery."

  "I must see the Duke, Mr. Wilder."

  "But he is in his room."

  "Then I must go to his room."

  "I believe he is in his bed."

  "I will see him there."

  Holmes's cold and inexorable manner showed the secretary
that it was useless to argue with him.

  "Very good, Mr. Holmes, I will tell him that you are here."

  After an hour's delay, the great nobleman appeared. His face
was more cadaverous .than ever, his shoulders had rounded, and
he seemed to me to be an altogether older man than he had been
the morning before. He greeted us with a stately courtesy and
seated himself at his desk, his red beard streaming down on the
table.

  "Well, Mr. Holmes?" said he.

  But my friend's eyes were fixed upon the secretary, who stood
by his master's chair.

  "I think, your Grace, that I could speak more freely in Mr.
Wilder's absence."

  The man turned a shade paler and cast a malignant glance at
Holmes.

  "If your Grace wishes --"

  "Yes, yes, you had better go. Now, Mr. Holmes, what have
you to say?"

  My friend waited until the door had closed behind the retreat-
ing secretary.

  "The fact is, your Grace," said he, "that my colleague, Dr.
Watson, and myself had an assurance from Dr. Huxtable that a
reward had been offered in this case. I should like to have this
confirmed from your own lips."

  "Certainly, Mr. Holmes."

  "It amounted, if I am correctly informed, to five thousand
pounds to anyone who will tell you where your son is?"

  "Exactly."

  "And another thousand to the man who will name the person
or persons who keep him in custody?"

  "Exactly."

  "Under the latter heading is included, no doubt, not only
those who may have taken him away, but also those who con-
spire to keep him in his present position?"

  "Yes, yes," cried the Duke, impatiently. "If you do your
work well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you will have no reason to
complain of niggardly treatment."

  My friend rubbed his thin hands together with an appearance
of avidity which was a surprise to me, who knew his frugal
tastes.

  "I fancy that I see your Grace's check-book upon the table,"
said he. "I should be glad if you would make me out a check for
six thousand pounds. It would be as well, perhaps, for you to
cross it. The Capital and Counties Bank, Oxford Street branch
are my agents."

  His Grace sat very stern and upright in his chair and looked
stonily at my friend.

  "Is this a joke, Mr. Holmes? It is hardly a subject for
pleasantry."

  "Not at all, your Grace. I was never more earnest in my life."

  "What do you mean, then?"

  "I mean that I have earned the reward. I know where your son
is, and I know some, at least, of those who are holding him."

  The Duke's beard had turned more aggressively red than ever
against his ghastly white face.

  "Where is he?" he gasped.

  "He is, or was last night, at the Fighting Cock Inn, about two
miles from your park gate."

  The Duke fell back in his chair.

  "And whom do you accuse?"

  Sherlock Holmes's answer was an astounding one. He stepped
swiftly forward and touched thc Duke upon the shoulder.

  "I accuse you," said he. "And now, your Grace, I'll trouble
you for that check."

  Never shall I forget the Duke's appearance as he sprang up
and clawed with his hands, like one who is sinking into an
abyss. Then, with an extraordinary effort of aristocratic self-
command, he sat down and sank his face in his hands. It was
some minutes before he spoke.

  "How much do you know?" he asked at last, without raising
his head.

  "I saw you together last night."

  "Does anyone else beside your friend know?"

  "I have spoken to no one."

  The Duke took a pen in his quivering fingers and opened his
check-book.

  "I shall be as good as my word, Mr. Holmes. I am about to
write your check, however unwelcome the information which
you have gained may be to me. When the offer was first made, I
little thought the turn which events might take. But you and your
friend are men of discretion, Mr. Holmes?"

  "I hardly understand your Grace."

  "I must put it plainly, Mr. Holmes. If only you two know of
this incident, there is no reason why it should go any farther. I
think twelve thousand pounds is the sum that I owe you, is it
not?"

  But Holmes smiled and shook his head.

  "I fear, your Grace, that matters can hardly be arranged so
easily. There is the death of this schoolmaster to be accounted
for."

  "But James knew nothing of that. You cannot hold him
responsible for that. It was the work of this brutal ruffian whom
he had the misfonune to employ."

  "I must take the view, your Grace, that when a man embarks
upon a crime, he is morally guilty of any other crime which may
spring from it."

  "Morally, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. But surely
not in the eyes of the law. A man cannot be condemned for a
murder at which he was not present, and which he loathes and
abhors as much as you do. The instant that he heard of it he
made a complete confession to me, so filled was he with horror
and remorse. He lost not an hour in breaking entirely with the
murderer. Oh, Mr. Holmes, you must save him -- you must save
him! I tell you that you must save him!" The Duke had dropped
the last attempt at self-command. and was pacing the room with
a convulsed face and with his clenched hands raving in the air.
At last he mastered himself and sat down once more at his desk.
"I appreciate your conduct in coming here before you spoke to
anyone else," said he. "At least, we may take counsel how far
we can minimize this hideous scandal."

  "Exactly," said Holmes. "I think, your Grace, that this can
only be done by absolute frankness between us. I am disposed to
help your Grace to the best of my ability, but, in order to do so,
I must understand to the last detail how the matter stands. I
realize that your words applied to Mr. James Wilder, and that he
is not the murderer."

  "No, the murderer has escaped."

  Sherlock Holmes smiled demurely.

  "Your Grace can hardly have heard of any small reputation
which I possess, or you would not imagine that it is so easy to
escape me. Mr. Reuben Hayes was arrested at Chesterfield, on
my information, at eleven o'clock last night. I had a telegram
from the head of the local police before I left the school this
morning."

  The Duke leaned back in his chair and stared with amazement
at my friend.

  "You seem to have powers that are hardly human," said he.
"So Reuben Hayes is taken? I am right glad to hear it, if it will
not react upon the fate of James."

  "Your secretary?"

  "No, sir, my son."

  It was Holmes's turn to look astonished.

  "I confess that this is entirely new to me, your Grace. I must
beg you to be more explicit."

  "I will conceal nothing from you. I agree with you that
complete frankness, however painful it may be to me, is the best
policy in this desperate situation to which James's folly and
jealousy have reduced us. When I was a very young man, Mr.
Holmes, I loved with such a love as comes only once in a
lifetime. I offered the lady marriage, but she refused it on the
grounds that such a match might mar my career. Had she lived. I
would certainly never have married anyone else. She died, and
left this one child, whom for her sake I have cherished and cared
for. I could not acknowledge the paternity to the world, but I
gave him the best of educations, and since he came to manhood I
have kept him near my person. He surprised my secret, and has
presumed ever since upon the claim which he has upon me, and
upon his power of provoking a scandal which would be abhor-
rent to me. His presence had something to do with the unhappy
issue of my marriage. Above all, he hated my young legitimate
heir from the first with a persistent hatred. You may well ask
me why, under these circumstances, I still kept James under my
roof. I answer that it was because I could see his mother's face
in his, and that for her dear sake there was no end to my
long-suffering. All her pretty ways too -- there was not one of
them which he could not suggest and bring back to my memory.
I could not send him away. But I feared so much lest he should
do Arthur -- that is, Lord Saltire -- a mischief, that I dispatched
him for safety to Dr. Huxtable's school.

  "James came into contact with this fellow Hayes, because the
man was a tenant of mine, and James acted as agent. The fellow
was a rascal from the beginning, but, in some extraordinary way,
James became intimate with him. He had always a taste for low
company. When James determined to kidnap Lord Saltire, it was
of this man's service that he availed himself. You remember
that I wrote to Arthur upon that last day. Well, James opened the
letter and inserted a note asking Arthur to meet him in a little
wood called the Ragged Shaw, which is near to the school. He
used the Duchess's name, and in that way got the boy to come.
That evening James bicycled over -- I am telling you what he has
himself confessed to me -- and he told Arthur, whom he met in
the wood, that his mother longed to see him, that she was
awaiting him on the moor, and that if he would come back into
the wood at midnight he would find a man with a horse, who
would take him to her. Poor Arthur fell into the trap. He came to
the appointment, and found this fellow Hayes with a led pony.
Arthur mounted, and they set off together. It appears -- though
this James only heard yesterday -- that they were pursued, that
Hayes struck the pursuer with his stick, and that the man died of
his injuries. Hayes brought Arthur to his public-house. the Fight-
ing Cock, where he was confined in an upper room, under the
care of Mrs. Hayes, who is a kindly woman, but entirely under
the control of her brutal husband.

  "Well, Mr. Holmes. that was the state of affairs when I first
saw you two days ago. I had no more idea of the truth than you.
You will ask me what was James's motive in doing such a deed.
I answer that there was a great deal which was unreasoning and
fanatical in the hatred which he bore my heir. In his view he
should himself have been heir of all my estates, and he deeply
resented those social laws which made it impossible. At the same
time, he had a definite motive also. He was eager that I should
break the entail, and he was of opinion that it lay in my power to
do so. He intended to make a bargain with me -- to restore Arthur
if I would break the entail, and so make it possible for the estate
to be left to him by will. He knew well that I should never
willingly invoke the aid of the police against him. I say that he
would have proposed such a bargain to me; but he did not
actually do so, for events moved too quickly for him, and he had
not time to put his plans into practice.

  "What brought all his wicked scheme to wreck was your
discovery of this man Heidegger's dead body. James was seized
with horror at the news. It came to us yesterday, as we sat
together in this study. Dr. Huxtable had sent a telegram. James
was so overwhelmed with grief and agitation that my suspicions,
which had never been entirely absent, rose instantly to a cer-
tainty, and I taxed him with the deed. He made a complete
voluntary confession. Then he implored me to keep his secret for
three days longer, so as to give his wretched accomplice a
chance of saving his guilty life. I yielded -- as I have always
yielded -- to his prayers, and instantly James hurried off to the
Fighting Cock to warn Hayes and give him the means of flight. I
could not go there by daylight without provoking comment, but
as soon as night fell I hurried off to see my dear Arthur. I found
him safe and well, but horrified beyond expression by the dread-
ful deed he had witnessed. In deference to my promise, and
much against my will, I consented to leave him there for three
days, under the charge of Mrs. Hayes, since it was evident that it
was impossible to inform the police where he was without telling
them also who was the murderer, and I could not see how that
murderer could be punished without ruin to my unfortunate
James. You asked for frankness, Mr. Holmes, and I have taken
you at your word, for I have now told you everything without an
attempt at circumlocution or concealment. Do you in turn be as
frank with me."

  "I will," said Holmes. "In the first place, your Grace, I am
bound to tell you that you have placed yourself in a most serious
position in the eyes of the law. You have condoned a felony, and
you have aided the escape of a murderer, for I cannot doubt that
any money which was taken by James Wilder to aid his accom-
plice in his flight came from your Grace's purse."

  The Duke bowed his assent.

  "This is, indeed, a most serious matter. Even more culpable
in my opinion, your Grace, is your attitude towards your young-
er son. You leave him in this den for three days."

  "Under solemn promises --"

  "What are promises to such people as these? You have no
guarantee that he will not be spirited away again. To humour
your guilty older son, you have exposed your innocent younger
son to imminent and unnecessary danger. It was a most un-
justifiable action."

  The proud lord of Holdemesse was not accustomed to be so
rated in his own ducal hall. The blood flushed into his high
forehead, but his conscience held him dumb.

  "I will help you, but on one condition only. It is that you ring
for the footman and let me give such orders as I like."

  Without a word, the Duke pressed the electric bell. A servant
entered.

  "You will be glad to hear," said Holmes, "that your young
master is found. It is the Duke's desire that the carriage shall go
at once to the Fighting Cock Inn to bring Lord Saltire home.

  "Now," said Holmes, when the rejoicing lackey had disap-
peared, "having secured the future, we can afford to be more
lenient with the past. I am not in an official position, and there is
no reason so long as the ends of justice are served, why I should
disclose all that I know. As to Hayes, I say nothing. The gallows
awaits him, and I would do nothing to save him from it. What he
will divulge I cannot tell, but I have no doubt that your Grace
could make him understand that it is to his interest to be silent.
From the police point of view he will have kidnapped the boy for
the purpose of ransom. If they do not themselves find it out, I
see no reason why I should prompt them to take a broader point
of view. I would warn your Grace, however, that the continued
presence of Mr. James Wilder in your household can only lead to
misfonune."

  "I understand that, Mr. Holmes, and it is already settled that he
shall leave me forever, and go to seek his fortune in Australia."

  "In that case, your Grace, since you have yourself stated that
any unhappiness in your married life was caused by his presence,
I would suggest that you make such amends as you can to the
Duchess, and that you try to resume those relations which have
been so unhappily interrupted."

  "That also I have arranged, Mr. Holmes. I wrote to the
Duchess this morning."

  "In that case," said Holmes, rising, "I think that my friend
and I can congratulate ourselves upon several most happy results
from our little visit to the North. There is one other small point
upon which I desire some light. This fellow Hayes had shod his
horses with shoes which counterfeited the tracks of cows. Was it
from Mr. Wilder that he learned so extraordinary a device?"

  The Duke stood in thought for a moment, with a look of
intense surprise on his face. Then he opened a door and showed
us into a large room furnished as a museum. He led the way to a
glass case in a corner, and pointed to the inscription.

  "These shoes," it ran, "were dug up in the moat of Holdemesse
Hall. They are for the use of horses, but they are shaped below
with a cloven foot of iron, so as to throw pursuers off the track.
They are supposed to have belonged to some of the marauding
Barons of Holdernesse in the Middle Ages."

  Holmes opened the case, and moistening his finger he passed
it along the shoe. A thin film of recent mud was left upon his
skin.

  "Thank you," said he, as he replaced the glass. "It is the
second most interesting object that I have seen in the North."

  "And the first?"

  Holmes folded up his check and placed it carefully in his
notebook. "I am a poor man," said he, as he patted it affection-
ately, and thrust it into the depths of his inner pocket.

               The Aduenture of Black Peter

  I have never known my friend to be in better form, both mental
and physical, than in the year '95. His increasing fame had
brought with it an immense practice, and I should be guilty of an
indiscretion if I were even to hint at the identity of some of the
illustrious clients who crossed our humble threshold in Baker
Street. Holmes, however, like all great artists, lived for his art's
sake, and, save in the case of the Duke of Holdernesse, I have
seldom known him claim any large reward for his inestimable
services. So unworldly was he -- or so capricious -- that he fre-
quently refused his help to the powerful and wealthy where the
problem made no appeal to his sympathies, while he would
devote weeks of most intense application to the affairs of some
humble client whose case presented those strange and dramatic
qualities which appealed to his imagination and challenged his
ingenuity.

  In this memorable year '95, a curious and incongruous succes-
sion of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous
investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca -- an inquiry
which was carried out by him at the express desire of His
Holiness the Pope -- down to his arrest of Wilson, the notorious
canary-trainer, which removed a plague-spot from the East End of
London. Close on the heels of these two famous cases came the
tragedy of Woodman's Lee, and the very obscure circumstances
which surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey. No record of
the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be complete which
did not include some account of this very unusual affair.

  During the first week of July, my friend had been absent so
often and so long from our lodgings that I knew he had some-
thing on hand. The fact that several rough-looking men called
during that time and inquired for Captain Basil made me under-
stand that Holmes was working somewhere under one of the
numerous disguises and names with which he concealed his own
formidable identity. He had at least five small refuges in differ-
ent parts of London, in which he was able to change his person-
ality. He said nothing of his business to me, and it was not my
habit to force a confidence. The first positive sign which he gave
me of the direction which his investigation was taking was an
extraordinary one. He had gone out before breakfast, and I had
sat down to mine when he strode into the room, his hat upon his
head and a huge barbed-headed spear tucked like an umbrella
under his arm.

  "Good gracious, Holmes!" I cried. "You don't mean to say
that you have been walking about London with that thing?"

  "I drove to the butcher's and back."

  "The butcher's?" 

  "And I return with an excellent appetite. There can be no
question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before break-
fast. But I am prepared to bet that you will not guess the form
that my exercise has taken."

  "I will not attempt it."

  He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.

  "If you could have looked into Allardyce's back shop, you
would have seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling,
and a gentleman in his shirt sleeves furiously stabbing at it with
this weapon. I was that energetic person, and I have satisfied
myself that by no exertion of my strength can I transfix the pig
with a single blow. Perhaps you would care to try?"

  "Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?"

  "Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon the
mystery of Woodman's Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last
night, and I have been expecting you. Come and join us."

  Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age,
dressed in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing of
one who was accustomed to official uniform. I recognized him at
once as Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector, for whose
future Holmes had high hopes while he in turn professed the
admiration and respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of the
famous amateur. Hopkins's brow was clouded, and he sat down
with an air of deep dejection.

  "No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I came round. I
spent the night in town, for I came up yesterday to report."

  "And what had you to report?"

  "Failure, sir, absolute failure."

  "You have made no progress?"

  "None."

  "Dear me! I must have a look at the matter."

  "I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes. It's my first
big chance, and I am at my wit's end. For goodness' sake, come
down and lend me a hand."

  "Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all the
available evidence, including the report of the inquest, with
some care. By the way, what do you make of that tobacco
pouch, found on the scene of the crime? Is there no clue there?"

  Hopkins looked surprised.

  "It was the man's own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it.
And it was of sealskin -- and he was an old sealer."

  "But he had no pipe."

  "No, sir, we could find no pipe. Indeed, he smoked very
little, and yet he might have kept some tobacco for his friends."

  "No doubt. I only mention it because, if I had been handling
the case, I should have been inclined to make that the starting-
point of my investigation. However, my friend, Dr. Watson,
knows nothing of this matter, and I should be none the worse for
hearing the sequence of events once more. Just give us some
short sketches of the essentials."

  Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

  "I have a few dates here which will give you the career of the
dead man, Captain Peter Carey. He was bom in '45 -- fifty years
of age. He was a most daring and successful seal and whale
fisher. In 1883 he commanded the steam sealer Sea Unicorn, of
Dundee. He had then had several successful voyages in succes-
sion, and in the following year, 1884, he retired. After that he
travelled for some years, and finally he bought a small place
called Woodman's Lee, near Forest Row, in Sussex. There he
has lived for six years, and there he died just a week ago to-day.

  "There were some most singular points about the man. In
ordinary life, he was a strict Puritan -- a silent, gloomy fellow.
His household consisted of his wife, his daughter, aged twenty,
and two female servants. These last were continually changing,
for it was never a very cheery situation, and sometimes it
became past all bearing. The man was an intermittent drunkard,
and when he had the fit on him he was a perfect fiend. He has
been known to drive his wife and daughter out of doors in the
middle of the night and flog them through the park until the
whole village outside the gates was aroused by their screams.

  "He was summoned once for a savage assault upon the old
vicar, who had called upon him to remonstrate with him upon his
conduct. In short, Mr. Holmes, you would go far before you
found a more dangerous man than Peter Carey, and I have heard
that he bore the same character when he commanded his ship.
He was known in the trade as Black Peter, and the name was
given him, not only on account of his swarthy features and the
colour of his huge beard, but for the humours which were the
terror of all around him. I need not say that he was loathed and
avoided by every one of his neighbours, and that I have not
heard one single word of sorrow about his terrible end.

  "You must have read in the account of the inquest about the
man's cabin, Mr. Holmes, but perhaps your friend here has not
heard of it. He had built himself a wooden outhouse -- he always
called it the 'cabin' -- a few hundred yards from his house, and it
was here that he slept every night. It was a little, single-roomed
hut, sixteen feet by ten. He kept the key in his pocket, made his

 own bed, cleaned it himself, and allowed no other foot to cross
the threshold. There are small windows on each side, which
were covered by curtains and never opened. One of these win-
dows was turned towards the high road, and when the light
burned in it at night the folk used to point it out to each other and
wonder what Black Peter was doing in there. That's the window,
Mr. Holmes, which gave us one of the few bits of positive
evidence that came out at the inquest.

  "You remember that a stonemason, named Slater, walking
from Forest Row about one o'clock in the morning -- two days
before the murder -- stopped as he passed the grounds and looked
at the square of light still shining among the trees. He swears
that the shadow of a man's head turned sideways was clearly
visible on the blind, and that this shadow wals certainly not that
of Peter Carey, whom he knew well. It was that of a bearded
man, but the beard was short and bristled forward in a way very
differrnt from that of the captain. So he says, but he had been
two hours in the public-house, and it is some distance from the
road to the window. Besides, this refers to the Monday, and the
crime was done upon the Wednesday.

  "On the Tuesday, Peter Carey was in one of his blackest
moods, flushed with drink and as savage as a dangerous wild
beast. He roamed about the house, and the women ran for it
when they heard him coming. Late in the evening, he went down
to his own hut. About two o'clock the following morning, his
daughter, who slept with her window open, heard a most fearful
yell from that direction, but it was no unusual thing for him to
bawl and shout when he was in drink, so no notice was taken.
On rising st seven, one of the maids noticed that the door of the
hut was open, but so great was the terror which the man caused
that it was midday before anyone would venture down to see
what bad become of him. Peeping into the open door, they saw
a sight which sent them flying, with white faces into the village.
Within an hour, I was on the spot and had taken over the case.

  "Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know, Mr. Holmes,
but I give you my word, that I got a shake when I put my head
into that little house. It was droning like a harmonium with the
flies and bluebottles, and the floor and walls were like a 
slaughter-house. He had called it a cabin, and a cabin it was, sure enough,
for you would have thought that you were in a ship. There was a
bunk at one end, a sea-chest, maps and charts, a picture of the
Sea Unicorin, a line of logbooks on a shelf, all exactly as one
would expect to find it in a captain's room. And there, in the
middle of it, was the man himself -- his face twisted like a lost
soul in tornment, and his great brindled beard stuck upward in his
agony. Right through his broad breast a steel tarpoon had been
driven, and it had sunk deep into the wood of the wall behind
him. He was pinned like a beetle on a card. Of course, he was
quite dead, and had been so from the instant that he had uttered
that last yell of agony.

  "I know your methods, sir, and I applied them. Before I permitted
anything to be moved, I examined most carefully the ground outside,
and also the floor of the room. There were no footmarks."

  "Meaning that you saw none?"

  "I assure you, sir, that there were none."

  "My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes, but I have never
yet seen one which was commited by a flying creature. As long as the
criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be some indentation,
some abrasion, some trifling displacement which can be detected by the
scientific searcher. It is incredible that this blood-bespattered room
contained no trace which could have aided us. I understand, however,
from the inquest that there were some objects which you failed to
overlook?"

  The young inspector winced at my companion's ironical comments.

  "I was a fool not to call you in at the time, Mr. Holmes. However,
that's past praying for now. Yes, there were several objects in the 
room which called for special attention. One was the harpoon with
which the deed was committed. It had been snatched down from a rack 
on the wall. Two others remained there, and there was a vacant place 
for the third. On the stock was engraved 'SS. Sea Unicorn, Dundee.'
This seemed to establish that the crime had been done in a moment
of fury, and that the murderer had seized the first weapon which 
came in his way. The fact that the crime was committed at two in the
morning, and yet Peter Carey was fully dressed, suggested that he had
an appointment with the murderer, which is borne out by the fact that
a bottle of rum and two dirty glasses stood upon the table."

  "Yes," said Holmes, "I think that both inferences are permissable.
Was there any other spirit but rum in the room?"

  "Yes, there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on the 
sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however, since the decanters
were full, and it had therefore not been used."

  "For all that, its presence had some significance," said Holmes.
"However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem to 
you to bear upon the case."

  "There was the tobacco-pouch upon the table."

  "What part of the table?"

  "It lay in the middle. It was of coarse sealskin -- the straight-
haired skin, with a leather thong to bind it. Inside was 'P. C.' on
the flap. There was half an ounce of strong ship's tobacco in it."

  "Excellent! What more?"

  Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered note-
book. The outside was rough and worn, the leaves discoloured.
On the first page were written the initials "J. H. N." and the
date "1883." Holmes laid it on the table and examined it in his
minute way, while Hopkins and I gazed over each shoulder. On
the second page were the printed letters "C. P. R.," and then
came several sheets of numbers. Another heading was "Argen-
tine," another "Costa Rica," and another "San Paulo," each
with pages of signs and figures after it.

  "What do you make of these?" asked Holmes.

  "They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities. I
thought that 'J. H. N.' were the initials of a broker, and that
'C. P. R.' may have been his client."

  "Try Canadian Pacific Railway," said Holmes.

  Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth, and struck his thigh
with his clenched hand.

  "What a fool I have been!" he cried. "Of course, it is as you
say. Then 'J. H. N.' are the only initials we have to solve. I
have already examined the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can
find no one in 1883, either in the house or among the outside
brokers, whose initials correspond with these. Yet I feel that the
clue is the most important one that I hold. You will admit, Mr.
Holmes, that there is a possibility that these initials are those of
the second person who was present -- in other words, of the
murderer. I would also urge that the introduction into the case of
a document relating to large masses of valuable securities gives
us for the first time some indication of a motive for the crime."

  Sherlock Holmes's face showed that he was thoroughly taken
aback by this new development.

  "I must admit both your points," said he. "I confess that this
notebook, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any
views which I may have formed. I had come to a theory of the
crime in which I can find no place for this. Have you endeav-
oured to trace any of the securities here mentioned?''

  "Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that
the complete register of the stockholders of these South Ameri-
can concerns is in South America, and that some weeks must
elapse before we can trace the shares."

  Holmes had been examining the cover of the notebook with
his magnifying lens.

  "Surely there is some discolouration here," said he.

  "Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book
off the floor."

  "Was the blood-stain above or below?"

  "On the side next the boards."

  "Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the
crime was committed."

  "Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjec-
tured that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It
lay near the door."

  "I suppose that none of these securities have been found
among the property of the dead man?"

  "No, sir."

  "Have you any reason to suspect robbery?"

  "No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched."

  "Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there
was a knife, was there not?"

  "A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the
dead man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband's
property."

  Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

  "Well," said he, at last, "I suppose I shall have to come out
and have a look at it."

  Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

 "Thank you, sir. That will, indeed, be a weight off my mind. "

  Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

  "It would have been an easier task a week ago," said he.
"But even now my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if
you can spare the time, I should be very glad of your company.
If you will call a four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to
start for Forest Row in a quarter of an hour."

    Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some
miles through the remains of widespread woods, which were
once part of that great forest which for so long held the Saxon
invaders at bay -- the impenetrable "weald," for sixty years the
bulwark of Britain. Vast sections of it have been cleared, for this
is the seat of the first iron-works of the country, and the trees
have been felled to smelt the ore. Now the richer fields of the
North have absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged
groves and great scars in the earth show the work of the past.
Here, in a clearing upon the green slope of a hill, stood a long,
low, stone house, approached by a curving drive running through
the fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by
bushes, was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing
in our direction. It was the scene of the murder.

  Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced
us to a haggard, gray-haired woman, the widow of the murdered
man, whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of
terror in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes. told of the years of
hardship and ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her
daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly at
us as she told us that she was glad that her father was dead, and
that she blessed the hand which had struck him down. It was a
terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for himself,
and it was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in the
sunlight again and making our way along a path which had been
worn across the fields by the feet of the dead man.

  The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the
farther side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket and
had stooped to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention
and surprise upon his face.

  "Someone has been tampering with it," he said.

  There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut,
and the scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had
been that instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.

  "Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has
failed to make his way in. He must have been a very poor
burglar."

  "This is a most extraordinary thing," said the inspector, "I
could swear that these marks were not here yesterday evening."

  "Some curious person from the village, perhaps," I suggested.

  "Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the
grounds, far less try to force their way into the cabin. What do
you think of it, Mr. Holmes?"

  "I think that fortune is very kind to us."

  "You mean that the person will come again?"

  "It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open.
He tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He
could not manage it. What would he do?"

  "Come again next night with a more useful tool."

  "So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to
receive him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin."

  The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture
within the little room still stood as it had been on the night of the
crime. For two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes
examined every object in turn, but his face showed that his quest
was not a successful one. Once only he paused in his patient
investigation.

  "Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?"

  "No, I have moved nothing."

  "Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner
of the shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its
side. It may have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more.
Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few
hours to the birds and the flowers. We shall meet you here later,
Hopkins, and see if we can come to closer quarters with the
gentleman who has paid this visit in the night."

  It.was past eleven o'clock when we formed our little ambus-
cade. Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but
Holmes was of the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions
of the stranger. The lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a
strong blade was needed to push it back. Holmes also suggested
that we should wait, not inside the hut, but outside it, among the
bushes which grew round the farther window. In this way we
should be able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see
what his object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.

  It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it
something of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies beside
the water-pool, and waits for the coming of the thirsty beast of
prey. What savage creature was it which might steal upon us out
of the darkness? Was it a fierce tiger of crime, which could only
be taken fighting hard with flashing fang and claw, or would it
prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous only to the weak
and unguarded?

  In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting
for whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated
villagers, or the sound of voices from the village, lightened our
vigil, but one by one these interruptions died away, and an
absolute stillness fell upon us, save for the chimes of the distant
church, which told us of the progress of the night, and for the
rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the foliage which
roofed us in.

  Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which
precedes the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click
came from the direction of the gate. Someone had entered the
drive. Again there was a long silence, and I had begun to fear
that it was a false alarm, when a stealthy step was heard upon the
other side of the hut, and a moment later a metallic scraping and
clinking. The man was trying to force the lock. This time his
skill was greater or his tool was better, for there was a sudden
snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck, and
next instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior of
the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted upon
the scene within.

  The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a
black moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his face.
He could not have been much above twenty years of age. I have
never seen any human being who appeared to be in such a
pitiable fright, for his teeth were visibly chattering, and he was
shaking in every limb. He was dressed like a gentleman, in
Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his
head. We watched him staring round with frightened eyes. Then
he laid the candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our
view into one of the corners. He returned with a large book, one
of the logbooks which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning
on the table, he rapidly turned over the leaves of this volume
until he came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an angry
gesture of his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in
the corner, and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave
the hut when Hopkins's hand was on the fellow's collar, and I
heard his loud gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken.
The candle was relit, and there was our wretched captive, shiver-
ing and cowering in the grasp of the detective. He sank down
upon the sea-chest, and looked helplessly from one of us to the
other.

  "Now, my fine fellow," said Stanley Hopkins, "who are
you, and what do you want here?"

  The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort
at self-composure.

  "You are detectives, I suppose?" said he. "You imagine I am
connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you
that I am innocent."

  "We'll see about that," said Hopkins. "First of all, what is
your name?"

  "It is John Hopley Neligan."

  I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Can I speak confidentially?"

  "No, certainly not."

  "Why should I tell you?"

  "If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the
trial."

  The young man winced.

  "Well, I will tell you," he said. "Why should I not? And yet
I hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life. Did
you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?"

  I could see, from Hopkins's face, that he never had, but
Holmes was keenly interested.

  "You mean the West Country bankers," said he. "They
failed for a million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall,
and Neligan disappeared."

  "Exactly. Neligan was my father."

  At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed
a long gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter
Carey pinned against the wall with one of his own harpoons. We
all listened intently to the young man's words.

  "It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had
retired. I was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old
enough to feel the shame and horror of it all. It has always been
said that my father stole all the securities and fled. It is not true.
It was his belief that if he were given time in which to realize
them, all would be well and every creditor paid in full. He
started in his little yacht for Norway just before the warrant was
issued for his arrest. I can remember that last night, when he
bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the securities he
was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his
honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer.
Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both the yacht
and he vanished utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he
and it, with the securities that he had taken with him, were at the
bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who is a
business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that
some of the securities which my father had with him had reap-
peared on the London market. You can imagine our amazement.
I spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after many
doubtings and difficulties, I discovered that the original seller
had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.

  "Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that
he had been in command of a whaler which was due to return
from the Arctic seas at the very time when my father was
crossing to Norway. The autumn of that year was a stormy one,
and there was a long succession of southerly gales. My father's
yacht may well have been blown to the north, and there met by
Captain Peter Carey's ship. If that were so, what had become of
my father? In any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey's
evidence how these securities came on the market it would be a
proof that my father had not sold them, and that he had no view
to personal profit when he took them.

  "I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the
captain, but it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred.
I read at the inquest a description of his cabin, in which it stated
that the old logbooks of his vessel were preserved in it. It struck
me that if I could see what occurred in the month of August,
1883, on board the Sea Unicorn, I might settle the mystery of
my father's fate. I tried last night to get at these logbooks, but
was unable to open the door. To-night I tried again and suc-
ceeded, but I find that the pages which deal with that month have
been torn from the book. lt was at that moment I found myself a
prisoner in your hands."

  "Is that all?" asked Hopkins.

  "Yes, that is all." His eyes shifted as he said it.

  "You have nothing else to tell us?"

  He hesitated.

  "No, there is nothing."

  "You have not been here before last night?''

  "No.D "

  "Then how do you account for that?" cried Hopkins, as he
held up the damning notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on
the first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.

  The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands,
and trembled all over.

  "Where did you get it?" he groaned. "I did not know. I
thought I had lost it at the hotel."

  "That is enough," said Hopkins, sternly. "Whatever else
you have to say, you must say in court. You will walk down
with me now to the police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very
much obliged to you and to your friend for coming down to help
me. As it turns out your presence was unnecessary, and I would
have brought the case to this successful issue without you, but,
none the less, I am grateful. Rooms have been reserved for you
at the Brambletye Hotel, so we can a]l walk down to the village
together."

  "Well, Watson, what do you think of it?" asked Holmes, as
we travelled back next morning.

  "I can see that you are not satisfied."

  "Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the
same time, Stanley Hopkins's methods do not commend them-
selves to me. I am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped
for better things from him. One should always look for a possi-
ble alternative, and provide against it. It is the first rule of
criminal investigation."

  "What, then, is the alternative?"

  "The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing.
It may give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow it
to the end."

  Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He
snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a trium-
phant chuckle of laughter.

  "Excellent, Watson! The alternative develops. Have you tele-
graph forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: 'Sumner,
Shipping Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive
ten to-morrow morning. -- Basil.' That's my name in those parts.
The other is: 'Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord Street, Brixton.
Come breakfast to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if un-
able to come. -- Sherlock Holmes.' There, Watson, this infernal
case has haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it completely
from my presence. To-morrow, I trust that we shall hear the last
of it forever."

  Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared,
and we sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs.
Hudson had prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at
his success.

  "You really think that your solution must be correct?" asked
Holmes.

  "I could not imagine a more complete case."

  "It did not seem to me conclusive."

  "You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask
for?"

  "Does your explanation cover every point?"

  "Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the
Brambletye Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the
pretence of playing golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and
he could get out when he liked. That very, night he went down to
Woodman's Lee, saw Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with
him, and killed him with the harpoon. Then, horrified by what
he had done, he fled out of the hut, dropping the notebook which
he had brought with him in order to question Peter Carey about
these different securities. You may have observed that some of
them were marked with ticks, and the others -- the great majority --
were not. Those which are ticked have been traced on the
London market, but the others, presumably, were still in the
possession of Carey, and young Neligan, according to his own
account, was anxious to recover them in order to do the right
thing by his father's creditors. After his flight he did not dare to
approach the hut again for some time, but at last he forced
himself to do so in order to obtain the information which he
needed. Surely that is all simple and obvious?"

  Holmes smiled and shook his head.

  "It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and
that is that it is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a
harpoon through a body? No? Tut, tut, my dear sir, you must
really pay attention to these details. My friend Watson could tell
you that I spent a whole morning in that exercise. It is no easy
matter, and requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow
was delivered with such violence that the head of the weapon
sank deep into the wall. Do you imagine that this anaemic youth
was capable of so frightful an assault? Is he the man who
hobnobbed in rum and water with Black Peter in the dead of the
night? Was it his profile that was seen on the blind two nights
before? No, no, Hopkins, it is another and more formidable
person for whom we must seek."

  The detective's face had grown longer and longer during
Holmes's speech. His hopes and his ambitions were all crum-
bling about him. But he would not abandon his position without
a struggle.

  "You can't deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr.
Holmes. The book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence
enough to satisfy a jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it.
Besides, Mr. Holmes, I have laid my hand upon my man. As to
this terrible person of yours, where is he?"

  "I rather fancy that he is on the stair," said Holmes, serenely.
"I think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver
where you can reach it." He rose and laid a written paper upon a
side-table. "Now we are ready," said he.

  There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now
Mrs. Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men
inquiring for Captain Basil.

  "Show them in one by one," said Holmes.

  The first who entered was a little Ribston pippin of a man,
with ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had
drawn a letter from his pocket.

  "What name?" he asked.

  "James Lancaster."

  "I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a
sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait
there for a few minutes."

  The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair
and sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received
his dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.
The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A
fierce bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard,
and two bold, dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick,
tufted, overhung eyebrows. He saluted and stood sailor-fashion,
turning his cap round in his hands.

  "Your name?" asked Holmes.

  "Patrick Cairns."

  "Harpooner?"

  "Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages."

  "Dundee, I suppose?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And ready to start with an exploring ship?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What wages?"

  "Eight pounds a month."

  "Could you start at once?"

  "As soon as I get my kit."

  "Have you your papers?"

  "Yes, sir." He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from
his pocket. Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

  "You are just the man I want," said he. "Here's the agree-
ment on the side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be
settled."

  The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.

  "Shall I sign here?'' he asked, stooping over the table.

  Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over
his neck.

  "This will do," said he.

  I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The
next instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground
together. He was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with
the handcuffs which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his
wrists, he would have very quickly overpowered my friend had
Hopkins and I not rushed to his rescue. Only when I pressed the
cold muzzle of the revolver to his temple did he at last under-
stand that resistance was vain. We lashed his ankles with cord
and rose breathless from the struggle.

  "I must really apologize, Hopkins," said Sherlock Holmes.
"I fear that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will
enjoy the rest of your breakfast all the better, will you not, for
the thought that you have brought your case to a triumphant
conclusion."

  Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

  "I don't know what to say, Mr. Holmes," he blurted out at
last, with a very red face. "It seems to me that I have been
making a fool of myself from the beginning. I understand now,
what I should never have forgotten, that I am the pupil and you
are the master. Even now I see what you have done, but I don't
know how you did it or what it signifies."

  "Well, well," said Holmes, good-humouredly. "We all learn
by experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never
lose sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young
Neligan that you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the
true murderer of Peter Carey."

  The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.

  "See here, mister," said he, "I make no complaint of being
man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by
their right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey, I say I killed
Peter Carey, and there's all the difference. Maybe you don't
believe what I say. Maybe you think I am just slinging you a
yarn."

  "Not at all," said Holmes. "Let us hear what you have to
say."

  "It's soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I
knew Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a
harpoon through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me.
That's how he died. You can call it murder. Anyhow, I'd as
soon die with a rope round my neck as with Black Peter's knife
in my heart."

  "How came you there?" asked Holmes.

  "I'll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little, so
as I can speak easy. It was in '83 that it happened -- August of
that year. Peter Carey was master of the Sea Unicorn, and I was
spare harpooner. We were coming out of the ice-pack on our
way home, with head winds and a week's southerly gale, when
we picked up a little craft that had been blown north. There was
one man on her -- a landsman. The crew had thought she would
founder and had made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy. I
guess they were all drowned. Well, we took him on board, this
man, and he and the skipper had some long talks in the cabin.
All the baggage we took off with him was one tin box. So far as
I know, the man's name was never mentioned, and on the
second night he disappeared as if he had never been. It was
given out that he had either thrown himself overboard or fallen
overboard in the heavy weather that we were having. Only one
man knew what had happened to him, and that was me, for, with
my own eyes, I saw the skipper tip up his heels and put him over
the rail in the middle watch of a dark night, two days before we
sighted the Shetland Lights.

  "Well, I kept my knowledge to myself, and waited to see
what would come of it. When we got back to Scotland it was
easily hushed up, and nobody asked any questions. A stranger
died by accident, and it was nobody's business to inquire. Shortly
after Peter Carey gave up the sea, and it was long years before I
could find where he was. I guessed that he had done the deed for
the sake of what was in that tin box, and that he could afford
now to pay me well for keeping my mouth shut.

  "I found out where he was through a sailor man that had met
him in London, and down I went to squeeze him. The first night
he was reasonable enough, and was ready to give me what would
make me free of the sea for life. We were to fix it all two nights
later. When I came, I found him three parts drunk and in a vile
temper. We sat down and we drank and we yarned about old
times, but the more he drank the less I liked the look on his face.
I spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I thought I might need
it before I was through. Then at last he broke out at me, spitting
and cursing, with murder in his eyes and a great clasp-knife in his
hand. He had not time to get it from the sheath before I had the
harpoon through him. Heavens! what a yell he gave! and his face
gets between me and my sleep. I stood there, with his blood
splashing round me, and I waited for a bit, but all was quiet, so l
took heart once more. I looked round, and there was the tin box
on the shelf. I had as much right to it as Peter Carey, anyhow, so
I took it with me and left the hut. Like a fool I left my
baccy-pouch upon the table.

  "Now I'll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had
hardly got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I
hid among the bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the
hut, gave a cry as if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as
he could run until he was out of sight. Who he was or what he
wanted is more than I can tell. For my part I walked ten miles,
got a train at Tunbridge Wells, and so reached London, and no
one the wiser.

  "Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no
money in it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell.
I had lost my hold on Black Peter and was stranded in London
without a shilling. There was only my trade left. I saw these
advertisements about harpooners, and high wages, so I went to
the shipping agents, and they sent me here. That's all I know
and I say again that if I killed Bllck Peter, the law should give
me thanks, for I saved them the price of a hempen rope."

  "A very clear statement," said Holmes, rising and lighting his
pipe. "I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in convey-
ing your prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not well
adapted for a cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too large a
proportion of our carpet."

  "Mr. Holmes," said Hopkins, "I do not know how to express
my gratitude. Even now I do not understand how you attained
this result."

  "Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from
the beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this
notebook it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours.
But all I heard pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength,
the skill in the use of the harpoon, the rum and water, the
sealskin tobacco-pouch with the coarse tobacco -- all these pointed
to a seaman, and one who had been a whaler. I was convinced
that the initials 'P. C.' upon the pouch were a coincidence, and
not those of Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked, and no pipe
was found in his cabin. You remember that I asked whether
whisky and brandy were in the cabin. You said they were. How
many landsmen are there who would drink rum when they could
get these other spirits? Yes, I was ccrtain it was a seaman."

  "And how did you find him?"

  "My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it
were a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with
him on the Sea Unicorn. So far as I could learn he had sailed in
no other ship. I spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the
end of that time I had ascertained the names of the crew of the
Sea Unicorn in 1883. When I found Patrick Cairns among the
harpooners, my research was nearing its end. I argued that the
man was probably in London, and that he would desire to leave
the country for a time. I therefore spent some days in the East
End, devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for
harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil -- and behold
the result!"

  "Wonderful!" cried Hopkins. "Wonderful!"

  "You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as
possible," said Holmes. "I confess that I think you owe him
some apology. The tin box must be returned to him, but, of
course, the securities which Peter Carey has sold are lost forever.
There's the cab, Hopkins, and you can remove your man. If you
want me for the trial, my address and that of Watson will be
somewhere in Norway -- I'll send particulars later."

       The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton

  It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and
yet it is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time,
even with the utmost discretion and reticence, it would have
been impossible to make the facts public, but now the principal
person concerned is beyond the reach of human law, and with
due suppression the story may be told in such fashion as to injure
no one. It records an absolutely unique experience in the career
both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will
excuse me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which he
might trace the actual occurrence.

  We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and
I, and had returned about six o'clock on a cold, frosty winter's
evening. As Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card
on the table. He glanced at it, and then, with an ejaculation of
disgust, threw it on the floor. I picked it up and read:

               CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,

                         Appledore Towers,

                                Hampstead.

               Agent.

  "Who is he?" I asked.

  "The worst man in London," Holmes answered, as he sat
down and stretched his legs before the fire. "Is anything on the
back of the card?"

  I turned it over.

  "Will call at 6:30 -- C. A. M.," I read.

  "Hum! He's about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking
sensation, Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the
Zoo, and see the slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with
their deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces? Well, that's how
Milverton impresses me. I've had to do with fifty murderers in
my career, but the worst of them never gave me the repulsion
which I have for this fellow. And yet I can't get out of doing
business with him -- indeed, he is here at my invitation."

  "But who is he?"

  "I'll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers.
Heaven help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret
and reputation come into the power of Milverton! With a smiling
face and a heart of marble, he will squeeze and squeeze until he
has drained them dry. The fellow is a genius in his way, and
would have made his mark in some more savoury trade. His
method is as follows: He allows it to be known that he is
prepared to pay very high sums for letters which compromise
people of wealth and position. He receives these wares not only
from treacherous valets or maids, but frequently from genteel
ruffians, who have gained the confidence and affection of trust-
ing women. He deals with no niggard hand. I happen to know
that he paid seven hundred pounds to a footman for a note two
lines in length, and that the ruin of a noble family was the result.
Everything which is in the market goes to Milverton, and there
are hundreds in this great city who turn white at his name. No
one knows where his grip may fall, for he is far too rich and far
too cunning to work from hand to mouth. He will hold a card
back for years in order to play it at the moment when the stake is
best worth winning. I have said that he is the worst man in
London, and I would ask you how could one compare the
ruffian, who in hot blood bludgeons his mate, with this man,
who methodically and at his leisure tortures the soul and wrings
the nerves in order to add to his already swollen money-bags?"

  I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of
feeling.

  "But surely," said I, "the fellow must be within the grasp of
the law?"

  "Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it
profit a woman, for example, to get him a few months' impris-
onment if her own ruin must immediately follow? His victims
dare not hit back. If ever he blackmailed an innocent person,
then indeed we should have him, but he is as cunning as the Evil
One. No, no, we must find other ways to fight him."

  "And why is he here?"

  "Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in
my hands. It is the Lady Eva Blackwell, the most beautiful
debutante of last season. She is to be married in a fortnight to the
Earl of Dovercourt. This fiend has several imprudent letters --
imprudent, Watson, nothing worse -- which were written to an
impecunious young squire in the country. They would suffice to
break off the match. Milverton will send the letters to the Earl
unless a large sum of money is paid him. I have been commis-
sioned to meet him, and -- to make the best terms I can."

  At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street
below. Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the
brilliant lamps gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble
chestnuts. A footman opened the door, and a small, stout man in
a shaggy astrakhan overcoat descended. A minute later he was in
the room.

  Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large,
intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual
frozen smile, and two keen gray eyes, which gleamed brightly
from behind broad, gold-rimmed glasses. There was something
of Mr. Pickwick's benevolence in his appearance, marred only
by the insincerity of the fixed smile and by the hard glitter of
those restless and penetrating eyes. His voice was as smooth and
suave as his countenance, as he advanced with a plump little
hand extended, murmuring his regret for having missed us at his
first visit. Holmes disregarded the outstretched hand and looked
at him with a face of granite. Milverton's smile broadened, he
shrugged his shoulders, removed his overcoat, folded it with
great deliberation over the back of a chair, and then took a seat.

  "This gentleman?" said he, with a wave in my direction. "Is
it discreet? Is it right?"

  "Dr. Watson is my friend and partner."

  "Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only in your client's interests
that I protested. The matter is so very delicate --"

  "Dr. Watson has already heard of it."

  "Then we can proceed to business. You say that you are
acting for Lady Eva. Has she empowered you to accept my
terms?"

  "What are your terms?"

  "Seven thousand pounds."

  "And the alternative?"

  "My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it, but if the
money is not paid on the 14th, there certainly will be no mar-
riage on the 18th." His insufferable smile was more complacent
than ever.

  Holmes thought for a little.

  "You appear to me," he said, at last, "to be taking matters
too much for granted. I am, of course, familiar with the contents
of these letters. My client will certainly do what I may advise. I
shall counsel her to tell her future husband the whole story and to
trust to his generosity."

  Milverton chuckled.

  "You evidently do not know the Earl," said he.

  From the baffled look upon Holmes's face, I could see clearly
that he did.

  "What harm is there in the letters?" he asked.

  "They are sprightly -- very sprightly," Milverton answered.
"The lady was a charming correspondent. But I can assure you
that the Earl of Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them. How-
ever, since you think otherwise, we will let it rest at that. It is
purely a matter of business. If you think that it is in the best
interests of your client that these letters should be placed in the
hands of the Earl, then you would indeed be foolish to pay so
large a sum of money to regain them." He rose and seized his
astrakhan coat.

  Holmes was gray with anger and mortification.

  "Wait a little," he said. "You go too fast. We should cer-
tainly make every effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter."

  Milverton relapsed into his chair.

  "I was sure that you would see it in that light," he purred.

  "At the same time," Holmes continued, "Lady Eva is not a
wealthy woman. I assure you that two thousand pounds would be
a drain upon her resources, and that the sum you name is utterly
beyond her power. I beg, therefore, that you will moderate your
demands, and that you will return the letters at the price I
indicate, which is, I assure you, the highest that you can get."

  Milverton's smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.

  "I am aware that what you say is true about the lady's
resources," said he. "At the same time you must admit that the
occasion of a lady's marriage is a very suitable time for her
friends and relatives to make some little effort upon her behalf.
They may hesitate as to an acceptable wedding present. Let me
assure them that this little bundle of letters would give more joy
than all the candelabra and butter-dishes in London."

  "It is impossible," said Holmes.

  "Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!" cried Milverton, tak-
ing out a bulky pocketbook. "I cannot help thinking that ladies
are ill-advised in not making an effort. Look at this!" He held up
a little note with a coat-of-arms upon the envelope. "That be-
longs to well, perhaps it is hardly fair to tell the name until
to-morrow morning. But at that time it will be in the hands of the
lady's husband. And all because she will not find a beggarly sum
which she could get by turning her diamonds into paste. It is
such a pity! Now, you remember the sudden end of the engage-
ment between the Honourable Miss Miles and Colonel Dorking?
Only two days before the wedding, there was a paragraph in the
Morning Post to say that it was all off. And why? It is almost
incredible, but the absurd sum of twelve hundred pounds would
have settled the whole question. Is it not pitiful? And here I find
you, a man of sense, boggling about terms, when your client's
future and honour are at stake. You surprise me, Mr. Holmes."

  "What I say is true," Holmes answered. "The money cannot
be found. Surely it is better for you to take the substantial sum
which I offer than to ruin this woman's career, which can profit
you in no way?"

  "There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes. An exposure would
profit me indirectly to a considerable extent. I have eight or ten
similar cases maturing. If it was circulated among them that I
had made a severe example of the Lady Eva, I should find all of
them much more open to reason. You see my point?"

  Holmes sprang from his chair.

  "Get behind him, Watson! Don't let him out! Now, sir, let us
see the contents of that notebook."

  Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side of the room
and stood with his back against the wall.

  "Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes," he said, turning the front of his
coat and exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected
from the inside pocket. "I have been expecting you to do
something original. This has been done so often, and what good
has ever come from it? I assure you that I am armed to the teeth,
and I am perfectly prepared to use my weapons, knowing that
the law will support me. Besides, your supposition that I would
bring the letters here in a notebook is entirely mistaken. I would
do nothing so foolish. And now, gentlemen, I have one or two
little interviews this evening, and it is a long drive to Hamp-
stead." He stepped forward, took up his coat, laid his hand on
his revolver, and turned to the door. I picked up a chair, but
Holmes shook his head, and I laid it down again. With a bow, a
smile, and a twinkle, Milverton was out of the room, and a few
moments after we heard the slam of the carriage door and the
rattle of the wheels as he drove away.

  Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his
trouser pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed
upon the glowing embers. For half an hour he was silent and
still. Then, with the gesture of a man who has taken his decision,
he sprang to his feet and passed into his bedroom. A little later a
rakish young workman, with a goatee beard and a swagger, lit
his clay pipe at the lamp before descending into the street. "I'll
be back some time, Watson," said he, and vanished into the
night. I understood that he had opened his campaign against
Charles Augustus Milverton, but I little dreamed the strange
shape which that campaign was destined to take.

  For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this
attire, but beyond a remark that his time was spent at Hamp-
stead, and that it was not wasted, I knew nothing of what he was
doing. At last, however, on a wild, tempestuous evening, when
the wind screamed and rattled against the windows, he returned
from his last expedition, and having removed his disguise he
sat before the fire and laughed heartily in his silent inward
fashion.

  "You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?"

  "No, indeed!"

  "You'll be interested to hear that I'm engaged."

  "My dear fellow! I congrat --"

  "To Milverton's housemaid."

  "Good heavens, Holmes!"

  "I wanted information, Watson."

  "Surely you have gone too far?"

  "It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising
business, Escott, by name. I have walked out with her each
evening, and I have talked with her. Good heavens, those talks!
However, I have got all I wanted. I know Milverton's house as I
know the palm of my hand."

  "But the girl, Holmes?"

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  "You can't help it, my dear Watson. You must play your
cards as best you can when such a stake is on the table. How-
ever. I rejoice to say that I have a hated rival, who will certainly
cut me out the instant that my back is turned. What a splendid
night it is!"

  "You like this weather?"

  "It suits my purpose. Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton's
house to-night."

  I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the
words, which were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated
resolution. As a flash of lightning in the night shows up in an
instant every detail of a wild landscape, so at one glance I
seemed to see every possible result of such an action -- the
detection, the capture, the honoured career ending in irreparable
failure and disgrace, my friend himself lying at the mercy of the
odious Milverton.

  "For heaven's sake, Holmes, think what you are doing," I
cried.

  "My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration. I am
never precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic
and, indeed, so dangerous a course, if any other were possible.
Let us look at the matter clearly and fairly. I suppose that you
will admit that the action is morally justifiable, though techni-
cally criminal. To burgle his house is no more than to forcibly
take his pocketbook -- an action in which you were prepared to
aid me."

  I turned it over in my mind.

  "Yes," I said, "it is morally justifiable so long as our object
is to take no articles save those which are used for an illegal
purpose."

  "Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable, I have only to con-
sider the question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should
not lay much stress upon this, when a lady is in most desperate
need of his help?"

  "You will be in such a false position."

  "Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way
of regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the
money, and there are none of her people in whom she could
confide. To-morrow is the last day of grace, and unless we can
get the letters to-night, this villain will be as good as his word
and will bring about her ruin. I must, therefore, abandon my
client to her fate or I must play this last card. Between ourselves,
Watson, it's a sporting duel between this fellow Milverton and
me. He had, as you saw, the best of the first exchanges, but my
self-respect and my reputation are concerned to fight it to a
finish."

  "Well, I don't like it, but I suppose it must be," said I.

  "When do we start?"

  "You are not coming."

  "Then you are not going," said I. "I give you my word of
honour -- and I never broke'it in my life -- that I will take a cab
straight to the police-station and give you away, unless you let
me share this adventure with you."

  "You can't help me."

  "How do you know that? You can't tell what may happen.
Anyway, my resolution is taken. Other people besides you have
self-respect, and even reputations."

  Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he
clapped me on the shoulder.

  "Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared this
same room for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended
by sharing the same cell. You know, Watson, I don't mind
confessing to you that I have always had an idea that I would
have made a highly efficient criminal. This is the chance of my
lifetime in that direction. See here!" He took a neat little leather
case out of a drawer, and opening it he exhibited a number of
shining instruments. "This is a first-class, up-to-date burgling
kit, with nickel-plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter, adapt-
able keys, and every modern improvement which the march of
civilization demands. Here, too, is my dark lantern. Everything
is in order. Have you a pair of silent shoes?"

  "I have rubber-soled tennis shoes."

  "Excellent! And a mask?"

  "I can make a couple out of black silk."

  "I can see that you have a strong, natural turn for this sort of
thing. Very good, do you make the masks. We shall have some
cold supper before we start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we
shall drive as far as Church Row. It is a quarter of an hour's
walk from there to Appledore Towers. We shall be at work
before midnight. Milverton is a heavy sleeper, and retires punc-
tually at ten-thirty. With any luck we should be back here by
two, with the Lady Eva's letters in my pocket."

  Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might
appear to be two theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford
Street we picked up a hansom and drove to an address in
Hampstead. Here we paid off our cab, and with our great coats
buttoned up, for it was bitterly cold, and the wind seemed to
blow through us, we walked along the edge of the heath.

  "It's a business that needs delicate treatment," said Holmes.
"These documents are contained in a safe in the fellow's study,
and the study is the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other
hand, like all these stout, little men who do themselves well, he
is a plethoric sleeper. Agatha -- that's my fiancee -- says it is a
joke in the servants' hall that it's impossible to wake the master.
He has a secretary who is devoted to his interests, and never
budges from the study all day. That's why we are going at night.
Then he has a beast of a dog which roams the garden. I met
Agatha late the last two evenings, and she locks the brute up so
as to give me a clear run. This is the house, this big one in its
own grounds. Through the gate -- now to the right among the
laurels. We might put on our masks here, I think. You see, there
is not a glimmer of light in any of the windows, and everything
is working splendldly."

  With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two
of the most truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent,
gloomy house. A sort of tiled veranda extended along one side
of it, lined by several windows and two doors.

  "That's his bedroom," Holmes whispered. "This door opens
straight into the study. It would suit us best, but it is bolted as
well as locked, and we should make too much noise getting in.
Come round here. There's a greenhouse which opens into the
drawing-room."

  The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass
and turned the key from the inside. An instant afterwards he had
closed the door behind us, and we had become felons in the eyes
of the law. The thick, warm air of the conservatory and the rich,
choking fragrance of exotic plants took us by the throat. He
seized my hand in the darkness and led me swiftly past banks of
shrubs which brushed against our faces. Holmes had remarkable
powers, carefully cultivated, of seeing in the dark. Still holding
my hand in one of his, he opened a door, and I was vaguely
conscious that we had entered a large room in which a cigar had
been smoked not long before. He felt his way among the furni-
ture, opened another door, and closed it behind us. Putting out
my hand I felt several coats hanging from the wall, and I
understood that I was in a passage. We passed along it, and
Holmes very gently opened a door upon the right-hand side.
Something rushed out at us and my heart sprang into my mouth,
but I could have laughed when I realized that it was the cat. A
fire was burning in this new room, and again the air was heavy
with tobacco smoke. Holmes entered on tiptoe, waited for me to
follow, and then very gently closed the door. We were in
Milverton's study, and a portiere at the farther side showed the
entrance to his bedroom.

  It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near
the door I saw the gleam of an electric switch, but it was
unnecessary, even if it had been safe, to turn it on. At one side
of the fireplace was a heavy curtain which covered the bay
window we had seen from outside. On the other side was the
door which communicated with the veranda. A desk stood in the
centre, with a turning-chair of shining red leather. Opposite was
a large bookcase, with a marble bust of Athene on the top. In the
corner, between the bookcase and the wall, there stood a tall,
green safe, the firelight flashing back from the polished brass
knobs upon its face. Holmes stole across and looked at it. Then
he crept to the door of the bedroom, and stood with slanting head
listening intently. No sound came from within. Meanwhile it had
struck me that it would be wise to secure our retreat through the
outer door, so I examined it. To my amazement, it was neither
locked nor bolted. I touched Holmes on the arm, and he turned
his masked face in that direction. I saw him start, and he was
evidently as surprised as I.

  "I don't like it," he whispered, putting his lips to my very
ear. "I can't quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to
lose."

  "Can I do anything?"

  "Yes, stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on
the inside, and we can get away as we came. If they come the
other way, we can get through the door if our job is done,
or hide behind these window curtains if it is not. Do you
understand?"

  I nodded, and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had
passed away, and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had
ever enjoyed when we were the defenders of the law instead of
its defiers. The high object of our mission, the consciousness
that it was unselfish and chivalrous, the villainous character of
our opponent, all added to the sporting interest of the adventure.
Far from feeling guilty, I rejoiced and exulted in our dangers.
With a glow of admiration I watched Holmes unrolling his case
of instruments and choosing his tool with the calm, scientific
accuracy of a surgeon who performs a delicate operation. I knew
that the opening of safes was a particular hobby with him, and I
understood the joy which it gave him to be confronted with this
green and gold monster, the dragon which held in its maw the
reputations of many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs of his
dress-coat -- he had placed his overcoat on a chair -- Holmes laid
out two drills, a jemmy, and several skeleton keys. I stood at the
centre door with my eyes glancing at each of the others, ready
for any emergency, though, indeed, my plans were somewhat
vague as to what I should do if we were interrupted. For half an
hour, Holmes worked with concentrated energy, laying down
one tool, picking up another, handling each with the strength and
delicacy of the trained mechanic. Finally I heard a click, the
broad green door swung open, and inside I had a glimpse of a
number of paper packets, each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Holmes
picked one out, but it was hard to read by the flickering fire, and
he drew out his little dark lantern, for it was too dangerous, with
Milverton in the next room, to switch on the electric light.
Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently, and then in an instant he
had swung the door of the safe to, picked up his coat, stuffed his
tools into the pockets, and darted behind the window curtain,
motioning me to do the same.

  It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had
alarmed his quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within
the house. A door slammed in the distance. Then a confused,
dull murmur broke itself into the measured thud of heavy
footsteps rapidly approaching. They were in the passage outside
the room. They paused at the door. The door opened. There was
a sharp snick as the electric light was turned on. The door closed
once more, and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was borne to
our nostrils. Then the footsteps continued backward and forward,
backward and forward, within a few yards of us. Finally there
was a creak from a chair, and the footsteps ceased. Then a key
clicked in a lock, and I heard the rustle of papers.

  So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the
division of the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From
the pressure of Holmes's shoulder against mine, I knew that he
was sharing my observations. Right in front of us, and almost
within our reach, was the broad, rounded back of Milverton. It
was evident that we had entirely miscalculated his movements,
that he had never been to his bedroom, but that he had been
sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the farther wing of
the house, the windows of which we had not seen. His broad,
grizzled head, with its shining patch of baldness, was in the
immediate foreground of our vision. He was leaning far back in
the red leather chair. his legs outstretched, a long, black cigar
projecting at an angle from his mouth. He wore a semi-military
smoking jacket, claret-coloured. with a black velvet collar. In his
hand he held a long, legal document which he was reading in an
indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco smoke from his lips
as he did so. There was no promise of a speedy departure in his
composed bearing and his comfortable attitude.

  I felt Holmes's hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring
shake, as if to say that the situation was within his powers, and
that he was easy in his mind. I was not sure whether he had seen
what was only too obvious from my position, that the door of the
safe was imperfectly closed, and that Milverton might at any
moment observe it. In my own mind I had determined that if I
were sure, from the rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught his
eye, I would at once spring out, throw my great coat over his
head, pinion him, and leave the rest to Holmes. But Milverton
never looked up. He was languidly interested by the papers in his
hand, and page after page was turned as he followed the argu-
ment of the lawyer. At least, I thought, when he has finished the
document and the cigar he will go to his room, but before he had
reached the end of either, there came a remarkable development
which turned our thoughts into quite another channel.

  Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his
watch, and once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture
of impatience. The idea, however, that he might have an ap-
pointment at so strange an hour never occurred to me until a faint
sound reached my ears from the veranda outside. Milverton
dropped his papers and sat rigid in his chair. The sound was
repeated, and then there came a gentle tap at the door. Milverton
rose and opened it.

  "Well," said he, curtly, "you are nearly half an hour late."

  So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the
nocturnal vigil of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a
woman's dress. I had closed the slit between the curtains as
Milverton's face had turned in our direction, but now I ventured
very carefully to open it once more. He had resumed his seat,
the cigar still projecting at an insolent angle from the corner of
his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare of the electric light,
there stood a tall, slim, dark woman, a veil over her face, a
mantle drawn round her chin. Her breath came quick and fast,
and every inch of the lithe figure was quivering with strong
emotion.

  "Well," said Milverton, "you made me lose a good night's
rest, my dear. I hope you'll prove worth it. You couldn't come
any other time -- eh?"

  The woman shook her head.

  "Well, if you couldn't you couldn't. If the Countess is a hard
mistress, you have your chance to get level with her now. Bless
the girl, what are you shivering about? That's right. Pull yourself
together. Now, let us get down to business." He took a note-
book from the drawer of his desk. "You say that you have five
letters which compromise the Countess d'Albert. You want to
sell them. I want to buy them. So far so good. It only remains to
fix a price. I should want to inspect the letters, of course. If they
are really good specimens -- Great heavens, is it you?"

  The woman, without a word, had raised her veil and dropped
the mantle from her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut
face which confronted Milverton -- a face with a curved nose,
strong, dark eyebrows shading hard, glittering eyes, and a straight,
thin-lipped mouth set in a dangerous smile.

  "It is I," she said, "the woman whose life you have ruined."

  Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. "You were
so very obstinate," said he. "Why did you drive me to such
extremities? I assure you I wouldn't hurt a fly of my own accord,
but every man has his business, and what was I to do? I put the
price well within your means. You would not pay."

  "So you sent the letters to my husband, and he -- the noblest
gentleman that ever lived, a man whose boots I was never
worthy to lace -- he broke his gallant heart and died. You remem-
ber that last night, when I came through that door, I begged and
prayed you for mercy, and you laughed in my face as you are
trying to laugh now, only your coward heart cannot keep your
lips from twitching. Yes, you never thought to see me here
again, but it was that night which taught me how I could meet
you face to face, and alone. Well, Charles Milverton, what have
you to say?"

  "Don't imagine that you can bully me," said he, rising to his
feet. "I have only to raise my voice, and I could call my
servants and have you arrested. But I will make allowance for
your natural anger. Leave the room at once as you came, and I
will say no more."

  The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the
same deadly smile on her thin lips.

  "You will ruin no more lives as you have ruined mine. You
will wring no more hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the
world of a poisonous thing. Take that, you hound -- and that!
-- and that! -- and that! -- and that!"

  She had drawn a little gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel
after barrel into Milverton's body, the muzzle within two feet of
his shirt front. He shrank away and then fell forward upon the
table, coughing furiously and clawing among the papers. Then
he staggered to his feet, received another shot, and rolled upon
the floor. "You've done me," he cried, and lay still. The
woman looked at him intently, and ground her heel into his
upturned face. She looked again, but there was no sound or
movement. I heard a sharp rustle, the night air blew into the
heated room, and the avenger was gone.

  No interference upon our part could have saved the man from
his fate, but, as the woman poured bullet after bullet into
Milverton's shrinking body I was about to spring out, when I felt
Holmes's cold, strong grasp upon my wrist. I understood the
whole argument of that firm, restraining grip -- that it was no
affair of ours, that justice had overtaken a villain, that we had
our own duties and our own objects, which were not to be lost
sight of. But hardly had the woman rushed from the room when
Holmes, with swift, silent steps, was over at the other door. He
turned the key in the lock. At the same instant we heard voices
in the house and the sound of hurrying feet. The revolver shots
had roused the household. With perfect coolness Holmes slipped
across to the safe, filled his two arms with bundles of letters, and
poured them all into the fire. Again and again he did it, until the
safe was empty. Someone turned the handle and beat upon the
outside of the door. Holmes looked swiftly round. The letter
which had been the messenger of death for Milverton lay, all
mottled with his blood, upon the table. Holmes tossed it in
among the blazing papers. Then he drew the key from the outer
door, passed through after me, and locked it on the outside.
"This way, Watson," said he, "we can scale the garden wall in
this direction."

  I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so
swiftly. Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light.
The front door was open, and figures were rushing down the
drive. The whole garden was alive with people, and one fellow
raised a view-halloa as we emerged from the veranda and fol-
lowed hard at our heels. Holmes seemed to know the grounds
perfectly, and he threaded his way swiftly among a plantation of
small trees, I close at his heels, and our foremost pursuer panting
behind us. It was a six-foot wall which barred our path, but he
sprang to the top and over. As I did the same I felt the hand of
the man behind me grab at my ankle, but I kicked myself free
and scrambled over a grass-strewn coping. I fell upon my face
among some bushes, but Holmes had me on my feet in an
instant, and together we dashed away across the huge expanse of
Hampstead Heath. We had run two miles, I suppose, before
Holmes at last halted and listened intently. All was absolute
silence behind us. We had shaken off our pursuers and were
safe.

  We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on
the day after the remarkable experience which I have recorded,
when Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, very solemn and impres-
sive, was ushered into our modest sitting-room.

  "Good-morning, Mr. Holmes," said he; "good-morning. May
I ask if you are very busy just now?"

  "Not too busy to listen to you."

  "I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on
hand, you might care to assist us in a most remarkable case,
which occurred only last night at Hampstead."

  "Dear me!" said Holmes. "What was that?"

  "A murder -- a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know
how keen you are upon these things, and I would take it as a
great favour if you would step down to Appledore Towers, and
give us the benefit of your advice. It is no ordinary crime. We
have had our eyes upon this Mr. Milverton for some time, and,
between ourselves, he was a bit of a villain. He is known to have
held papers which he used for blackmailing purposes. These
papers have all been burned by the murderers. No article of
value was taken, as it is probable that the criminals were men of
good position, whose sole object was to prevent social exposure."

  "Criminals?" said Holmes. "Plural?"

  "Yes, there were two of them. They were as nearly as possi-
ble captured red-handed. We have their footmarks, we have their
description, it's ten to one that we trace them. The first fellow
was a bit too active, but the second was caught by the under-
gardener, and only got away after a struggle. He was a middle-
sized, strongly built man -- square jaw, thick neck, moustache, a
mask over his eyes."

  "That's rather vague," said Sherlock Holmes. "Why, it might
be a description of Watson!"

  "It's true," said the inspector, with amusement. "It might be
a description of Watson."

  "Well, I'm afraid I can't help you, Lestrade," said Holmes.
"The fact is that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered
him one of the most dangerous men in London, and that I think
there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which
therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. No, it's no use
arguing. I have made up my mind. My sympathies are with the
criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle this
case."

  Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which
we had witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in
his most thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from
his vacant eyes and his abstracted manner, of a man who is
striving to recall something to his memory. We were in the
middle of our lunch, when he suddenly sprang to his feet. "By
Jove, Watson, I've got it!" he cried. "Take your hat! Come
with me!" He hurried at his top speed down Baker Street and
along Oxford Street, until we had almost reached Regent Circus.
Here, on the left hand, there stands a shop window filled with
photographs of the celebrities and beauties of the day. Holmes's
eyes fixed themselves upon one of them, and following his gaze
I saw the picture of a regal and stately lady in Court dress, with a
high diamond tiara upon her noble head. I looked at that del-
icately curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight
mouth, and the strong little chin beneath it. Then I caught my
breath as I read the time-honoured title of the great nobleman
and statesman whose wife she had been. My eyes met those of
Holmes, and he put his finger to his lips as we turned away from
the window.

          The Adventure of the Six Napoleons

  It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland
Yard, to look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were wel-
come to Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch
with all that was going on at the police headquarters. In return
for the news which Lestrde would bring, Holmes was always
ready to listen with attention to the details of any case upon
which the detective was engaged, and was able occasionally
without any active interference, to give some hint or suggestion
drawn from his own vast knowledge and experience.

  On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weather
and the newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully
at his cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.

  "Anything remarkable on hand?" he asked.

  "Oh, no, Mr. Holmes -- nothing very particular."

  "Then tell me about it."

  Lestrade laughed.

  "Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there is
something on my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business,
that I hesitated to bother you about it. On the other hand,
although it is trivial, it is undoubtedly queer, and I know that
you have a taste for all that is out of the common. But, in my
opinion, it comes more in Dr. Watson's line than ours."

  "Disease?" said I.

  "Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness, too. You wouldn't
think there was anyone living at this time of day who had such a
hatred of Napoleon the First that he would break any image of
him that he could see."

  Holmes sank back in his chair.

  "That's no business of mine," said he.

  "Exactly. That's what I said. But then, when the man com-
mits burglary in order to break images which are not his own,
that brings it away from the doctor and on to the policeman."

  Holmes sat up again.

  "Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details."

  Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his mem-
ory from its pages.

  "The first case reported was four days ago," said he. "It was
at the shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of
pictures and statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had
left the front shop for an instant, when he heard a crash, and
hurrying in he found a plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood
with several other works of art upon the counter, lying shivered
into fragments. He rushed out into the road, but, although sev-
eral passers-by declared that they had noticed a man run out of
the shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any
means of identifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those
senseless acts of Hooliganism which occur from time to time,
and it was reported to the constable on the beat as such. The
plaster cast was not worth more than a few shillings, and the
whole affair appeared to be too childish for any particular
investigation.

  "The second case, however, was more serious, and also more
singular. It occurred only last night.

  "In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of
Morse Hudson's shop, there lives a well-known medical practi-
tioner, named Dr. Barnicot, who has one of the largest practices
upon the south side of the Thames. His residence and principal
consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but he has a branch
surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away.
This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his
house is full of books, pictures, and relics of the French Em-
peror. Some little time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson
two duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of Napoleon by
the French sculptor, Devine. One of these he placed in his hall in
the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the mantelpiece
of the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot came
down this morning he was astonished to find that his house had
been burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken
save the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and
had been dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which
its splintered fragments were discovered."

  Holmes rubbed his hands.

  "This is certainly very novel," said he.

  "I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end
yet. Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o'clock, and
you can imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he
found that the window had been opened in the night, and that the
broken pieces of his second bust were strewn all over the room.
It had been smashed to atoms where it stood. In neither case
were there any signs which could give us a clue as to the
criminal or lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes,
you have got the facts."

  "They are singular, not to say grotesque," said Holmes.
"May I ask whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot's
rooms were the exact duplicates of the one which was destroyed
in Morse Hudson's shop?"

  "They were taken from the same mould."

  "Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who
breaks them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon.
Considering how many hundreds of statues of the great Emperor
must exist in London, it is too much to suppose such a coinci-
dence as that a promiscuous iconoclast should chance to begin
upon three specimens of the same bust."

  "Well, I thought as you do," said Lestrade. "On the other
hand, this Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of
London, and these three were the only ones which had been in
his shop for years. So, although, as you say, there are many
hundreds of statues in London, it is very probable that these
three were the only ones in that district. Therefore, a local
fanatic would begin with them. What do you think, Dr. Watson?"

  "There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania," I
answered. "There is the condition which the modern French
psychologists have called the 'idee fixe,' which may be trifling in
character, and accompanied by complete sanity in every other
way. A man who had read deeply about Napoleon, or who had
possibly received some hereditary family injury through the great
war, might conceivably form such an idee fixe and under its
influence be capable of any fantastic outrage."

  "That won't do, my dear Watson," said Holmes, shaking his
head, "for no amount of idee fixe would enable your interesting
monomaniac to find out where these busts were situated."

  "Well, how do you explain it?"

  "I don't attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a
certain method in the gentleman's eccentric proceedings. For
example, in Dr. Barnicot's hall, where a sound might arouse the
family, the bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas
in the surgery, where there was less danger of an alarm, it was
smashed where it stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, and
yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my most
classic cases have had the least promising commencement. You
will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetty
family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the
parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can't afford,
therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I
shall be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any
fresh development of so singular a chain of events."

  The development for which my friend had asked came in a
quicker and an infinitely more tragic form than he could have
imagined. I was still dressing in my bedroom next morning,
when there was a tap at the door and Holmes entered, a
telegram in his hand. He read it aloud:

     "Come instantly, 131 Pitt Street, Kensington.

                                        "LESTRADE.

  "What is it, then?" I asked.

  "Don't know -- may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel
of the story of the statues. In that case our friend the image-
breaker has begun operations in another quarter of London.
There's coffee on the table, Watson, and I have a cab at the
door."

  In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little
backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London life.
No. 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and
most unromantic dwellings. As we drove up, we found the rail-
ings in front of the house lined by a curious crowd. Holmes
whistled.

  "By George! it's attempted murder at the least. Nothing less
will hold the London message-boy. There's a deed of violence
indicated in that fellow's round shoulders and outstretched
neck. What's this, Watson? The top steps swilled down and
the other ones dry. Footsteps enough, anyhow! Well, well,
there's Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know
all about it."

  The official received us with a very grave face and showed us
into a sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated el-
derly man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and
down. He was introduced to us as the owner of the house -- Mr.
Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate.

  "It's the Napoleon bust business again," said Lestrade. "You
seemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps
you would be glad to be present now that the affair has taken a
very much graver turn."

  "What has it turned to, then?"

  "To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen ex-
actly what has occurred?"

  The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most mel-
ancholy face.

  "It's an extraordinary thing," said he, "that all my life I have
been collecting other people's news, and now that a real piece of
news has come my own way I am so confused and bothered that
I can't put two words together. If I had come in here as a
journalist, I should have interviewed myself and had two col-
umns in every evening paper. As it is, I am giving away valu-
able copy by telling my story over and over to a string of
different people, and I can make no use of it myself. However,
I've heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you'll only
explain this queer business, I shall be paid for my trouble in
telling you the story."

  Holmes sat down and listened.

  "It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I
bought for this very room about four months ago. I picked it up
cheap from Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street
Station. A great deal of my journalistic work is done at night,
and I often write until the early morning. So it was to-day. I was
sitting in my den, which is at the back of the top of the house,
about three o'clock, when I was convinced that l heard some
sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated, and I
concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about
five minutes later, there came a most horrible yell -- the most
dreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my
ears as long as I live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or
two. Then I seized the poker and went downstairs. When I
entered this room I found the window wide open, and I at once
observed that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece. Why any
burglar should take such a thing passes my understanding, for it
was only a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.

  "You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that
open window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long
stride. This was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went
round and opened the door. Stepping out into the dark, I nearly
fell over a dead man, who was lying there. I ran back for a light,
and there was the poor fellow, a great gash in his throat and the
whole place swimming in blood. He lay on his back, his knees
drawn up, and his mouth horribly open. I shall see him in my
dreams. I had just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I
must have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the
policeman standing over me in the hall."

  "Well, who was the murdered man?" asked Holmes.

  "There's nothing to show who he was," said Lestrade. "You
shall see the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of
it up to now. He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not
more than thirty. He is poorly dressed, and yet does not appear
to be a labourer. A horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool
of blood beside him. Whether it was the weapon which did the
deed, or whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know.
There was no name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets
save an apple, some string, a shilling map of London, and a
photograph. Here it is."

  It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera. It
represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man. with thick eye-
brows and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the
face, like the muzzle of a baboon.

  "And what became of the bust?" asked Holmes, after a
careful study of this picture.

  "We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in
the front garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It
was broken into fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will
you come?"

  "Certainly. I must just take one look round." He examined
the carpet and the window. "The fellow had either very long
legs or was a most active man," said he. "With an area beneath,
it was no mean feat to reach that window-ledge and open that
window. Getting back was comparatively simple. Are you com-
ing with us to see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?"

  The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing-table.

  "I must try and make something of it," said he, "though I
have no doubt that the first editions of the evening papers are out
already with full details. It's like my luck! You remember when
the stand fell at Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in the
stand, and my journal the only one that had no account of it, for
I was too shaken to write it. And now I'll be too late with a
murder done on my own doorstep."

  As we left the room, we heard his pen travelling shrilly over
the foolscap.

  The spot where the fragments of the bust had been found was
only a few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested
upon this presentment of the great emperor, which seemed to
raise such frantic and destructive hatred in the mind of the
unknown. It lay scattered, in splintered shards, upon the grass.
Holmes picked up several of them and examined them carefully.
I was convinced, from his intent face and his purposeful manner,
that at last he was upon a clue.

  "Well?" asked Lestrade.

  Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

  "We have a long way to go yet," said he. "And yet -- and
yet -- well, we have some suggestive facts to act upon. The
possession of this trifling bust was worth more, in the eyes of
this strange criminal, than a human life. That is one point. Then
there is the singular fact that he did not break it in the house, or
immediately outside the house, if to break it was his sole object."

  "He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He
hardly knew what he was doing."

  "Well, that's likely enough. But I wish to call your attention
very particularly to the position of this house, in the garden of
which the bust was destroyed."

  Lestrade looked about him.

  "It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be
disturbed in the garden."

  "Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street
which he must have passed before he came to this one. Why did
he not break it there, since it is evident that every yard that he
carried it increased the risk of someone meeting him?"

  "I give it up," said Lestrade.

  Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.

  "He could see what he was doing here, and he could not
there. That was his reason."

  "By Jove! that's true," said the detective. "Now that I come
to think of it, Dr. Barnicot's bust was broken not far from his red
lamp. Well, Mr. Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?"

  "To remember it -- to docket it. We may come on something
later which will bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take
now, Lestrade?"

  "The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to
identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that.
When we have found who he is and who his associates are, we
should have a good start in learning what he was doing in Pitt
Street last night, and who it was who met him and killed him on
the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don't you think so?"

  "No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should
approach the case."

  "What would you do then?"

  "Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way. I suggest
that you go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes
afterwards, and each will supplement the other."

  "Very good," said Lestrade.

  "If you are going back to Pitt Street, you might see Mr.
Horace Harker. Tell him for me that I have quite made up my
mind, and that it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic,
with Napoleonic delusions, was in his house last night. It will be
useful for his article."

  Lestrade stared.

  "You don't seriously believe that?"

  Holmes smiled.

  "Don't I? Well, perhaps I don't. But I am sure that it will
interest Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central
Press Syndicate. Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we
have a long and rather complex day's work before us. I should
be glad, Lestrade, if you could make it convenient to meet us at
Baker Street at six o'clock this evening. Until then I should like
to keep this photograph, found in the dead man's pocket. It is
possible that I may have to ask your company and assistance
upon a small expedition which will have to be undertaken to-
night, if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until
then good-bye and good luck!"

  Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street,
where we stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the
bust had been purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr.
Harding would be absent until afternoon, and that he was himself
a newcomer, who could give us no information. Holmes's face
showed his disappointment and annoyance.

  "Well, well, we can't expect to have it all our own way,
Watson," he said, at last. "We must come back in the after-
noon, if Mr. Harding will not be here until then. I am, as you
have no doubt surmised, endeavouring to trace these busts to
their source, in order to find if there is not something peculiar
which may account for their remarkable fate. Let us make for
Mr. Morse Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see if he can
throw any light upon the problem."

  A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer's establish-
ment. He was a small, stout man with a red face and a peppery
manner.

  "Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir," said he. "What we pay
rates and taxes for I don't know, when any ruffian can come in
and break one's goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot
his two statues. Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot -- that's what I
make it. No one but an anarchist would go about breaking
statues. Red republicans -- that's what I call 'em. Who did I get
the statues from? I don't see what that has to do with it. Welll, if
you really want to know, I got them from Gelder & Co., in
Church Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the
trade, and have been this twenty years. How many had l?
Three -- two and one are three -- two of Dr. Barnicot's, and one
smashed in broad daylight on my own counter. Do I know that
photograph? No, I don't. Yes, I do, though. Why, it's Beppo.
He was a kind of Italian piece-work man, who made himself
useful in the shop. He could carve a bit, and gild and frame, and
do odd jobs. The fellow left me last week, and I've heard
nothing of him since. No, I don't know where he came from nor
where he went to. I had nothing against him while he was here.
He was gone two days before the bust was smashed."

  "Well, that's all we could reasonably expect from Morse
Hudson," said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. "We
have this Beppo as a common factor, both in Kennington and in
Kensington, so that is worth a ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let
us make for Gelder & Co., of Stepney, the source and origin of
the busts. I shall be surprised if we don't get some help down
there."

  In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashion-
able London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London,
commercial London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came
to a riverside city of a hundred thousand souls, where the
tenement houses swelter and reek with the outcasts of Europe.
Here, in a broad thoroughfare, once the abode of wealthy City
merchants, we found the sculpture works for which we searched.
Outside was a considerable yard full of monumental masonry.
Inside was a large room in which fifty workers were carving or
moulding. The manager, a big blond German, received us civilly
and gave a clear answer to all Holmes's questions. A reference
to his books showed that hundreds of casts had been taken from
a marble copy of Devine's head of Napoleon, but that the three
which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year or so before had
been half of a batch of six, the other three being sent to Harding
Brothers, of Kensington. There was no reason why those six
should be different from any of the other casts. He could suggest
no possible cause why anyone should wish to destroy them -- in
fact, he laughed at the idea. Their wholesale price was six
shillings, but the retailer would get twelve or more. The cast
was taken in two moulds from each side of the face, and then
these two profiles of plaster of Paris were joined together to
make the complete bust. The work was usually done by Italians,
in the room we were in. When finished, the busts were put on a
table in the passage to dry, and afterwards stored. That was all
he could tell us.

  But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect
upon the manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows
knotted over his blue Teutonic eyes.

  "Ah, the rascal!" he cried. "Yes, indeed, I know him very
well. This has always been a respectable establishment, and the
only time that we have ever had the police in it was over this
very fellow. It was more than a year ago now. He knifed another
Italian in the street, and then he came to the works with the
police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo was his
name -- his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engag-
ing a man with such a face. But he was a good workman -- one
of the best."

  "What did he get?"

  "The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he
is out now, but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have
a cousin of his here, and I daresay he could tell you where he
is."

  "No, no," cried Holmes, "not a word to the cousin -- not a
word, I beg of you. The matter is very important, and the farther
I go with it, the more important it seems to grow. When you
referred in your ledger to the sale of those casts I observed that
the date was June 3rd of last year. Could you give me the date
when Beppo was arrested?"

  "I could tell you roughly by the pay-list," the manager an-
swered. "Yes," he continued, after some turning over of pages,
"he was paid last on May 20th."

  "Thank you," said Holmes. "I don't think that I need intrude
upon your time and patience any more." With a last word of
caution that he should say nothing as to our researches, we
turned our faces westward once more.

  The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch
a hasty luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance
announced "Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman," and
the contents of the paper showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got
his account into print after all. Two columns were occupied with
a highly sensational and flowery rendering of the whole incident.
Holmes propped it against the cruet-stand and read it while he
ate. Once or twice he chuckled.

  "This is all right, Watson," said he. "Listen to this:

      "It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference

    of opinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the

    most experienced members of the official force, and Mr.

    Sherlock Holmes, the well-known consulting expert, have

    each come to the conclusion that the grotesque series of

    incidents, which have ended in so tragic a fashion, arise

    from lunacy rather than from deliberate crime. No explana-

    tion save mental aberration can cover the facts.

The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution. if you only
know how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we
will hark back to Kensington and see what the manager of
Harding Brothers has to say on the matter."

  The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp
little person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a
ready tongue.

  "Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening
papers. Mr. Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied
him with the bust some months ago. We ordered three busts of
that sort from Gelder & Co., of Stepney. They are all sold now.
To whom? Oh, I daresay by consulting our sales book we could
very easily tell you. Yes, we have the entries here. One to Mr.
Harker you see, and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of Laburnum
Lodge, Laburnum Vale, Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of
Lower Grove Road, Reading. No, I have never seen this face
which you show me in the photograph. You would hardly forget
it, would you, sir, for I've seldom seen an uglier. Have we any
Italians on the staff? Yes, sir, we have several among our
workpeople and cleaners. I daresay they might get a peep at that
sales book if they wanted to. There is no particular reason for
keeping a watch upon that book. Well, well, it's a very strange
business, and I hope that you will let me know if anything comes
of your inquiries."

  Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding's evi-
dence, and I could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the
turn which affairs were taking. He made no remark, however
save that, unless we hurried, we should be late for our appoint-
ment with Lestrade. Sure enough, when we reached Baker Street
the detective was already there, and we found him pacing up and
down in a fever of impatience. His look of importance showed
that his day's work had not been in vain.

  "Well?" he asked. "What luck, Mr. Holmes?"

  "We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted
one," my friend explained. "We have seen both the retailers and
also the wholesale manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts
now from the beginning."

  "The busts!" cried Lestrade. "Well, well, you have your own
methods, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a
word against them, but I think I have done a better day's work
than you. I have identified the dead man."

  "You don't say so?"

  "And found a cause for the crime."

  "Splendid!"

  "We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill
and the Italian quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic
emblem round his neck. and that, along with his colour, made
me think he was from the South. Inspector Hill knew him the
moment he caught sight of him. His name is Pietro Venucci,
from Naples, and he is one of the greatest cut-throats in Lon-
don. He is connected with the Mafia, which, as you know, is a
secret political society, enforcing its decrees by murder. Now,
you see how the affair begins to clear up. The other fellow is
probably an Italian also, and a member of the Mafia. He has
broken the rules in some fashion. Pietro is set upon his track.
Probably the photograph we found in his pocket is the man him-
self, so that he may not knife the wrong person. He dogs the
fellow, he sees him enter a house, he waits outside for him, and
in the scuffle he receives his own death-wound. How is that, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes?"

  Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.

  "Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!" he cried. "But I didn't quite
follow your explanation of the destruction of the busts."

  "The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head.
After all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It
is the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell you that I
am gathering all the threads into my hands."

  "And the next stage?"

  "Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian
Quarter, find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest
him on the charge of murder. Will you come with us?"

  "I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I
can't say for certain, because it all depends -- well, it all depends
upon a factor which is completely outside our control. But I have
great hopes -- in fact, the betting is exactly two to one -- that if
you will come with us to-night I shall be able to help you to lay
him by the heels."

  "In the Italian Quarter?"

  "No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to
find him. If you will come with me to Chiswick to-night,
Lestrade, I'll promise to go to the Italian Quarter with you
to-morrow, and no harm will be done by the delay. And now I
think that a few hours' sleep would do us all good, for I do not
propose to leave before eleven o'clock, and it is unlikely that we
shall be back before morning. You'll dine with us, Lestrade, and
then you are welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In
the meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an
express messenger, for I have a letter to send and it is imponant
that it should go at once."

  Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the
old daily papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed.
When at last he descended, it was with triumph in his eyes, but
he said nothing to either of us as to the result of his researches.
For my own part, I had followed step by step the methods by
which he had traced the various windings of this complex case,
and, though I could not yet perceive the goal which we would
reach, I understood clearly that Holmes expected this grotesque
criminal to make an attempt upon the two remaining busts, one
of which, I remembered, was at Chiswick. No doubt the object
of our journey was to catch him in the very act, and I could not
but admire the cunning with which my friend had inserted a
wrong clue in the evening paper, so as to give the fellow the idea
that he could continue his scheme with impunity. I was not
surprised when Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver
with me. He had himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop,
which was his favourite weapon.

  A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove
to a spot at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the
cabman was directed to wait. A short walk brought us to a
secluded road fringed with pleasant houses, each standing in its
own grounds. In the light of a street lamp we read "Laburnum
Villa" upon the gate-post of one of them. The occupants had
evidently retired to rest, for all was dark save for a fanlight over
the hall door, which shed a single blurred circle on to the garden
path. The wooden fence which separated the grounds from the
road threw a dense black shadow upon the inner side, and here it
was that we crouched.

  "I fear that you'll have a long wait," Holmes whispered.
"We may thank our stars that it is not raining. I don't think we
can even venture to smoke to pass the time. However, it's a two
to one chance that we get something to pay us for our trouble."

  It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as
Holmes had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and
singular fashion. In an instant, without the least sound to warn us
of his coming, the garden gate swung open, and a lithe, dark
figure, as swift and active as an ape, rushed up the garden path.
We saw it whisk past the light thrown from over the door and
disappear against the black shadow of the house. There was a
long pause, during which we held our breath, and then a very
gentle creaking sound came to our ears. The window was being
opened. The noise ceased, and again there was a long silence.
The fellow was making his way into the house. We saw the
sudden flash of a dark lantern inside the room. What he sought
was evidently not there, for again we saw the flash through
another blind. and then through another.

  "Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he
climbs out." Lestrade whispered.

  But before we could move. the man had emerged again. As he
came out into the glimmering patch of light, we saw that he
carrled something white under his arm. He looked stealthily all
round him. The silence of the deserted street reassured him.
Turning his back upon us he laid down his burden, and the next
instant there was the sound of a sharp tap, followed by a clatter
and rattle. The man was so intent upon what he was doing that
he never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot. With
the bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant later
Lestrade and I had him by either wrist, and the handcuffs had
been fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow
face, with writhing, furious features. glaring up at us, and I
knew that it was indeed the man of the photograph whom we had
secured.

  But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his
attention. Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most
carefully examining that which the man had brought from the
house. It was a bust of Napoleon. Iike the one which we had
seen that morning, and it had been broken into similar frag-
ments. Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to the light,
but in no way did it differ from any other shattered piece of
plaster. He had just completed his examination when the hall
lights flew up, the door opened, and the owner of the house, a
jovial, rotund figure in shirt and trousers, presented himseli.

  "Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?" said Holmes.     

  "Yes, sir and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had
the note which you sent by the express messenger, and I did
exactly what you told me. We locked every door on the inside
and awaited developments. Well, I'm very glad to see that you
have got the rascal. I hope, gentlemen, that you will come in and
have some refreshment."

  However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe
quarters, so within a few minutes our cab had bcen summoned
and we were all tour upon our way to London. Not a word
would our captive say. but he glared at us from thc shadow of
his matted hair. and once. when my hand seemed within his
reach, he snapped at it like a hungry wolf. We stayed long
enough at the police-station to learn that a search of his clothing
revealed nothing save a few shillings and a long sheath knife, the
handle of which bore copious traces of recent blood.

  "That's all right," said Lestrade, as we parted. "Hill knows
all these gentry, and he will give a name to him. You'll find that
my theory of the Mafia will work out all right. But I'm sure I am
exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike
way in which you laid hands upon him. I don't quite understand
it all yet."

  "I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations," said
Holmes. "Besides, there are one or two details which are not
finished off, and it is one of those cases which are worth
working out to the very end. If you will come round once more
to my rooms at six o'clock to-morrow, I think I shall be able to
show you that even now you have not grasped the entire meaning
of this business, which presents some features which make it
absolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit you to
chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I foresee that
you will enliven your pages by an account of the singular
adventure of the Napoleonic busts."

  When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished with
much information concerning our prisoner. His name, it ap-
peared, was Beppo, second name unknown. He was a well-
known ne'er-do-well among the Italian colony. He had once
been a skilful sculptor and had earned an honest living, but he
had taken to evil courses and had twice already been in jail --
once for a petty theft, and once, as we had already heard, for
stabbing a fellow-countryman. He could talk English perfectly
well. His reasons for destroying the busts were still unknown,
and he refused to answer any questions upon the subject, but the
police had discovered that these same busts might very well have
been made by his own hands, since he was engaged in this class
of work at the establishment of Gelder & Co. To all this infor-
mation, much of which we already knew, Holmes listened with
polite attention, but I, who knew him so well, could clearly see
that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a mixture of
mingled uneasiness and expectation beneath that mask which he
was wont to assume. At last he started in his chair, and his eyes
brightened. There had been a ring at the bell. A minute later we
heard steps upon the stairs, and an elderly red-faced man with
grizzled side-whiskers was ushered in. In his right hand he
carried an old-fashioned carpet-bag, which he placed upon the
table.

  "Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?"

  My friend bowed and smiled. "Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I
suppose?" said he.

  "Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late, but the trains
were awkward. You wrote to me about a bust that is in my
possession."

  "Exactly."

  "I have your letter here. You said, 'I desire to possess a copy
of Devine's Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds
for the one which is in your possession.' Is that right?"

  "Certainly."

  "I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not
imagine how you knew that I owned such a thing."

  "Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation
is very simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they
had sold you their last copy, and he gave me your address."

  "Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?"

  "No, he did not."

  "Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only
gave fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know
that before I take ten pounds from you."

  "I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I
have named that price, so I intend to stick to it."

  "Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought
the bust up with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!" He
opened his bag, and at last we saw placed upon our table a
complete specimen of that bust which we had already seen more
than once in fragments.

  Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound
note upon the table.

  "You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the
presence of these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer
every possible right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a
methodical man, you see, and you never know what turn events
might take afterwards. Thank you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your
money, and I wish you a very good evening."

  When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes's move-
ments were such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a
clean white cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table.
Then he placed his newly acquired bust in the centre of the cloth.
Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a
sharp blow on the top of the head. The figure broke into frag-
ments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered remains. Next
instant, with a loud shout of triumph he held up one splinter, in
which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in a pudding.

  "Gentlemen," he cried, "let me introduce you to the famous
black pearl of the Borgias."

  Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a
spontaneous impulse, we both broke out clapping, as at the
well-wrought crisis of a play. A flush of colour sprang to Holmes's
pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like the master dramatist who
receives the homage of his audience. It was at such moments that
for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine, and betrayed
his human love for admiration and applause. The same singularly
proud and reserved nature which turned away with disdain from
popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its depths by
spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.

  "Yes, gentlemen," said he, "it is the most famous pearl now
existing in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a
connected chain of inductive reasoning, to trace it from the
Prince of Colonna's bedroom at the Dacre Hotel, where it was
lost, to the interior of this, the last of the six busts of Napoleon
which were manufactured by Gelder & Co., of Stepney. You
will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the disappear-
ance of this valuable jewel, and the vain efforts of the London
police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the case, but I
was unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell upon the
maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and it was proved that
she had a brother in London, but we failed to trace any connec-
tion between them. The maid's name was Lucretia Venucci, and
there is no doubt in my mind that this Pietro who was murdered
two nights ago was the brother. I have been looking up the dates
in the old files of the paper, and I find that the disappearance of
the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of Beppo, for
some crime of violence -- an event which took place in the
factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts
were being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events,
though you see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way
in which they presented themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl
in his possession. He may have stolen it from Pietro, he may
have been Pietro's confederate, he may have been the go-between
of Pietro and his sister. It is of no consequence to us which is the
correct solution.

  "The main fact is that he had the pearl, and at that moment,
when it was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He
made for the factory in which he worked, and he knew that he
had only a few minutes in which to conceal this enormously
valuable prize, which would otherwise be found on him when he
was searched. Six plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the
passage. One of them was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a
skilful workman, made a small hole in the wet plaster, dropped
in the pearl, and with a few touches covered over the aperture
once more. It was an admirable hiding-place. No one could
possibly find it. But Beppo was condemned to a year's imprison-
ment, and in the meanwhile his six busts were scattered over
London. He could not tell which contained his treasure. Only by
breaking them could he see. Even shaking would tell him noth-
ing, for as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl
would adhere to it -- as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not
despair, and he conducted his search with considerable ingenuity
and perseverance. Through a cousin who works with Gelder, he
found out the retail firms who had bought the busts. He managed
to find employment with Morse Hudson, and in that way tracked
down three of them. The pearl was not there. Then, with the
help of some Italian employe, he succeeded in finding out where
the other three busts had gone. The first was at Harker's. There
he was dogged by his confederate, who held Beppo responsible
for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him in the scuffle which
followed."

  "If he was his confederate, why should he carry his photo-
graph?" I asked.

  "As a means of tracing him, if he wished to inquire about him
from any third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after
the murder I calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather
than delay his movements. He would fear that the police would
read his secret, and so he hastened on before they should get
ahead of him. Of course, I could not say that he had not found
the pearl in Harker's bust. I had not even concluded for certain
that it was the pearl, but it was evident to me that he was looking
for something, since he carried the bust past the other houses in
order to break it in the garden which had a lamp overlooking it.
Since Harker's bust was one in three, the chances were exactly
as I told you -- two to one against the pearl being inside it There
remained two busts, and it was obvious that he would go for the
London one first. I warned the inmates of the house, so as to
avoid a second tragedy, and we went down, with the happiest
results. By that time, of course, I knew for certain that it was the
Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the murdered man
linked the one event with the other. There only remained a single
bust -- the Reading one -- and the pearl must be there. I bought it
in your presence from the owner -- and there it lies."

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  "Well," said Lestrade, "I've seen you handle a good many
cases, Mr. Holmes, but I don't know that I ever knew a more
workmanlike one than that. We're not jealous of you at Scotland
Yard. No, sir, we are very proud of you, and if you come down
to-morrow, there's not a man, from the oldest inspector to the
youngest constable, who wouldn't be glad to shake you by the
hand."

  "Thank you!" said Holmes. "Thank you!" and as he turned
away, it seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the
softer human emotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later
he was the cold and practical thinker once more. "Put the pearl
in the safe, Watson," said he, "and get out the papers of the
Conk-Singleton forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If any little
problem comes your way, I shall be happy, if I can, to give you
a hint or two as to its solution."

             The Adventure of the Three Students

  It was in the year '95 that a combination of events, into which I
need not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend
some weeks in one of our great university towns, and it was
during this time that the small but instructive adventure which I
am about to relate befell us. It will be obvious that any details
which would help the reader exactly to identify the college or the
criminal would be injudicious and offensive. So painful a scan-
dal may well be allowed to die out. With due discretion the
incident itself may, however, be described, since it serves to
illustrate some of those qualities for which my friend was re-
markable. I will endeavour, in my statement, to avoid such terms
as would serve to limit the events to any particular place, or give
a clue as to the people concerned.

  We were residing at the time in furnished lodgings close to a
library where Sherlock Holmes was pursuing some laborious
researches in early English charters -- researches which led to
results so striking that they may be the subject of one of my
future narratives. Here it was that one evening we received a
visit from an acquaintance, Mr. Hilton Soames, tutor and lec-
turer at the College of St. Luke's. Mr. Soames was a tall, spare
man, of a nervous and excitable temperament. I had always
known him to be restless in his manner, but on this particular
occasion he was in such a state of uncontrollable agitation that it
was clear something very unusual had occurred.

  "I trust, Mr. Holmes, that you can spare me a few hours of
your valuable time. We have had a very painful incident at St.
Luke's, and really, but for the happy chance of your being in
town, I should have been at a loss what to do."

  "I am very busy just now, and I desire no distractions," my
friend answered. "I should much prefer that you called in the aid
of the police."

  "No, no, my dear sir; such a course is utterly impossible.
When once the law is evoked it cannot be stayed again, and this
is just one of those cases where, for the credit of the college, it is
most essential to avoid scandal. Your discretion is as well known
as your powers, and you are the one man in the world who can
help me. I beg you, Mr. Holmes, to do what you can."

  My friend's temper had not improved since he had been
deprived of the congenial surroundings of Baker Street. Without
his scrapbooks, his chemicals, and his homely untidiness, he was
an uncomfortable man. He shrugged his shoulders in ungracious
acquiescence, while our visitor in hurried words and with much
excitable gesticulation poured forth his story.

  "I must explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that to-morrow is the
first day of the examination for the Fortescue Scholarship. I am
one of the examiners. My subject is Greek, and the first of the
papers consists of a large passage of Greek translation which the
candidate has not seen. This passage is printed on the examina-
tion paper, and it would naturally be an immense advantage if
the candidate could prepare it in advance. For this reason, great
care is taken to keep the paper secret.

  "To-day, about three o'clock, the proofs of this paper arrived
from the printers. The exercise consists of half a chapter of
Thucydides. I had to read it over carefully, as the text must be
absolutely correct. At four-thirty my task was not yet completed.
I had, however, promised to take tea in a friend's rooms, so I
left the proof upon my desk. I was absent rather more than an
hour.

  "You are aware, Mr. Holmes, that our college doors are
double -- a green baize one within and a heavy oak one without.
As I approached my outer door, I was amazed to see a key in it.
For an instant I imagined that I had left my own there, but on
feeling in my pocket I found that it was all right. The only
duplicate which existed, so far as I knew, was that which
belonged to my servant, Bannister -- a man who has looked after
my room for ten years, and whose honesty is absolutely above
suspicion. I found that the key was indeed his, that he had
entered my room to know if I wanted tea, and that he had very
carelessly left the key in the door when he came out. His visit to
my room must have been within a very few minutes of my
leaving it. His forgetfulness about the key would have mattered
little upon any other occasion, but on this one day it has pro-
duced the most deplorable consequences.

  "The moment I looked at my table, I was aware that someone
had rummaged among my papers. The proof was in three long
slips. I had left them all together. Now, I found that one of them
was lying on the floor, one was on the side table near the
window, and the third was where I had left it."

  Holmes stirred for the first time.

  "The first page on the floor, the second in the window, the
third where you left it," said he.

  "Exactly, Mr. Holmes. You amaze me. How could you possi-
bly know that?"

  "Pray continue your very interesting statement."

  "For an instant I imagined that Bannister had taken the unpar-
donable liberty of examining my papers. He denied it, however,
with the utmost earnestness, and I am convinced that he was
speaking the truth. The alternative was that someone passing had
observed the key in the door, had known that I was out, and had
entered to look at the papers. A large sum of money is at stake,
for the scholarship is a very valuable one, and an unscrupulous
man might very well run a risk in order to gain an advantage
over his fellows.

  "Bannister was very much upset by the incident. He had
nearly fainted when we found that the papers had undoubtedly
been tampered with. I gave him a little brandy and left him
collapsed in a chair, while I made a most careful examination of
the room. I soon saw that the intruder had left other traces of his
presence besides the rumpled papers. On the table in the window
were several shreds from a pencil which had been sharpened. A
broken tip of lead was lying there also. Evidently the rascal had
copied the paper in a great hurry, had broken his pencil, and had
been compelled to put a fresh point to it."

  "Excellent!" said Holmes, who was recovering his good-
humour as his attention became more engrossed by the case.
"Fortune has been your friend."

  "This was not all. I have a new writing-table with a fine
surface of red leather. I am prepared to swear, and so is Bannis-
ter, that it was smooth and unstained. Now I found a clean cut in
it about three inches long -- not a mere scratch, but a positive cut.
Not only this, but on the table I found a small ball of black
dough or clay, with specks of something which looks like saw-
dust in it. I am convinced that these marks were left by the man
who rifled the papers. There were no footmarks and no other
evidence as to his identity. I was at my wit's end, when suddenly
the happy thought occurred to me that you were in the town, and
I came straight round to put the matter into your hands. Do help
me, Mr. Holmes. You see my dilemma. Either I must find the
man or else the examination must be postponed until fresh papers
are prepared, and since this cannot be done without explanation,
there will ensue a hideous scandal, which will throw a cloud not
only on the college, but on the university. Above all things, I
desire to settle the matter quietly and discreetly."

  "I shall be happy to look into it and to give you such advice
as I can," said Holmes, rising and putting on his overcoat.
"The case is not entirely devoid of interest. Had anyone visited
you in your room after the papers came to you?"

  "Yes, young Daulat Ras, an Indian student, who lives on the
same stair, came in to ask me some particulars about the exami-
nation."

  "For which he was entered?"

  "Yes."

  "And the papers were on your table?"

  "To the best of my belief, they were rolled up."

  "But might be recognized as proofs?"

  "Possibly."

  "No one else in your room?"

  "No."

  "Did anyone know that these proofs would be there?"

  "No one save the printer."

  "Did this man Bannister know?"

  "No, certainly not. No one knew."

  "Where is Bannister now?"

  "He was very ill, poor fellow. I left him collapsed in the
chair. I was in such a hurry to come to you."

  "You left your door open?"

  "I locked up the papers first."

  "Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames: that, unless the Indian
student recognized the roll as being proofs, the man who tam-
pered with them came upon them accidentally without knowing
that they were there."

  "So it seems to me."

  Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.

  "Well," said he. "let us go round. Not one of your cases.
Watson -- mental, not physical. All right; come if you want to.
Now, Mr. Soames -- at your disposal!"

  The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed
window on to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college.
A Gothic arched door led to a worn stone staircase. On the
ground floor was the tutor's room. Above were three students,
one on each story. It was already twilight when we reached the
scene of our problem. Holmes halted and looked earnestly at the
window. Then he approached it, and, standing on tiptoe with his
neck craned, he looked into the room.

  "He must have entered through the door. There is no opening
except the one pane," said our learned guide.

  "Dear me!" said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as
he glanced at our companion. "Well, if there is nothing to be
learned here, we had best go inside."

  The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his
room. We stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examina-
tion of the carpet.

  "I am afraid there are no signs here," said he. "One could
hardly hope for any upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to
have quite recovered. You left him in a chair, you say. Which
chair?"

  "By the window there."

  "I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have
finished with the carpet. Let us take the little table first. Of
course, what has happened is very clear. The man entered and
took the papers, sheet by sheet, from the central table. He
carried them over to the window table, because from there he
could see if you came across the courtyard, and so could effect
an escape."

  "As a matter of fact, he could not," said Soames, "for I
entered by the side door."

  "Ah, that's good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let
me see the three strips. No finger impressions -- no! Well he
carried over this one first, and he copied it. How long wouid it
take him to do that, using every possible contraction? A quarter
of an hour, not less. Then he tossed it down and seized the next.
He was in the midst of that when your return caused him to make
a very hurried retreat -- very hurried, since he had not time to
replace the papers which would tell you that he had been there.
You were not aware of any hurrying feet on the stair as you
entered the outer door?"

  "No, I can't say I was."

  "Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and
had, as you observe, to sharpen it again. This is of interest,
Watson. The pencil was not an ordinary one. It was above the
usual size, with a soft lead, the outer colour was dark blue, the
maker's name was printed in silver lettering, and the piece
remaining is only about an inch and a half long. Look for such a
pencil, Mr. Soames, and you have got your man. When I add
that he possesses a large and very blunt knife, you have an
additional aid."

  Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of
information. "I can follow the other points," said he, "but
really, in this matter of the length --"

  Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space
of clear wood after them.

  "You see?"

  "No, I fear that even now --"

  "Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are
others. What could this NN be? It is at the end of a word. You
are aware that Johann Faber is the most common maker's name.
Is it not clear that there is just as much of the pencil left as
usually follows the Johann?" He held the small table sideways to
the electric light. "I was hoping that if the paper on which he
wrote was thin, some trace of it might come through upon this
polished surface. No, I see nothing. I don't think there is any-
thing more to be learned here. Now for the central table. This
small pellet is, I presume, the black, doughy mass you spoke of.
Roughly pyramidal in shape and hollowed out, I perceive. As
you say, there appear to be grains of sawdust in it. Dear me, this
is very interesting. And the cut -- a positive tear, I see. It began
with a thin scratch and ended in a jagged hole. I am much
indebted to you for directing my attention to this case, Mr.
Soames. Where does that door lead to?"

  "To my bedroom."

  "Have you been in it since your adventure?"

  "No, I came straight away for you."

  "I should like to have a glance round. What a charming,
old-fashioned room! Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute, until
I have examined the floor. No, I see nothing. What about this
curtain? You hang your clothes behind it. If anyone were forced
to conceal himself in this room he must do it there, since the bed
is too low and the wardrobe too shallow. No one there, I
suppose?"

  As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little
rigidity and alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for an
emergency. As a matter of fact, the drawn curtain disclosed
nothing but three or four suits of clothes hanging from a line of
pegs. Holmes turned away, and stooped suddenly to the floor.

  "Halloa! What's this?" said he.

  It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like
the one upon the table of the study. Holmes held it out on his
open palm in the glare of the electric light.

  "Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as
well as in your sitting-room, Mr. Soames."

  "What could he have wanted there?"

  "I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected
way, and so he had no warning until you were at the very door.
What could he do? He caught up everything which would betray
him, and he rushed into your bedroom to conceal himself."

  "Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that, all
the time I was talking to Bannister in this room, we had the man
prisoner if we had only known it?"

  "So I read it."

  "Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes. I don't
know whether you observed my bedroom window?"

  "Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one
swinging on hinge, and large enough to admit a man."

  "Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as
to be partly invisible. The man might have effected his entrance
there, left traces as he passed through the bedroom, and finally,
finding the door open, have escaped that way."

  Holmes shook his head impatiently.

  "Let us be practical," said he. "I understand you to say that
there are three students who use this stair, and are in the habit of
passing your door?"

  "Yes, there are."

  "And they are all in for this examination?"

  "Yes."

  "Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than
the others?"

  Soames hesitated.

  "It is a very delicate question." said he. "One hardly likes to
throw suspicion where there are no proofs."

  "Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs."

  "I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three
mcn who inhabit these rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist,
a fine scholar and athletc, plays in the Rugby team and the
cricket team for the college, and got his Blue for the hurdles and
the long jump. He is a fine, manly fellow. His father was the
notorious Sir Jabez Gilchrist, who ruined himself on the turf. My
scholar has been left very poor, but he is hard-working and
industrious. He will do well.

  "The second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He
is a quiet, inscrutable fellow; as most of those Indians are. He is
well up in his work, though his Greek is his weak subject. He is
steady and methodical.

  "The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant
fellow when he chooses to work -- one of the brightest intellects
of the university; but he is wayward, dissipated, and unprinci-
pled. He was nearly expelled over a card scandal in his first
year. He has been idling all this term, and he must look forward
with dread to the examination."

  "Then it is he whom you suspect?"

  "I dare not go so far as that. But, of the three, he is perhaps the
least unlikely."

  "Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your
servant, Bannister."

  He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fel-
low of fifty. He was still suffering from this sudden disturbance
of the quiet routine of his life. His plump face was twitching
with his nervousness, and his fingers could not keep still.

  "We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister," said
his master.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I understand," said Holmes, "that you left your key in the
door?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the
very day when there were these papers inside?"

  "It was most unfortunate. sir. But I have occasionally done
the same thing at other times."

  "When did you enter the room?"

  It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames's tea time."

  "How long did you stay?"

  "When I saw that he was absent. I withdrew at once."

  "Did you look at these papers on the table?"

  "No, sir certainly not."

  "How came you to leave the key in the door?"

  "I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back
for the key. Then I forgot."

  "Has the outer door a spring lock?"

  "No, sir."

  "Then it was open all the time?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Anyone in the room could get out?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were
very much disturbed?"

  "Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many
years that I have been here. I nearly fainted, sir."

  "So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel
bad?"

  "Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door."

  "That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over
yonder near the corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?"

  "I don't know, sir, it didn't matter to me where I sat."

  "I really don't think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He
was looking very bad -- quite ghastly."

  "You stayed here when your master left?"

  "Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to
my room."

  "Whom do you suspect?"

  "Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don't believe there is
any gentleman in this university who is capable of profiting by
such an action. No, sir, I'll not believe it."

  "Thank you, that will do," said Holmes. "Oh, one more
word. You have not mentioned to any of the three gentlemen
whom you attend that anything is amiss?"

  "No, sir -- not a word."

  "You haven't seen any of them?"

  "No, sir."

  "Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the
quadrangle, if you please."

  Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering
gloom.

  "Your three birds are all in their nests," said Holmes, looking
up. "Halloa! What's that? One of them seems restless enough."

  It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly
upon his blind. He was pacing swiftly up and down his room.

  "I should like to have a peep at each of them," said Holmes.
"Is it possible?"

  "No difficulty in the world," Soames answered. "This set of
rooms is quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for
visitors to go over them. Come along, and I will personally
conduct you."

  "No names, please!" said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist's
door. A tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and
made us welcome when he understood our errand. There were
some really curious pieces of mediaeval domestic architecture
within. Holmes was so charmed with one of them that he insisted
on drawing it in his notebook, broke his pencil, had to borrow
one from our host, and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen his
own. The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms of
the Indian -- a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us
askance, and was obviously glad when Holmes's architectural
studies had come to an end. I could not see that in either case
Holmes had come upon the clue for which he was searching.
Only at the third did our visit prove abortive. The outer door
would not open to our knock, and-nothing more substantial than
a torrent of bad language came from behind it. "I don't care who
you are. You can go to blazes!" roared the angry voice. "To-
morrow's the exam, and I won't be drawn by anyone."

  "A rude fellow," said our guide, flushing with anger as we
withdrew down the stair. "Of course, he did not realize that it
was I who was knocking, but none the less his conduct was very
uncourteous, and, indeed, under the circumstances rather
suspicious."

  Holmes's response was a curious one.

  "Can you tell me his exact height?" he asked.

  "Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller
than the Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot six
would be about it."

  "That is very important," said Holmes. "And now, Mr.
Soames, I wish you good-night."

  Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. "Good
gracious, Mr. Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in
this abrupt fashion! You don't seem to realize the position.
To-morrow is the examination. I must take some definite action
to-night. I cannot allow the examination to be held if one of the
papers has been tampered with. The situation must be faced."

  "You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow
morning and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in
a position then to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile,
you change nothing -- nothing at all."

  "Very good, Mr. Holmes."

  "You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly
find some way out of your difficulties. I will take the black clay
with me, also the pencil cuttings. Good-bye."

  When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle, we again
looked up at the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The
others were invisible.

  "Well, Watson, what do you think of it?" Holmes asked, as
we came out into the main street. "Quite a little parlour game -- 
sort of three-card trick, is it not? There are your three men. It
must be one of them. You take your choice. Which is yours?"

  "The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the
worst record. And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why
should he be pacing his room all the time?"

  "There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are
trying to learn anything by heart."

  "He looked at us in a queer way."

  "So would you, if a flock of strangers came in on you when
you were preparing for an examination next day, and every
moment was of value. No, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too,
and knives -- all was satisfactory. But that fellow does puzzle
me."

  "Who?"

  "Why, Bannister, the servant. What's his game in the matter?"

  "He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man."

  "So he did me. That's the puzzling part. Why should a
perfectly honest man -- Well, well, here's a large stationer's. We
shall begin our researches here."

  There were only four stationers of any consequences in the
town, and at each Holmes produced his pencil chips, and bid
high for a duplicate. All were agreed that one could be ordered,
but that it was not a usual size of pencil, and that it was seldom
kept in stock. My friend did not appear to be depressed by his
failure, but shrugged his shoulders in half-humorous resignation.

  "No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final
clue, has run to nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we
can build up a sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear
fellow, it is nearly nine, and the landlady babbled of green peas
at seven-thirty. What with your eternal tobacco, Watson, and
your irregularity at meals, I expect that you will get notice to
quit, and that I shall share your downfall -- not, however, before
we have solved the problem of the nervous tutor, the careless
servant, and the three enterprising students."

  Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though
he sat lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At
eight in the morning, he came into my room just as I finished my
toilet.

  "Well, Watson," said he, "it is time we went down to St.
Luke's. Can you do without breakfast?"

  "Certainly."

  "Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell
him something positive."

  "Have you anything positive to tell him?"

  "I think so."

  "You have formed a conclusion?"

  "Yes, my dear Watson, I have solved the mystery."

  "But what fresh evidence could you have got?"

  "Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of
bed at the untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours' hard
work and covered at least five miles, with something to show for
it. Look at that!"

  He held out his hand. On the palm were three little pyramids
of black, doughy clay.

  "Why, Holmes, you had only two yesterday."

  "And one more this morning. It is a fair argument that
wherever No. 3 came from is also the source of Nos. 1 and 2.
Eh, Watson? Well, come along and put friend Soames out of his
pain."

  The unfortunate tutor was certainly in a state of pitiable agita-
tion when we found him in his chambers. In a few hours the
examination would commence, and he was still in the dilemma
between making the facts public and allowing the culprit to
compete for the valuable scholarship. He could hardly stand still,
so great was his mental agitation, and he ran towards Holmes
with two eager hands outstretched.

  "Thank heaven that you have come! I feared that you had
given it up in despair. What am I to do? Shall the examination
proceed?"

  "Yes, let it proceed, by all means."

  "But this rascal?"

  "He shall not compete."

  "You know him?"

  "I think so. If this matter is not to become public. we must
give ourselves certain powers and resolve ourselves into a small
private court-martial. You there, if you please, Soames! Watson
you here! I'll take the armchair in the middle. I think that we are
now sufficiently imposing to strike terror into a guilty breast.
Kindly ring the bell!"

  Bannister entered, and shrank back in evident surprise and fear
at our judicial appearance.

  "You will kindly close the door," said Holmes. "Now
Bannister, will you please tell us the truth about yesterday's
incident.'

  The man turned white to the roots of his hair.

  "I have told you everything, sir."

  "Nothing to add?"

  "Nothing at all, sir."

  "Well, then, I must make some suggestions to you. When you
sat down on that chair yesterday, did you do so in order to
conceal some object which would have shown who had been in
the room?"

  Bannister's face was ghastly.

  "No, sir, certainly not."

  "It is only a suggestion," said Holmes, suavely. "I frankly
admit that I am unable to prove it. But it seems probable enough
since the moment that Mr. Soames's back was turned, you
released the man who was hiding in that bedroom."

  Bannister licked his dry lips.

  "There was no man, sir."

  "Ah, that's a pity, Bannister. Up to now you may have
spoken the truth, but now I know that you have lied."

  The man's face set in sullen defiance.

  "There was no man, sir."

  "Come, come, Bannister!"

  "No, sir, there was no one."

  "In that case, you can give us no further information. Would
you please remain in the room? Stand over there near the bed-
room door. Now, Soames, I am going to ask you to have the
great kindness to go up to the room of young Gilchrist. and to
ask him to step down into yours."

  An instant later the tutor returned, bringing with him the
student. He was a fine figure of a man, tall, lithe, and agile, with
a springy step and a pleasant, open face. His troubled blue eyes
glanced at each of us, and finally rested with an expression of
blank dismay upon Bannister in the farther corner.

  "Just close the door," said Holmes. "Now, Mr. Gilchrist, we
are all quite alone here, and no one need ever know one word of
what passes between us. We can be perfectly frank with each
other. We want to know, Mr. Gilchrist, how you, an honourable
man, ever came to commit such an action as that of yesterday?"

  The unfortunate young man staggered back, and cast a look
full of horror and reproach at Bannister.

  "No, no, Mr. Gilchrist, sir, I never said a word -- never one
word!" cried the servant.

  "No, but you have now," said Holmes. "Now, sir, you must
see that after Bannister's words your position is hopeless, and
that your only chance lies in a frank confession."

  For a moment Gilchrist, with upraised hand, tried to control
his writhing features. The next he had thrown himself on his
knees beside the table, and burying his face in his hands, he had
burst into a storm of passionate sobbing.

  "Come, come," said Holmes, kindly, "it is human to err,
and at least no one can accuse you of being a callous criminal.
Perhaps it would be easier for you if I were to tell Mr. Soames
what occurred, and you can check me where I am wrong. Shall I
do so? Well, well, don't trouble to answer. Listen, and see that I
do you no injustice.

  "From the moment, Mr. Soames, that you said to me that no
one, not even Bannister, could have told that the papers were in
your room, the case began to take a definite shape in my mind.
The printer one could, of course, dismiss. He could examine the
papers in his own office. The Indian I also thought nothing of. If
the proofs were in a roll, he could not possibly know what they
were. On the other hand, it seemed an unthinkable coincidence
that a man should dare to enter the room, and that by chance on
that very day the papers were on the table. I dismissed that. The
man who entered knew that the papers were there. How did he
know?

  "When I approached your room, I examined the window. You
amused me by supposing that I was contemplating the possibility
of someone having in broad daylight, under the eyes of all these
opposite rooms, forced himself through it. Such an idea was
absurd. I was measuring how tall a man would need to be in
order to see, as he passed, what papers were on the central table.
I am six feet high, and I could do it with an effort. No one less
than that would have a chance. Already you see I had reason to
think that, if one of your three students was a man of unusual
height, he was the most worth watching of the three.

  "I entered, and I took you into my confidencc as to the
suggestions of the side table. Of the centre table I could make
nothing, until in your description of Gilchrist you mentioned that
he was a long-distance jumper. Then the whole thing came to me
in an instant, and I only needed certain corroborative proofs,
which I speedily obtained.

  "What happened was this: This young fellow had employed
his afternoon at the athletic grounds, where he had been practis-
ing the jump. He returned carrying his jumping-shoes, which are
provided, as you are aware, with several sharp spikes. As he
passed your window he saw, by means of his great height, these
proofs upon your table, and conjectured what they were. No
harm would have been done had it not been that, as he passed
your door, he perceived the key which had been left by the
carelessness of your servant. A sudden impulse came over him to
enter, and see if they were indeed the proofs. It was not a
dangerous exploit, for he could always pretend that he had simply
looked in to ask a question.

  "Well, when he saw that they were indeed the proofs, it was
then that he yielded to temptation. He put his shoes on the table.
What was it you put on that chair near the window?"

  "Gloves," said the young man.

  Holmes looked triumphantly at Bannister. "He put his gloves
on the chair, and he took the proofs, sheet by sheet, to copy
them. He thought the tutor must return by the main gate, and that
he would see him. As we know, he came back by the side gate.
Suddenly he heard him at the very door. There was no possible
escape. He forgot his gloves, but he caught up his shoes and
darted into the bedroom. You observe that the scratch on that
table is slight at one side, but deepens in the direction of the
bedroom door. That in itself is enough to show us that the shoe
had been drawn in that direction, and that the culprit had taken
refuge there. The earth round the spike had been left on the
table, and a second sample was loosened and fell in the bed-
room. I may add that I walked out to the athletic grounds this
morning, saw that tenacious black clay is used in the jumping-
pit, and carried away a specimen of it, together with some of the
fine tan or sawdust which is strewn over it to prevent the athlete
from slipping. Have I told the truth, Mr. Gilchrist?"

  The student had drawn himself erect.

  "Yes, sir, it is true," said he.

  "Good heavens! have you nothing to add?" cried Soames.

  "Yes, sir, I have, but the shock of this disgraceful exposure
has bewildered me. I have a letter here, Mr. Soames, which I
wrote to you early this morning in the middle of a restless night.
It was before I knew that my sin had found me out. Here it is,
sir. You will see that I have said, 'I have determined not to go
in for the examination. I have been offered a commission in
the Rhodesian Police, and I am going out to South Africa at
once.' "

  "I am indeed pleased to hear that you did not intend to profit
by your unfair advantage," said Soames. "But why did you
change your purpose?"

  Gilchrist pointed to Bannister.

  "There is the man who set me in the right path," said he.

  "Come now, Bannister," said Holmes. "It will be clear to
you, from what I have said, that only you could have let this
young man out, since you were left in the room, and must have
locked the door when you went out. As to his escaping by that
window, it was incredible. Can you not clear up the last point in
this mystery, and tell us the reasons for your action?"

  "It was simple enough, sir, if you only had known, but, with
all your cleverness, it was impossible that you could know. Time
was, sir, when I was butler to old Sir Jabez Gilchrist, this young
gentleman's father. When he was ruined I came to the college as
servant, but I never forgot my old employer because he was
down in the world. I watched his son all I could for the sake of
the old days. Well, sir, when I came into this room yesterday,
when the alarm was given, the very first thing I saw was Mr.
Gilchrist's tan gloves a-lying in that chair. I knew those gloves
well, and I understood their message. If Mr. Soames saw them,
the game was up. I flopped down into that chair, and nothing
would budge me until Mr. Soames went for you. Then out came
my poor young master, whom I had dandled on my knee, and
confessed it all to me. Wasn't it natural, sir, that I should save
him, and wasn't it natural also that I should try to speak to him
as his dead father would have done, and make him understand
that he could not profit by such a deed? Could you blame me,
sir?"

  "No, indeed," said Holmes, heartily, springing to his feet.

  "Well, Soames, I think we have cleared your little problem up,
and our breakfast awaits us at home. Come, Watson! As to you,
sir, I trust that a bright future awaits you in Rhodesia. For once
you have fallen low. Let us see, in the future, how high you can
rise."

            The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez

  When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which
contain our work for the year 1894, I confess that it is very
difficult for me, out of such a wealth of material, to select the
cases which are most interesting in themselves, and at the same
time most conducive to a display of those peculiar powers for
which my friend was famous. As I turn over the pages, I see my
notes upon the repulsive story of the red leech and the terrible
death of Crosby, the banker. Here also I find an account of the
Addleton tragedy, and the singular contents of the ancient British
barrow. The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes also
within this period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret,
the Boulevard assassin -- an exploit which won for Holmes an
autograph letter of thanks from the French President and the
Order of the Legion of Honour. Each of these would furnish a
narrative, but on the whole I am of opinion that none of them
unites so many singular points of interest as the episode of
Yoxley Old Place, which includes not only the lamentable death
of young Willoughby Smith, but also those subsequent develop-
ments which threw so curious a light upon the causes of the
crime.

  It was a wild, tempestuous night, towards the close of Novem-
ber. Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he
engaged with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the
original inscription upon a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise
upon surgery. Outside the wind howled down Baker Street,
while the rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange
there, in the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man's
handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature,
and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London
was no more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to
the window, and looked out on the deserted street. The occa-
sional lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining
pavement. A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford
Street end.

  "Well, Watson, it's as well we have not to turn out to-night,"
said Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest.
"I've done enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the eyes.
So far as I can make out, it is nothing more exciting than an
Abbey's accounts dating from the second half of the fifteenth
century. Halloa! halloa! halloa! What's this?"

  Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of
a horse's hoofs, and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped
against the curb. The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our
door.

  "What can he want?" I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

  "Want? He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want over-
coats and cravats and goloshes, and every aid that man ever
invented to fight the weather. Wait a bit, though! There's the cab
off again! There's hope yet. He'd have kept it if he had wanted
us to come. Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for
all virtuous folk have been long in bed."

  When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor,
I had no difficulty in recognizing him. It was young Stanley
Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had
several times shown a very practical interest.

  "Is he in?" he asked, eagerly.

  "Come up, my dear sir," said Holmes's voice from above. "I
hope you have no designs upon us on such a night as this."

  The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon
his shining waterproof. I helped him out of it, while Holmes
knocked a blaze out of the logs in the grate.

  "Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes," said
he. "Here's a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing
hot water and a lemon, which is good medicine on a night like
this. It must be something important which has brought you out
in such a gale."

  "It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I've had a bustling afternoon, I
promise you. Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the
latest editions?"

  "I've seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day."

  "Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you
have not missed anything. I haven't let the grass grow under my
feet. It's down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three
from the railway line. I was wired for at 3:15, reached Yoxley
Old Place at 5, conducted my investigation, was back at Charing
Cross by the last train, and straight to you by cab."

  "Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about
your case?"

  "lt means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as
I can see, it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled, and
yet at first it seemed so simple that one couldn't go wrong.
There's no motive, Mr. Holmes. That's what bothers me -- I
can't put my hand on a motive. Here's a man dead -- there's no
denying that -- but, so far as I can see, no reason on earth why
anyone should wish him harm."

  Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

  "Let us hear about it," said he.

  "I've got my facts pretty clear," said Stanley Hopkins. "All I
want now is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I
can make it out, is like this. Some years ago this country house,
Yoxley Old Place, was taken by an elderly man, who gave the
name of Professor Coram. He was an invalid, keeping his bed
half the time, and the other half hobbling round the house with a
stick or being pushed about the grounds by the gardener in a
Bath chair. He was well liked by the few neighbours who ealled
upon him, and he has the reputation down there of being a very
learned man. His household used to consist of an elderly house-
keeper, Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarlton. These have
both been with him since his arrival, and they seem to be women
of excellent character. The professor is writing a learned book,
and he found it necessary, about a year ago, to engage a secre-
tary. The first two that he tried were not successes, but the third,
Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from the
university, seems to have been just what his employer wanted.
His work consisted in writing all the morning to the professor's
dictation, and he usually spent the evening in hunting up refer-
ences and passages which bore upon the next day's work. This
Willoughby Smith has nothing against him, either as a boy at
Uppingham or as a young man at Cambridge. I have seen his
testimonials, and from the first he was a decent, quiet, hard-
working fellow, with no weak spot in him at all. And yet this is
the lad who has met his death this morning in the professor's
study under circumstances which can point only to murder."

  The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and
I drew closer to the fire, while the young inspector slowly and
point by point developed his singular narrative.

  "If you were to search all England," said he, "I don't
suppose you could find a household more self-contained or freer
from outside influences. Whole weeks would pass, and not one
of them go past the garden gate. The professor was buried in his
work and existed for nothing else. Young Smith knew nobody in
the neighbourhood, and lived very much as his employer did.
The two women had nothing to take them from the house.
Mortimer, the gardener, who wheels the Bath chair, is an army
pensioner -- an old Crimean man of excellent character. He does
not live in the house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other
end of the garden. Those are the only people that you would find
within the grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the
gate of the garden is a hundred yards from the main London to
Chatham road. It opens with a latch, and there is nothing to
prevent anyone from walking in.

  "Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is
the only person who can say anything positive about the matter.
It was in the forenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was
engaged at the moment in hanging some curtains in the upstairs
front bedroom. Professor Coram was still in bed, for when the
weather is bad he seldom rises before midday. The housekeeper
was busied with some work in the back of the house. Wil-
loughby Smith had been in his bedroom, which he uses as a
sitting-room, but the maid heard him at that moment pass along
the passage and descend to the study immediately below her. She
did not see him, but she says that she could not be mistaken in
his quick, firm tread. She did not hear the study door close, but a
minute or so later there was a dreadful cry in the room below. It
was a wild, hoarse scream, so strange and unnatural that it might
have come either from a man or a woman. At the same instant
there was a heavy thud, which shook the old house, and then all
was silence. The maid stood petrified for a moment, and then,
recovering her courage, she ran downstairs. The study door was
shut and she opened it. Inside, young Mr. Willoughby Smith
was stretched upon the floor. At first she could see no injury, but
as she tried to raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the
underside of his neck. It was pierced by a very small but very
deep wound, which had divided the carotid artery. The instru-
ment with which the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet
beside him. It was one of those small sealing-wax knives to be
found on old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and
a stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of the professor's own
desk.

  "At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead,
but on pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he
opened his eyes for an instant. 'The professor,' he murmured -- 'it
was she.' The maid is prepared to swear that those were the
exact words. He tried desperately to say something else,
and he held his right hand up in the air. Then he fell back
dead.

  "In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the
scene, but she was just too late to catch the young man's dying
words. Leaving Susan with the body, she hurried to the profes-
sor's room. He was sitting up in bed horribly agitated, for he had
heard enough to convince him that something terrible had oc-
curred. Mrs. Marker is prepared to swear that the professor was
still in his night-clothes, and indeed it was impossible for him to
dress without the help of Mortimer, whose orders were to come
at twelve o'clock. The professor declares that he heard the
distant cry, but that he knows nothing more. He can give no
explanation of the young man's last words, 'The professor -- it
was she,' but imagines that they were the outcome of delirium.
He believes that Willoughby Smith had not an enemy in the
world, and can give no reason for the crime. His first action was
to send Mortimer, the gardener, for the local police. A little later
the chief constable sent for me. Nothing was moved before I got
there, and strict orders were given that no one should walk upon
the paths leading to the house. It was a splendid chance of
putting your theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There
was really nothing wanting."

  "Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said my companion, with a
somewhat bitter smile. "Well, let us hear about it. What sort of
job did you make of it?"

  "I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough
plan, which will give you a general idea of the position of the
professor's study and the various points of the case. It will help
you in following my investigation."

  He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce, and he
laid it across Holmes's knee. I rose and, standing behind
Holmes, studied it over his shoulder.

  "It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points
which seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later
for yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin entered
the house, how did he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the
garden path and the back door, from which there is direct access
to the study. Any other way would have been exceedingly
complicated. The escape must have also been made along that
line, for of the two other exits from the room one was blocked
by Susan as she ran downstairs and the other leads straight to the
professor's bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at once to
the garden path, which was saturated with recent rain, and would
certainly show any footmarks.

  "My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious
and expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path.
There could be no question, however, that someone had passed
along the grass border which lines the path, and that he had done
so in order to avoid leaving a track. I could not find anything in
the nature of a distinct impression, but the grass was trodden
down, and someone had undoubtedly passed. It could only have
been the murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyone else
had been there that morning, and the rain had only begun during
the night."

  "One moment," said Holmes. "Where does this path lead
to?"

  "To the road."

  "How long is it?"

  "A hundred yards or so."

  "At the point where the path passes through the gate, you
could surely pick up the tracks?"

  "Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point."

  "Well, on the road itself?"

  "No, it was all trodden into mire."

  "Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they
coming or going?"

  "It was impossible to say. There was never any outline."

  "A large foot or a small?"

  "You could not distinguish."

  Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience.

  "It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since,"
said he. "It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest.
Well, well. it can't be helped. What did you do. Hopkins, after
you had made certain that you had made certain of nothing?"

  "I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr. Holmes. I knew
that someone had entered the house cautiously from without. I
next examined the corridor. It is lined with cocoanut matting and
had taken no impression of any kind. This brought me into the
study itself. It is a scantily furnished room. The main article is a
large writing-table with a fixed bureau. This bureau consists of a
double column of drawers, with a central small cupboard be-
tween them. The drawers were open, the cupboard locked. The
drawers, it seems, were always open, and nothing of value was
kept in them. There were some papers of importance in the
cupboard, but there were no signs that this had been tampered
with, and the professor assures me that nothing was missing. It is
certain that no robbery has been committed.

  "I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near
the bureau, and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart.
The stab was on the right side of the neck and from behind
forward, so that it is almost impossible tbat it could have been
self-inflicted."

  "Unless he fell upon the knife," said Holmes.

  "Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife
some feet away from the body, so that seems impossible. Then,
of course, there are the man's own dying words. And, finally,
there was this very important piece of evidence which was found
clasped in the dead man's right hand."

  From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet.
He unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two
broken ends of black silk cord dangling from the end of it.

  "Willoughby Smith had excellent sight," he added. "There can
be no question that this was snatched from the face or the person
of the assassin."

  Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand, and examined
them with the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his
nose, endeavoured to read through them, went to the window
and stared up the street with them, looked at them most minutely
in the full light of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle, seated
himself at the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper,
which he tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

  "That's the best I can do for you," said he. "It may prove to
be of some use."

  The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows:

     "Wanted. a woman of good address. attired like a lady.

   She has a remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set

   close upon either side of it. She has a puckered forehead, a

   peering expression, and probably rounded shoulders. There

   are indications that she has had recourse to an optician at

   least twice during the last few months. As her glasses are of

   remarkable strength, and as opticians are not very numer-

   ous, there should be no difficulty in tracing her."

  Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must
have been reflected upon my features.

  "Surely my deductions are simplicity itself," said he. "It
would be difficult to name any articles which afford a finer field
for inference than a pair of glasses, especially so remarkable a
pair as these. That they belong to a woman I infer from their
delicacy, and also, of course, from the last words of the dying
man. As to her being a person of refinement and well dressed
they are, as you perceive, handsomely mounted in solid gold,
and it is inconceivable that anyone who wore such glasses could
be slatternly in other respects. You will find that the clips are too
wide for your nose, showing that the lady's nose was very broad
at the base. This sort of nose is usually a short and coarse one,
but there is a sufficient number of exceptions to prevent me from
being dogmatic or from insisting upon this point in my descrip-
tion. My own face is a narrow one, and yet I find that I cannot
get my eyes into the centre, nor near the centre, of these glasses.
Therefore, the lady's eyes are set very near to the sides of the
nose. You will perceive, Watson, that the glasses are concave
and of unusual strength. A lady whose vision has been so
extremely contracted all her life is sure to have the physical
characteristics of such vision, which are seen in the forehead, the
eyelids, and the shoulders."

  "Yes," I said, "I can follow each of your arguments. I
confess, however, that I am unable to understand how you arrive
at the double visit to the optician."

  Holmes took the glasses in his hand.

  "You will perceive," he said, "that the clips are lined with
tiny bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of
these is discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the other
is new. Evidently one has fallen off and been replaced. I should
judge that the older of them has not been there more than a few
months. They exactly correspond, so I gather that the lady went
back to the same establishment for the second."

  "By George, it's marvellous!" cried Hopkins. in an ecstasy of
admiration. "To think that I had all that evidence in my hand
and never knew it! I had intended, however, to go the round of
the London opticians."

  "Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more
to tell us about the case?"

  "Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do
now -- probably more. We have had inquiries made as to any
stranger seen on the country roads or at the railway station. We
have heard of none. What beats me is the utter want of all object
in the crime. Not a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest."

  "Ah! there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose
you want us to come out to-morrow?"

  "If it is not asking too much, Mr. Holmes. There's a train
from Charing Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we
should be at Yoxley Old Place between eight and nine."

  "Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features
of great interest, and I shall be delighted to look into it. Well,
it's nearly one, and we had best get a few hours' sleep. I daresay
you can manage all right on the sofa in front of the fire. I'll light
my spirit lamp, and give you a cup of coffee before we start."

  The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter
morning when we started upon our journey. We saw the cold
winter sun rise over the dreary marshes of the Thames and the
long, sullen reaches of the river, which I shall ever associate
with our pursuit of the Andaman Islander in the earlier days of
our career. After a long and weary journey, we alighted at a
small station some miles from Chatham. While a horse was
being put into a trap at the local inn, we snatched a hurried
breakfast, and so we were all ready for business when we at last
arrived at Yoxley Old Place. A constable met us at the garden
gate.

  "Well, Wilson, any news?"

  "No, sir -- nothing."

  "No reports of any stranger seen?"

  "No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger
either came or went yesterday."

  "Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?"

  "Yes, sir: there is no one that we cannot account for."

  "Well, it's only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might
stay there or take a train without being observed. This is the
garden path of which I spoke, Mr. Holmes. I'll pledge my word
there was no mark on it yesterday."

  "On which side were the marks on the grass?"

  "This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path
and the flowerbed. I can't see the traces now, but they were clear
to me then."

  "Yes, yes: someone has passed along," said Holmes, stoop-
ing over the grass border. "Our lady must have picked her steps
carefully, must she not, since on the one side she would leave a
track on the path, and on the other an even clearer one on the
soft bed?"

  "Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand."

  I saw an intent look pass over Holmes's face.

  "You say that she must have come back this way?"

  "Yes, sir, there is no other."

  "On this strip of grass?"

  "Certainly, Mr. Holmes."

  "Hum! It was a very remarkable performance -- very remark-
able. Well, I think we have exhausted the path. Let us go
farther. This garden door is usually kept open, I suppose? Then
this visitor had nothing to do but to walk in. The idea of murder
was not in her mind, or she would have provided herself with
some sort of weapon, instead of having to pick this knife off the
writing-table. She advanced along this corridor, leaving no traces
upon the cocoanut matting. Then she found herself in this study.
How long was she there? We have no means of judging."

  "Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that
Mrs. Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not
very long before -- about a quarter of an hour, she says."

  "Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room, and
what does she do? She goes over to the writing-table. What for?
Not for anything in the drawers. If there had been anything
worth her taking, it would surely have been locked up. No, it
was for something in that wooden bureau. Halloa! what is that
scratch upon the face of it? Just hold a match, Watson. Why did
you not tell me of this, Hopkins?"

  The mark which he was examining began upon the brasswork
on the righthand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four
inches, where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.

  "I noticed it, Mr. Holmes, but you'll always find scratches
round a keyhole."

  "This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where
it is cut. An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface.
Look at it through my lens. There's the varnish, too, like earth
on each side of a furrow. Is Mrs. Marker there?"

  A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.

  "Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Did you notice this scratch?"

  "No, sir, I did not."

  "I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away
these shreds of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?"

  "The professor keeps it on his watch-chain."

  "Is it a simple key?"

  "No, sir, it is a Chubb's key."

  "Very good. Mrs. Marker, you can go. Now we are making a
little progress. Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau,
and either opens it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged,
young Willoughby Smith enters the room. In her hurry to with-
draw the key, she makes this scratch upon the door. He seizes
her, and she, snatching up the nearest object, which happens to
be this knife, strikes at him in order to make him let go his hold.
The blow is a fatal one. He falls and she escapes, either with or
without the object for which she has come. Is Susan, the maid,
there? Could anyone have got away through that door after the
time that you heard the cry, Susan?"

  "No, sir, it is impossible. Before I got down the stair, I'd
have seen anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened,
or I would have heard it."

  "That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady-went out the
way she came. I understand that this other passage leads only to
the professor's room. There is no exit that way?"

  "No, sir."

  "We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the
professor. Halloa, Hopkins! this is very important, very impor-
tant indeed. The professor's corridor is also lined with cocoanut
matting."

  "Well, sir, what of that?"

  "Don't you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well. I don't
insist upon it. No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to
be suggestive. Come with me and introduce me."

  We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as
that which led to the garden. At the end was a short flight of
steps ending in a door. Our guide knocked, and then ushered us
into the professor's bedroom.

  It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes,
which had overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the
corners, or were stacked all round at the base of the cases. The
bed was in the centre of the room, and in it, propped up with
pillows, was the owner of the house. I have seldom seen a more
remarkable-looking person. It was a gaunt, aquiline face which
was turned towards us, with piercing dark eyes, which lurked in
deep hollows under overhung and tufted brows. His hair and
beard were white, save that the latter was curiously stained with
yellow around his mouth. A cigarette glowed amid the tangle of
white hair, and the air of the room was fetid with stale tobacco
smoke. As he held out his hand to Holmes, I perceived that it
was also stained with yellow nicotine.

  "A smoker, Mr. Holmes?" said he, speaking in well-chosen
English, with a curious little mincing accent. "Pray take a
cigarette. And you, sir? I can recommend them, for I have them
especially prepared by lonides, of Alexandria. He sends me a
thousand at a time, and I grieve to say that I have to arrange for
a fresh suprly every fortnight. Bad, sir, very bad, but an old
man has few pleasures. Tobacco and my work -- that is all that is
left to me."

  Holmes had lit a cigarette and was shooting little darting
glances all over the room.

  "Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco," the old man
exclaimed. "Alas! what a fatal interruption! Who could have
foreseen such a terrible catastrophe? So estimable a young man!
I assure you that, after a few months' training, he was an
admirable assistant. What do you think of the matter, Mr.
Holmes?"

  "I have not yet made up my mind."

  "I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light
where all is so dark to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like
myself such a blow is paralyzing. I seem to have lost the faculty
of thought. But you are a man of action -- you are a man of
affairs. It is part of the everyday routine of your life. You can
preserve your balance in every emergency. We are fortunate,
indeed, in having you at our side."

  Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst
the old professor was talking. I observed that he was smoking
with extraordinary rapidity. It was evident that he shared our
host's liking for the fresh Alexandrian cigarettes.

  "Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow," said the old man. "That is
my magnum opus -- the pile of papers on the side table yonder. It
is my analysis of the documents found in the Coptic monasteries
of Syria and Egypt, a work which will cut deep at the very
foundation of revealed religion. With my enfeebled health I do
not know whether I shall ever be able to complete it, now that
my assistant has been taken from me. Dear me! Mr. Holmes,
why, you are even a quicker smoker than I am myself."

  Holmes smiled.

  "I am a connoisseur," said he, taking another cigarette from
the box -- his fourth -- and lighting it from the stub of that which
he had finished. "I will not trouble you with any lengthy cross-
examination, Professor Coram, since I gather that you were in
bed at the time of the crime, and could know nothing about it. I
would only ask this: What do you imagine that this poor fellow
meant by his last words: 'The professor -- it was she'?"

  The professor shook his head.

  "Susan is a country girl," said he, "and you know the
incredible stupidity of that class. I fancy that the poor fellow
murmured some incoherent, delirious words, and that she twisted
them into this meaningless message."

  "I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?"

  "Possibly an accident, possibly -- I only breathe it among
ourselves -- a suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles -- 
some affair of the heart, perhaps, which we have never known.
It is a more probable supposition than murder."

  "But the eyeglasses?"

  "Ah! I am only a student -- a man of dreams. I cannot explain
the practical things of life. But still, we are aware, my friend,
that love-gages may take strange shapes. By all means take
another cigarette. It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate them
so. A fan, a glove, glasses -- who knows what article may be
carried as a token or treasured when a man puts an end to his
life? This gentleman speaks of footsteps in the grass, but, after
all, it is easy to be mistaken on such a point. As to the knife, it
might well be thrown far from the unfortunate man as he fell. It
is possible that I speak as a child, but to me it seems that
Willoughby Smith has met his fate by his own hand."

  Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and hc
continued to walk up and down for some time, lost in thought
and consuming cigarette after cigarette.

  "Tell me, Professor Coram," he said. at last, "what is in that
cupboard in the bureau?"

  "Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from
my poor wife, diplomas of universities which have done me
honour. Here is the key. You can look for yourself."

  Holmes picked up the key, and looked at it for an instant, then
he handed it back.

  "No, I hardly think that it would help me," said he. "I
should prefer to go quietly down to your garden, and turn the
whole matter over in my head. There is something to be said for
the theory of suicide which you have put forward. We must
apologize for having intruded upon you, Professor Coram, and I
promise that we won't disturb you until after lunch. At two
o'clock we will come again, and report to you anything which
may have happened in the interval."

  Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down
the garden path for some time in silence.

  "Have you a clue?" I asked, at last.

  "It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked," said he. "It
is possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show
me."

  "My dear Holmes," I exclaimed, "how on earth --"

  "Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there's no harm
done. Of course, we always have the optician clue to fall back
upon, but I take a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the
good Mrs. Marker! Let us enjoy five minutes of instructive
conversation with her."

  I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked,
a peculiarly ingratiating way with women, and that he very
readily established terms of confidence with them. In half the
time which he had named, he had captured the housekeeper's
goodwill and was chatting with her as if he had known her for
years.

  "Yes, Mr. Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke
something terrible. All day and sometimes all night, sir. I've
seen that room of a morning -- well, sir, you'd have thought it
was a London fog. Poor young Mr. Smith, he was a smoker
also, but not as bad as the professor. His health -- well, I don't
know that it's better nor worse for the smoking."

  "Ah!" said Holmes, "but it kills the appetite."

  "Well, I don't know about that, sir."

  "I suppose the professor eats hardly anything?"

  "Well, he is variable. I'll say that for him."

  "I'll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won't face
his lunch after all the cigarettes I saw him consume."

  "Well, you're out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a
remarkable big breakfast this morning. I don't know when I've
known him make a better one, and he's ordered a good dish of
cutlets for his lunch. I'm surprised myself, for since I came into
that room yesterday and saw young Mr. Smith lying there on the
floor, I couldn't bear to look at food. Well, it takes all sorts to
make a world, and the professor hasn't let it take his appetite
away."

  We loitered the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins
had gone down to the village to look into some rumours of a
strange woman who had been seen by some children on the
Chatham Road the previous morning. As to my friend, all his
usual energy seemed to have deserted him. I had never known
him handle a case in such a half-hearted fashion. Even the news
brought back by Hopkins that he had found the children, and that
they had undoubtedly seen a woman exactly corresponding with
Holmes's description, and wearing either spectacles or eyeglasses,
failed to rouse any sign of keen interest. He was more attentive
when Susan, who waited upon us at lunch, volunteered the
information that she believed Mr. Smith had been out for a walk
yesterday morning, and that he had only returned half an hour
before the tragedy occurred. I could not myself see the bearing
of this incident, but I clearly perceived that Holmes was weaving
it into the general scheme which he had formed in his brain.
Suddenly he sprang from his chair and glanced at his watch.
"Two o'clock, gentlemen." said he. "We must go up and have
it out with our friend, the professor."

  The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his
empty dish bore evidence to the good appetite with which his
housekeeper had credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure as
he turned his white mane and his glowing eyes towards us. The
eternal cigarette smouldered in his mouth. He had been dressed
and was seated in an armchair by the fire.

  "Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?" He
shoved the large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside
him towards my companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at
the same moment, and between them they tipped the box over
the edge. For a minute or two we were all on our knees retriev-
ing stray cigarettes from impossible places. When we rose again,
I observed Holmes's eyes were shining and his cheeks tinged
with colour. Only at a crisis have I seen those battle-signals
flying .

  "Yes," said he, "I have solved it."

  Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a
sneer quivered over the gaunt features of the old professor.

  "Indeed! In the garden?"

  "No, here."

  "Here! When?"

  "This instant."

  "You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel
me to tell you that this is too serious a matter to be treated in
such a fashion."

  "I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor
Coram, and I am sure that it is sound. What your motives are, or
what exact part you play in this strange business, I am not yet
able to say. In a few minutes I shall probably hear it from your
own lips. Meanwhile I will reconstruct what is past for your
benefit, so that you may know the information which I still
require.

  "A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the
intention of possessing herself of certain documents which were
in your bureau. She had a key of her own. I have had an
opportunity of examining yours, and I do not find that slight
discolouration which the scratch made upon the varnish would
have produced. You were not an accessory, therefore, and she
came, so far as I can read the evidence, without your knowledge
to rob you."

  The professor blew a cloud from his lips. "This is most
interesting and instructive," said he. "Have you no more to
add? Surely, having traced this lady so far, you can also say
what has become of her."

  "I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized
by your secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This
catastrophe I am inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I
am convinced that the lady had no intention of inflicting so
grievous an injury. An assassin does not come unarmed. Horri-
fied by what she had done, she rushed wildly away from the
scene of the tragedy. Unfortunately for her, she had lost her
glasses in the scuffle, and as she was extremely shortsighted she
was really helpless without them. She ran down a corridor,
which she imagined to be that by which she had come -- both
were lined with cocoanut matting -- and it was only when it was
too late that she understood that she had taken the wrong pas-
sage, and that her retreat was cut off behind her. What was she
to do? She could not go back. She could not remain where she
was. She must go on. She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed
open a door, and found herself in your room."

  The old man sat with his mouth open, staring wildly at
Holmes. Amazement and fear were stamped upon his expressive
features. Now, with an effort, he shrugged his shoulders and
burst into insincere laughter.

  "All very fine, Mr. Holmes," said he. "But there is one little
flaw in your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I
never left it during the day."

  "I am aware of that, Professor Coram."

  "And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not
be aware that a woman had entered my room?"

  "I never said so. You were aware of it. You spoke with her.
You recognized her. You aided her to escape."

  Again the professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had
risen to his feet, and his eyes glowed like embers.

  "You are mad!" he cried. "You are talking insanely. I helped
her to escape? Where is she now?"

  "She is there," said Holmes, and he pointed to a high book-
case in the corner of the room.

  I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion
passed over his grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the
same instant the bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round
upon a hinge, and a woman rushed out into the room. "You are
right!" she cried, in a strange foreign voice. "You are right! I
am here."

  She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs
which had come from the walls of her hiding-place. Her face,
too, was streaked with grime, and at the best she could never
have been handsome, for she had the exact physical characteris-
tics which Holmes had divined, with, in addition, a long and
obstinate chin. What with her natural blindness, and what with
the change from dark to light, she stood as one dazed, blinking
about her to see where and who we were. And yet, in spite of all
these disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in the woman's
bearing -- a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head,
which compelled something of respect and admiration.

  Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed
her as his prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with
an over-mastering dignity which compelled obedience. The old
man lay back in his chair with a twitching face, and stared at her
with brooding eyes.

  "Yes, sir, I am your prisoner," she said. "From where I
stood I could hear everything, and I know that you have learned
the truth. I confess it all. It was I who killed the young man. But
you are right -- you who say it was an accident. I did not even
know that it was a knife which I held in my hand, for in my
despair I snatched anything from the table and struck at him to
make him let me go. It is the truth that I tell."

  "Madam," said Holmes, "I am sure that it is the truth. I fear
that you are far from well."

  She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the
dark dust-streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side of
the bed; then she resumed.

  "I have only a little time here," she said, "but I would have
you to know the whole truth. I am this man's wife. He is not an
Englishman. He is a Russian. His name I will not tell."

  For the first time the old man stirred. "God bless you, Anna!"
he cried. "God bless you!"

  She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. "Why
should you cling so hard to that wretched life of yours, Sergius?"
said she. "It has done harm to many and good to none -- not
even to yourself. However, it is not for me to cause the frail
thread to be snapped before God's time. I have enough already
upon my soul since I crossed the threshold of this cursed house.
But I must speak or I shall be too late.

  "I have said, gentlemen, that I am this man's wife. He was
fifty and I a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a
city of Russia, a university -- I will not name the place."

  "God bless you, Anna!" murmured the old man again.

  "We were reformers -- revolutionists -- Nihilists, you under-
stand. He and I and many more. Then there came a time of
trouble, a police officer was killed, many were arrested, evi-
dence was wanted, and in order to save his own life and to earn a
great reward, my husband betrayed his own wife and his com-
panions. Yes, we were all arrested upon his confession. Some of
us found our way to the gallows, and some to Siberia. I was
among these last, but my term was not for life. My husband
came to England with his ill-gotten gains and has lived in quiet
ever since, knowing well that if the Brotherhood knew where he
was not a week would pass before justice would be done."

  The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself
to a cigarette. "I am in your hands, Anna," said he. "You were
always good to me."

  "I have not yet told you the height of his villainy," said she.
"Among our comrades of the Order, there was one who was the
friend of my heart. He was noble, unselfish, loving -- all that my
husband was not. He hated violence. We were all guilty -- if that
is guilt -- but he was not. He wrote forever dissuading us from
such a course. These letters would have saved him. So would my
diary, in which, from day to day, I had entered both my feelings
towards him and the view which each of us had taken. My
husband found and kept both diary and letters. He hid them, and
he tried hard to swear away the young man's life. In this he
failed, but Alexis was sent a convict to Siberia, where now, at
this moment, he works in a salt mine. Think of that, you villain,
you villain! -- now, now, at this very moment, Alexis, a man
whose name you are not worthy to speak, works and lives like a
slave, and yet I have your life in my hands, and I let you go."

  "You were always a noble woman, Anna," said the old man,
puffing at his cigarette.

  She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain.

  "I must finish," she said. "When my term was over I set
myself to get the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian
government, would procure my friend's release. I knew that my
husband had come to England. After months of searching I dis-
covered where he was. I knew that he still had the diary, for
when I was in Siberia I had a letter from him once, reproaching
me and quoting some passages from its pages. Yet I was sure
that, with his revengeful nature, he would never give it to me of
his own free-will. I must get it for myself. With this object I
engaged an agent from a private detective firm, who entered my
husband's house as a secretary -- it was your second secretary
Sergius, the one who left you so hurriedly. He found that papers
were kept in the cupboard, and he got an impression of the key.
He would not go farther. He furnished me with a plan of the
house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study was always
empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I took
my courage in both hands, and I came down to get the papers for
myself. I succeeded; but at what a cost!

  "I had just taken the papers and was locking the cupboard,
when the young man seized me. I had seen him already that
morning. He had met me on the road, and I had asked him to tell
me where Professor Coram lived, not knowing that he was in his
employ.

  "Exactly! Exactly!" said Holmes. "The secretary came back,
and told his employer of the woman he had met. Then, in his last
breath, he tried to send a message that it was she -- the she whom
he had just discussed with him."

  "You must let me speak," said the woman, in an imperative
voice, and her face contracted as if in pain. "When he had fallen
I rushed from the room, chose the wrong door, and found myself
in my husband's room. He spoke of giving me up. I showed him
that if he did so, his life was in my hands. If he gave me to the
law, I could give him to the Brotherhood. It was not that I
wished to live for my own sake, but it was that I desired to
accomplish my purpose. He knew that I would do what I said -- 
that his own fate was involved in mine. For that reason, and for
no other, he shielded me. He thrust me into that dark hiding-
place -- a relic of old days, known only to himself. He took his
meals in his own room, and so was able to give me part of his
food. It was agreed that when the police left the house I should
slip away by night and come back no more. But in some way
you have read our plans." She tore from the bosom of her dress
a small packet. "These are my last words," said she; "here is
the packet which will save Alexis. I confide it to your honour
and to your love of justice. Take it! You will deliver it at the
Russian Embassy. Now, I have done my duty, and --"

  "Stop her!" cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room
and had wrenched a small phial from her hand.

  "Too late!" she said, sinking back on the bed. "Too late! I
took the poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I
am going! I charge you, sir, to remember the packet."

  "A simple case, and yet, in some ways, an instructive one,"
Holmes remarked, as we travelled back to town. "It hinged from
the outset upon the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of the
dying man having seized these, I am not sure that we could ever
have reached our solution. It was clear to me, from the strength
of the glasses, that the wearer must have been very blind and
helpless when deprived of them. When you asked me to believe
that she walked along a narrow strip of grass without once
making a false step, I remarked, as you may remember, that it
was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down as an
impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that she had a
second pair of glasses. I was forced, therefore, to consider
seriously the hypothesis that she had remained within the house.
On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors. it became clear
that she might very easily have made such a mistake, and, in that
case, it was evident that she must have entered the professor's
room. I was keenly on the alert, therefore, for whatever would
bear out this supposition, and I examined the room narrowly for
anything in the shape of a hiding-place. The carpet seemed
continuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a
trap-door. There might well be a recess behind the books. As
you are aware, such devices are common in old libraries. I ob-
served that books were piled on the floor at all other points, but
that one bookcase was left clear. This, then, might be the door. I
could see no marks to guide me, but the carpet was of a dun
colour, which lends itself very well to examination. I therefore
smoked a great number of those excellent cigarettes, and I
dropped the ash all over the space in front of the suspected
bookcase. It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective. I then
went downstairs, and I ascertained, in your presence, Watson,
without your perceiving the drift of my remarks, that Professor
Coram's consumption of food had increased -- as one would
expect when he is supplying a second person. We then ascended
to the room again, when, by upsetting the cigarette-box, I ob-
tained a very excellent view of the floor, and was able to see
quite clearly, from the traces upon the cigarette ash, that the
prisoner had in our absence come out from her retreat. Well
Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross, and I congratulate you
on having brought your case to a successful conclusion. You are
going to headquarters, no doubt. I think, Watson, you and I will
drive together to the Russian Embassy."

          The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter

  We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at
Baker Street, but I have a particular recollection of one which
reached us on a gloomy February morning, some seven or eight
years ago, and gave Mr. Sherlock Holmes a puzzled quarter of
an hour. It was addressed to him, and ran thus:

       Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-

     quarter missing, indispensable to-morrow.

                                                      OVERTON.

  "Strand postmark, and dispatched ten thirty-six," said Holmes,
reading it over and over. "Mr. Overton was evidently considera-
bly excited when he sent it, and somewhat incoherent in conse-
quence. Well, well, he will be here, I daresay, by the time I
have looked through the Times, and then we shall know all about
it. Even the most insignificant problem would be welcome in
these stagnant days."

  Things had indeed been very slow with us, and I had learned
to dread such periods of inaction, for I knew by experience that
my companion's brain was so abnormally active that it was
dangerous to leave it without material upon which to work. For
years I had gradually weaned him from that drug mania which
had threatened once to check his remarkable career. Now I knew
that under ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this
artificial stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was not
dead but sleeping, and I have known that the sleep was a light
one and the waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen
the drawn look upon Holmes's ascetic face, and the brooding of
his deep-set and inscrutable eyes. Therefore I blessed this Mr.
Overton, whoever he might be, since he had come with his
enigmatic message to break that dangerous calm which brought
more peril to my friend than all the storms of his tempestuous
life.

  As we had expected, the telegram was soon followed by its
sender, and the card of Mr. Cyril Overton, Trinity College,
Cambridge, announced the arrival of an enormous young man,
sixteen stone of solid bone and muscle, who spanned the door-
way with his broad shoulders, and looked from one of us to the
other with a comely face which was haggard with anxiety.

  "Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

  My companion bowed.

  "I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw In-
spector Stanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said
the case, so far as he could see, was more in your line than in
that of the regular police."

  "Pray sit down and tell me what is the matter."

  "It's awful, Mr. Holmes -- simply awful! I wonder my hair
isn't gray. Godfrey Staunton -- you've heard of him, of course?
He's simply the hinge that the whole team turns on. I'd rather
spare two from the pack, and have Godfrey for my three-quarter
line. Whether it's passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there's no
one to touch him, and then, he's got the head, and can hold us
all together. What am I to do? That's what I ask you, Mr.
Holmes. There's Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trained as a
half, and he always edges right in on to the scrum instead of
keeping out on the touchline. He's a fine place-kick, it's true
but then he has no judgment, and he can't sprint for nuts. Why,
Morton or Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him.
Stevenson is fast enough, but he couldn't drop from the twenty-
five line, and a three-quarter who can't either punt or drop isn't
worth a place for pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done
unless you can help me to find Godfrey Staunton."

  My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long
speech, which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and
earnestness, every point being driven home by the slapping of a
brawny hand upon the speaker's knee. When our visitor was
silent Holmes stretched out his hand and took down letter "S"
of his commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that
mine of varied information.

  "There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger," said
he, "and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but
Godfrey Staunton is a new name to me."

  It was our visitor's turn to look surprised.

  "Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things," said he. "I
suppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton,
you don't know Cyril Overton either?"

  Holmes shook his head good humouredly.

  "Great Scott!" cried the athlete. "Why, I was first reserve for
England against Wales, and I've skippered the 'Varsity all this
year. But that's nothing! I didn't think there was a soul in
England who didn't know Godfrey Staunton, the crack three-
quarter, Cambridge, Blackheath, and five Internationals. Good
Lord! Mr. Holmes, where have you lived?"

  Holmes laughed at the young giant's naive astonishment.

  "You live in a different world to me, Mr. Overton -- a sweeter
and healthier one. My ramifications stretch out into many sec-
tions of society, but never, I am happy to say, into amateur
sport, which is the best and soundest thing in England. However,
your unexpected visit this morning shows me that even in that
world of fresh air and fair play, there may be work for me to do.
So now, my good sir, I beg you to sit down and to tell me,
slowly and quietly, exactly what it is that has occurred, and how
you desire that I should help you."

  Young Overton's face assumed the bothered look of the man
who is more accustomed to using his muscles than his wits, but
by degrees, with many repetitions and obscurities which I may
omit from his narrative, he laid his strange story before us.

  "It's this way, Mr. Holmes. As I have said, I am the skipper
of the Rugger team of Cambridge 'Varsity, and Godfrey Staunton
is my best man. To-morrow we play Oxford. Yesterday we all
came up, and we settled at Bentley's private hotel. At ten
o'clock I went round and saw that all the fellows had gone to
roost, for I believe in strict training and plenty of sleep to keep a
team fit. I had a word or two with Godfrey before he turned in.
He seemed to me to be pale and bothered. I asked him what was
the matter. He said he was all right -- just a touch of headache. I
bade him good-night and left him. Half an hour later, the porter
tells me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a note
for Godfrey. He had not gone to bed, and the note was taken to
his room. Godfrey read it, and fell back in a chair as if he had
been pole-axed. The porter was so scared that he was going to
fetch me, but Godfrey stopped him, had a drink of water, and
pulled himself together. Then he went downstairs, said a few
words to the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of
them went off together. The last that the porter saw of them,
they were almost running down the street in the direction of the
Strand. This morning Godfrey's room was empty, his bed had
never been slept in, and his things were all just as I had seen
them the night before. He had gone off at a moment's notice
with this stranger, and no word has come from him since. I don't
believe he will ever come back. He was a sportsman, was
Godfrey, down to his marrow, and he wouldn't have stopped his
training and let in his skipper if it were not for some cause that
was too strong for him. No: I feel as if he were gone for good,
and we should never see him again."

  Sherlock Holmes listened with the deepest attention to this
singular narrative.

  "What did you do?" he asked.

  "I wired to Cambridge to learn if anything had been heard of
him there. I have had an answer. No one has seen him."

  "Could he have got back to Cambridge?"

  "Yes, there is a late train -- quarter-past eleven."

  "But, so far as you can ascertain, he did not take it?"

  "No, he has not been seen."

  "What did you do next?"

  "I wired to Lord Mount-James."

  "Why to Lord Mount-James?"

  "Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest
relative -- his uncle, I believe."

  "Indeed. This throws new light upon the matter. Lord Mount-
James is one of the richest men in England."

  "So I've heard Godfrey say."

  "And your friend was closely related?"

  "Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty -- cram
full of gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with
his knuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life. for
he is an absolute miser, but it will all come to him right
enough."

  "Have you heard from Lord Mount-James?"

  "No."

  "What motive could your friend have in going to Lord
Mount-James?"

  "Well, something was worrying him the night before, and if it
was to do with money it is possible that he would make for his
nearest relative, who had so much of it, though from all I have
heard he would not have much chance of getting it. Godfrey was
not fond of the old man. He would not go if he could help it."

  "Well, we can soon determine that. If your friend was going
to his relative, Lord Mount-James, you have then to explain the
visit of this rough-looking fellow at so late an hour, and the
agitation that was caused by his coming."

  Cyril Overton pressed his hands to his head. "I can make
nothing of it," said he.

  "Well, well, I have a clear day, and I shall be happy to look
into the matter," said Holmes. "I should strongly recommend
you to make your preparations for your match without reference
to this young gentleman. It must, as you say, have been an
overpowering necessity which tore him away in such a fashion,
and the same necessity is likely to hold him away. Let us step
round together to the hotel, and see if the porter can throw any
fresh light upon the matter."

  Sherlock Holmes was a past-master in the art of putting a
humble witness at his ease, and very soon, in the privacy of
Godfrey Staunton's abandoned room, he had extracted all that
the porter had to tell. The visitor of the night before was not a
gentleman, neither was he a workingman. He was simply what
the porter described as a "medium-looking chap," a man of
fifty, beard grizzled, pale face, quietly dressed. He seemed
himself to be agitated. The porter had observed his hand trembling
when he had held out the note. Godfrey Staunton had crammed
the note into his pocket. Staunton had not shaken hands with the
man in the hall. They had exchanged a few sentences, of which
the porter had only distinguished the one word "time." Then
they had hurried off in the manner described. It was just half-
past ten by the hall clock.

  "Let me see," said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton's
bed. "You are the day porter. are you not?"

  "Yes, sir, I go off duty at eleven."

  "The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?"

  "No, sir, one theatre party came in late. No one else."

  "Were you on duty all day yesterday?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?"

  "Yes, sir, one telegram."

  "Ah! that's interesting. What o'clock was this?"

  "About six."

  "Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?"

  "Here in his room."

  "Were you present when he opened it?"

  "Yes, sir, I waited to see if there was an answer."

  "Well, was there?"

  "Yes, sir, he wrote an answer."

  "Did you take it?"

  "No, he took it himself."

  "But he wrote it in your presence?"

  "Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back
turned to that table. When he had written it he said: 'All right,
porter. I will take this myself.' "

  "What did he write it with?"

  "A pen, sir."

  "Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?"

  "Yes, sir, it was the top one."

  Holmes rose. Taking the forms. he carried them over to the
window and carefully examined that which was uppermost.

  "It is a pity he did not write in pencil," said he, throw-
ing them down again with a shrug of disappointment. "As
you have no doubt frequently observed, Watson, the impres-
sion usually goes through -- a fact which has dissolved many
a happy marriage. However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice,
however to perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed
quill pen, and I can hardly doubt that we will find some
impression upon this blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the
very thing!"

  He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us
the following hieroglyphic:

  Cyril Overton was much excited. "Hold it to the glass!" he
cried.

  "That is unnecessary," said Holmes. "The paper is thin, and
the reverse will give the message. Here it is." He turned it over,
and we read:

 

  "So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton
dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at
least six words of the message which have escaped us; but what
remains -- 'Stand by us for God's sake!' -- proves that this young
man saw a formidable danger which approached him, and from
which someone else could protect him. 'Us,' mark you! Another
person was involved. Who should it be but the pale-faced,
bearded man, who seemed himself in so nervous a state? What,
then, is the connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded
man? And what is the third source from which each of them
sought for help against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already
narrowed down to that."

  "We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed," I
suggested.

  "Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound,
had already crossed my mind. But I daresay it may have come to
your notice that, if you walk into a postoffice and demand to see
the counterfoil of another man's message, there may be some
disinclination on the part of the officials to oblige you. There is
so much red tape in these matters. However, I have no doubt that
with a little delicacy and finesse the end may be attained.
Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr. Overton, to go
through these papers which have been left upon the table."

  There were a number of letters, bills, and notebooks, which
Holmes turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers
and darting, penetrating eyes. "Nothing here," he said, at last.
"By the way, I suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow --
nothing amiss with him?"

  "Sound as a bell."

  "Have you ever known him ill?"

  "Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he
slipped his knee-cap, but that was nothing."

  "Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think
he may have had some secret trouble. With your assent, I will
put one or two of these papers in my pocket, in case they should
bear upon our future inquiry."

  "One moment -- one moment!" cried a querulous voice, and
we looked up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching
in the doorway. He was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad-
brimmed top-hat and a loose white necktie -- the whole effect
being that of a very rustic parson or of an undertaker's mute.
Yet, in spite of his shabby and even absurd appearance, his voice
had a sharp crackle, and his manner a quick intensity which
commanded attention.

  "Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this
gentleman's papers?" he asked.

  "I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain
his disappearance."

  "Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?"

  "This gentleman, Mr. Staunton's friend, was referred to me
by Scotland Yard."

  "Who are you, sir?"

  "I am Cyril Overton."

  "Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord
Mount-James. I came round as quickly as the Bayswater bus
would bring me. So you have instructed a detective?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And are you prepared to meet the cost?"

  "I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find
him, will be prepared to do that."

  "But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!"

  "In that case. no doubt his family --"

  "Nothing of the sort, sir!" screamed the little man. "Don't
look to me for a penny -- not a penny! You understand that, Mr.
Detective! I am all the family that this young man has got, and I
tell you that I am not responsible. If he has any expectations it is
due to the fact that I have never wasted money, and I do not
propose to begin to do so now. As to those papers with which
you are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should
be anything of any value among them, you will be held strictly
to account for what you do with them."

  "Very good, sir," said Sherlock Holmes. "May I ask, in the
meanwhile, whether you have yourself any theory to account for
this young man's disappearance?"

  "No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look
after himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself, I entirely
refuse to accept the responsibility of hunting for him."

  "I quite understand your position," said Holmes, with a
mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Perhaps you don't quite un-
derstand mine. Godfrey Staunton appears to have been a poor
man. If he has been kidnapped, it could not have been for
anything which he himself possesses. The fame of your wealth
has gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible
that a gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain
from him some information as to your house, your habits, and
your treasure."

  The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his
neckcloth.

  "Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy!
What inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a
fine lad -- a staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his
old uncle away. I'll have the plate moved over to the bank this
evening. In the meantime spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg
you to leave no stone unturned to bring him safely back. As to
money, well, so far as a fiver or even a tenner goes you can
always look to me."

  Even in his chastened frame of mind, the noble miser could
give us no information which could help us, for he knew little of
the private life of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated
telegram, and with a copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to
find a second link for his chain. We had shaken off Lord
Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with the other
members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen
them.

  There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel.
We halted outside it.

  "It's worth trying, Watson," said Holmes. "Of course, with
a warrant we could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have
not reached that stage yet. I don't suppose they remember faces
in so busy a place. Let us venture it."

  "I am sorry to trouble you," said he, in his blandest manner,
to the young woman behind the grating; "there is some small
mistake about a telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer,
and I very much fear that I must have omitted to put my name at
the end. Could you tell me if this was so?"

  The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.

  "What o'clock was it?" she asked.

  "A little after six."

  "Whom was it to?"

  Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. "The last
words in it were 'for God's sake,' " he whispered, confidentially;
"I am very anxious at getting no answer."

  The young woman separated one of the forms.

  "This is it. There is no name," said she, smoothing it out
upon the counter.

  "Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer,"
said Holmes. "Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure!
Good-morning, miss, and many thanks for having relieved my
mind." He chuckled and rubbed his hands when we found
ourselves in the street once more.

  "Well?" I asked.

  "We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven
different schemes for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I
could hardly hope to succeed the very first time."

  "And what have you gained?"

  "A starting-point for our investigation." He hailed a cab.
"King's Cross Station," said he.

  "We have a journey, then?"

  "Yes, I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All
the indications seem to me to point in that direction."

  "Tell me," I asked, as we rattled up Gray's Inn Road, "have
you any suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I
don't think that among all our cases I have known one where the
motives are more obscure. Surely you don't really imagine that
he may be kidnapped in order to give information against his
wealthy uncle?"

  "I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me
as a very probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being
the one which was most likely to interest that exceedingly un-
pleasant old person."

  "It certainly did that; but what are your alternatives?"

  "I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious
and suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this
important match, and should involve the only man whose pres-
ence seems essential to the success of the side. It may, of course,
be a coincidence. but it is interesting. Amateur sport is free from
betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on among the
public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone's while
to get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a race-horse.
There is one explanation. A second very obvious one is that this
young man really is the heir of a great property, however modest
his means may at present be, and it is not impossible that a plot to
hold him for ransom might be concocted."

  "These theories take no account of the telegram."

  "Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid
thing with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our
attention to wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the
purpose of this telegram that we are now upon our way to
Cambridge. The path of our investigation is at present obscure,
but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have not
cleared it up, or made a considerable advance along it."

  It was already dark when we reached the old university city.
Holmes took a cab at the station and ordered the man to drive to
the house of Dr. Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later, we had
stopped at a large mansion on the busiest thoroughfare. We were
shown in, and after a long wait were at last admitted into the
consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind his
table.

  It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my
profession that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to
me. Now I am aware that he is not only one of the heads of the
medical school of the university, but a thinker of European
reputation in more than one branch of science. Yet even without
knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by
a mere glance at the man, the square, massive face, the brooding
eyes under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the
inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert
mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable -- so I read Dr.
Leslie Armstrong. He held my friend's card in his hand, and
he looked up with no very pleased expression upon his dour
features.

  "I have heard your name. Mr. Sherlock Holmes. and I
am aware of your profession -- one of which I by no means
approve."

  "In that, Doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with
every criminal in the country," said my friend, quietly.

  "So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of
crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable
member of the community, though I cannot doubt that the offi-
cial machinery is amply sufficient for the purpose. Where your
calling is more open to criticism is when you pry into the secrets
of private individuals, when you rake up family matters which
are better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the time of
men who are more busy than yourself. At the present moment
for example, I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing
with you."

  "No doubt, Doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more
important than the treatise. Incidentally, I may tell you that we
are doing the reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we
are endeavouring to prevent anything like public exposure of
private matters which must necessarily follow when once the
case is fairly in the hands of the official police. You may look
upon me simply as an irregular pioneer, who goes in front of the
regular forces of the country. I have come to ask you about Mr.
Godfrey Staunton."

  "What about him?"

  "You know him, do you not?"

  "He is an intimate friend of mine."

  "You are aware that he has disappeared?"

  "Ah, indeed!" There was no change of expression in the
rugged features of the doctor.

  "He left his hotel last night -- he has not been heard of."

  "No doubt he will return."

  "To-morrow is the 'Varsity football match."

  "I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young
man's fate interests me deeply, since I know him and like him.
The football match does not come within my horizon at all."

  "I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr.
Staunton's fate. Do you know where he is?"

  "Certainly not."

  "You have not seen him since yesterday?"

  "No, I have not."

  "Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Did you ever know him ill?"

  "Never."

  Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor's eyes.
"Then perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen
guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie
Armstrong, of Cambridge. I picked it out from among the papers
upon hls desk."

  The doctor flushed with anger.

  "I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an
explanation to you, Mr. Holmes."

  Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook. "If you prefer a
public explanation, it must come sooner or later," said he. "I
have already told you that I can hush up that which others will be
bound to publish, and you would really be wiser to take me into
your complete confidence."

  "I know nothing about it."

  "Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?"

  "Certainly not."

  "Dear me, dear me -- the postoffice again!" Holmes sighed,
wearily. "A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from
London by Godfrey Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening -- a
telegram which is undoubtedly associated with his disappearance --
and yet you have not had it. It is most culpable. I shall certainly
go down to the office here and register a complaint."

  Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his
dark face was crimson with fury.

  "I'll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir," said he.
"You can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not
wish to have anything to do either with him or with his agents.
No, sir -- not another word!" He rang the bell furiously. "John,
show these gentlemen out!" A pompous butler ushered us se-
verely to the door, and we found ourselves in the street. Holmes
burst out laughing.

  "Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and
character," said he. "I have not seen a man who, if he turns his
talents that way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by the
illustrious Moriarty. And now, my poor Watson, here we are,
stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town, which we
cannot leave without abandoning our case. This little inn just
opposite Armstrong's house is singularly adapted to our needs. If
you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries for
the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries."

  These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy
proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to
the inn until nearly nine o'clock. He was pale and dejected,
stained with dust, and exhausted with hunger and fatigue. A cold
supper was ready upon the table, and when his needs were
satisfied and his pipe alight he was ready to take that half comic
and wholly philosophic view which was natural to him when his
affairs were going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused
him to rise and glance out of the window. A brougham and pair
of grays, under the glare of a gas-lamp, stood before the doctor's
door.

  "It's been out three hours," said Holmes, "started at half-past
six, and here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or
twelve miles, and he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day."

  "No unusual thing for a doctor in practice."

  "But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a
lecturer and a consultant, but he does not care for general
practice, which distracts him from his literary work. Why, then,
does he make these long journeys, which must be exceedingly
irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?"

  "His coachman --"

  "My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first
applied? I do not know whether it came from his own innate
depravity or from the promptings of his master, but he was rude
enough to set a dog at me. Neither dog nor man liked the look of
my stick, however, and the matter fell through. Relations were
strained after that, and further inquiries out of the question. All
that I have learned I got from a friendly native in the yard of our
own inn. It was he who told me of the doctor's habits and of his
daily journey. At that instant, to give point to his words, the
carriage came round to the door."

  "Could you not follow it?"

  "Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this evening. The
idea did cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a
bicycle shop next to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a
bicycle, and was able to get started before the carriage was quite
out of sight. I rapidly overtook it, and then, keeping at a discreet
distance of a hundred yards or so,l followed its lights until we
were clear of the town. We had got well out on the country road
when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred. The carriage
stopped, the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I had
also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that he
feared the road was narrow, and that he hoped his carriage did
not impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have been
more admirable than his way of putting it. I at once rode past the
carriage, and, keeping to the main road, I went on for a few
miles, and then halted in a convenient place to see if the carriage
passed. There was no sign of it, however, and so it became
evident that it had turned down one of several side roads which I
had observed. I rode back, but again saw nothing of the carriage,
and now, as you perceive, it has returned after me. Of course, I
had at the outset no particular reason to connect these journeys
with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and was only in-
clined to investigate them on the general grounds that everything
which concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest to us, but,
now that I find he keeps so keen a look-out upon anyone who
may follow him on these excursions, the affair appears more
important, and I shall not be satisfied until I have made the
matter clear."

  "We can follow him tomorrow."

  "Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You are not
familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend
itself to concealment. All this country that I passed over to-night
is as flat and clean as the palm of your hand, and the man we are
following is no fool, as he very clearly showed to-night. I have
wired to Overton to let us know any fresh London developments
at this address, and in the meantime we can only concentrate our
attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name the obliging young
lady at the office allowed me to read upon the counterfoil of
Staunton's urgent message. He knows where the young man
is -- to that I'll swear, and if he knows, then it must be our own
fault if we cannot manage to know also. At present it must be
admitted that the odd trick is in his possession, and, as you are
aware, Watson, it is not my habit to leave the game in that
condition."

  And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of
the mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes
passed across to me with a smile.

     SIR [it ran]:

       I can assure you that you are wasting your time in dogging

     my movements. I have, as you discovered last night, a

     window at the back of my brougham, and if you desire a

     twenty-mile ride which will lead you to the spot from which

     you started, you have only to follow me. Meanwhile, I can

     inform you that no spying upon me can in any way help Mr.

     Godfrey Staunton, and I am convinced that the best service

     you can do to that gentleman is to return at once to London

     and to report to your employer that you are unable to trace

     him. Your time in Cambridge will certainly be wasted.

                                               Yours faithfully,

                                                LESLIE ARMSTRONG

  "An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor," said Holmes.
"Well, well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know
before I leave him."

  "His carriage is at his door now," said I. "There he is
stepping into it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so.
Suppose I try my luck upon the bicycle?"

  "No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your natural
acumen, I do not think that you are quite a match for the worthy
doctor. I think that possibly I can attain our end by some
independent explorations of my own. I am afraid that I must
leave you to your own devices, as the appearance of two inquir-
ing strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more gossip
than I care for. No doubt you will find some sights to amuse you
in this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a more favour-
able report to you before evening."

  Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disap-
pointed. He came back at night weary and unsuccessful.

  "I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the doctor's
general direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon
that side of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and
other local news agencies. I have covered some ground. Chester-
ton, Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington have each been ex-
plored, and have each proved disappointing. The daily appearance
of a brougham and pair could hardly have been overlooked in
such Sleepy Hollows. The doctor has scored once more. Is there
a telegram for me?"

  "Yes, I opened it. Here it is:

     "Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.

I don't understand it."

  "Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is in
answer to a question from me. I'll just send round a note to Mr.
Jeremy Dixon, and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn.
By the way, is there any news of the match?"

  "Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its
last edition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last
sentences of the description say:

       "The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed

    to the unfortunate absence of the crack International, God-

    frey Staunton, whose want was felt at every instant of the

    game. The lack of combination in the three-quarter line and

    their weakness both in attack and defence more than neutral-

    ized the efforts of a heavy and hard-working pack."

  "Then our friend Overton's forebodings have been justified,"
said Holmes. "Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Arm-
strong, and football does not come within my horizon. Early to
bed to-night, Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an
eventful day."

  I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning,
for he sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I
associated that instrument with the single weakness of his nature,
and I feared the worst when I saw it glittering in his hand. He
laughed at my expression of dismay and laid it upon the table.

  "No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not
upon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather prove
to be the key which will unlock our mystery. On this syringe I
base all my hopes. I have just returned from a small scouting
expedition, and everything is favourable. Eat a good breakfast,
Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong's trail to-day,
and once on it I will not stop for rest or food until I run him to
his burrow."

  "In that case," said I, "we had best carry our breakfast with
us, for he is making an early start. His carriage is at the door."

  "Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can drive
where I cannot follow him. When you have finished, come
downstairs with me, and I will introduce you to a detective who
is a very eminent specialist in the work that lies before us."

  When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard,
where he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat,
lop-eared, white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and a
foxhound .

  "Let me introduce you to Pompey," said he. "Pompey is the
pride of the local draghounds -- no very great flier, as his build
will show, but a staunch hound on a scent. Well, Pompey, you
may not be fast, but I expect you will be too fast for a couple of
middle-aged London gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of
fastening this leather leash to your collar. Now, boy, come
along, and show what you can do." He led him across to the
doctor's door. The dog sniffed round for an instant, and then
with a shrill whine of excitement started off down the street,
tugging at his leash in his efforts to go faster. In half an hour, we
were clear of the town and hastening down a country road.

  "What have you done, Holmes?" I asked.

  "A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occa-
sion. I walked into the doctor's yard this morning, and shot my
syringe full of aniseed over the hind wheel. A draghound will
follow aniseed from here to John o' Groat's, and our friend,
Armstrong, would have to drive through the Cam before he
would shake Pompey off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal! This
is how he gave me the slip the other night."

  The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a
grass-grown lane. Half a mile farther this opened into another
broad road, and the trail turned hard to the right in the direction
of the town, which we had just quitted. The road took a sweep to
the south of the town, and continued in the opposite direction to
that in which we started.

  "This detour has been entirely for our benefit, then?" said
Holmes. "No wonder that my inquiries among those villagers
led to nothing. The doctor has certainly played the game for all it
is worth, and one would like to know the reason for such
elaborate deception. This should be the village of Trumpington
to the right of us. And, by Jove! here is the brougham coming
round the corner. Quick, Watson -- quick, or we are done!"

  He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctant
Pompey after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of the
hedge when the carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse, of Dr.
Armstrong within, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk on his
hands, the very image of distress. I could tell by my compan-
ion's graver face that he also had seen.

  "I fear there is some dark ending to our quest," said he. "It
cannot be long before we know it. Come, Pompey! Ah, it is the
cottage in the field!"

  There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of our
journey. Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate,
where the marks of the brougham's wheels were still to be seen.
A footpath led across to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dog
to the hedge, and we hastened onward. My friend knocked at the
little rustic door, and knocked again without response. And yet
the cottage was not deserted, for a low sound came to our
ears -- a kind of drone of misery and despair which was inde-
scribably melancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then he
glanced back at the road which he had just traversed. A brougham
was coming down it, and there could be no mistaking those gray
horses .

  "By Jove, the doctor is coming back!" cried Holmes. "That
settles it. We are bound to see what it means before he comes."

  He opened the door, and we stepped into the hall. The droning
sound swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long,
deep wail of distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up,
and I followed him. He pushed open a half-closed door, and we
both stood appalled at the sight before us.

  A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed.
Her calm, pale face, with dim, wide-opened blue eyes, looked
upward from amid a great tangle of golden hair. At the foot of
the bed, half sitting, half kneeling, his face buried in the clothes,
was a young man, whose frame was racked by his sobs. So
absorbed was he by his bitter grief, that he never looked up until
Holmes's hand was on his shoulder.

  "Are you Mr. Godfrey Staunton?"

  "Yes, yes, I am -- but you are too late. She is dead."

  The man was so dazed that he could not be made to under-
stand that we were anything but doctors who had been sent to his
assistance. Holmes was endeavouring to utter a few words of
consolation and to explain the alarm which had been caused to
his friends by his sudden disappearance when there was a step
upon the stairs, and there was the heavy, stern, questioning face
of Dr. Armstrong at the door.

  "So, gentlemen," said he, "you have attained your end and
have certainly chosen a particularly delicate moment for your
intrusion. I would not brawl in the presence of death, but I can
assure you that if I were a younger man your monstrous conduct
would not pass with impunity."

  "Excuse me, Dr. Armstrong, I think we are a little at cross-
purposes," said my friend, with dignity. "If you could step
downstairs with us, we may each be able to give some light to
the other upon this miserable affair."

  A minute later, the grim doctor and ourselves were in the
sitting-room below.

  "Well, sir?" said he.

  "I wish you to understand, in the first place, that I am not
employed by Lord Mount-James, and that my sympathies in this
matter are entirely against that nobleman. When a man is lost it
is my duty to ascertain his fate, but having done so the matter
ends so far as I am concerned, and so long as there is nothing
criminal I am much more anxious to hush up private scandals
than to give them publicity. If, as I imagine, there is no breach
of the law in this matter, you can absolutely depend upon my
discretion and my cooperation in keeping the facts out of the
papers."

  Dr. Armstrong took a quick step forward and wrung Holmes
by the hand.

  "You are a good fellow," said he. "I had misjudged you. I
thank heaven that my compunction at leaving poor Staunton all
alone in this plight caused me to turn my carriage back and so to
make your acquaintance. Knowing as much as you do, the
situation is very easily explained. A year ago Godfrey Staunton
lodged in London for a time and became passionately attached to
his landlady's daughter, whom he married. She was as good as
she was beautiful and as intelligent as she was good. No man
need be ashamed of such a wife. But Godfrey was the heir to this
crabbed old nobleman, and it was quite certain that the news of
his marriage would have been the end of his inheritance. I knew
the lad well, and I loved him for his many excellent qualities. I
did all I could to help him to keep things straight. We did our
very best to keep the thing from everyone, for, when once such a
whisper gets about, it is not long before everyone has heard it.
Thanks to this lonely cottage and his own discretion, Godfrey
has up to now succeeded. Their secret was known to no one save
to me and to one excellent servant, who has at present gone for
assistance to Trumpington. But at last there came a terrible blow
in the shape of dangerous illness to his wife. It was consumption
of the most virulent kind. The poor boy was half crazed with
grief, and yet he had to go to London to play this match, for
he could not get out of it without explanations which would
expose his secret. I tried to cheer him up by wire, and he sent
me one in reply, imploring me to do all I could. This was the
telegram which you appear in some inexplicable way to have
seen. I did not tell him how urgent the danger was, for I
knew that he could do no good here, but I sent the truth to
the girl's father, and he very injudiciously communicated it
to Godfrey. The result was that he came straight away in a
state bordering on frenzy, and has remained in the same state.
kneeling at the end of her bed, until this morning death put
an end to her sufferings. That is all, Mr. Holmes, and I am
sure that I can rely upon your discretion and that of your
friend."

  Holmes grasped the doctor's hand.

  "Come, Watson,'' said he, and we passed from that house of
grief into the pale sunlight of the winter day.

             The Adventure of the Abbey Grange

  It was on a bitterly cold night and frosty morning, towards the
end of the winter of '97, that I was awakened by a tugging at my
shoulder. It was Holmes. The candle in his hand shone upon his
eager, stooping face, and told me at a glance that something was
amiss.

  "Come, Watson, come!" he cried. "The game is afoot. Not a
word! Into your clothes and come!"

  Ten minutes later we were both in a cab, and rattling through the
silent streets on our way to Charing Cross Station. The first faint
winter's dawn was beginning to appear, and we could dimly see
the occasional figure of an early workman as he passed us, blurred
and indistinct in the opalescent London reek. Holmes nestled in
silence into his heavy coat, and I was glad to do the same, for
the air was most bitter, and neither of us had broken our fast.

  It was not until we had consumed some hot tea at the station
and taken our places in the Kentish train that we were suffi-
ciently thawed, he to speak and I to listen. Holmes drew a note
from his pocket, and read aloud:

                                "Abbey Grange, Marsham, Kent,

                                                     3:30 A.M.

    "MY DEAR MR. HOLMES:

     I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in

    what promises to be a most remarkable case. It is something

    quite in your line. Except for releasing the lady I will see

    that everything is kept exactly as I have found it, but I beg

    you not to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave Sir

    Eustace there.

                                            "Yours faithfully,

                                            "STANLEY HOPKINS.

  "Hopkins has called me in seven times, and on each occasion
his summons has been entirely justified," said Holmes. ''I fancy
that every one of his cases has found its way into your collec-
tion, and I must admit, Watson, that you have some power of
selection, which atones for much which I deplore in your narra-
tives. Your fatal habit of looking at everything from the point of
view of a story instead of as a scientific exercise has ruined what
might have been an instructive and even classical series of
demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmost finesse and
delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details which may
excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader."

  "Why do you not write them yourself?" I said, with some
bitterness.

  "I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you
know, fairly busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to
the composition of a textbook, which shall focus the whole art of
detection into one volume. Our present research appears to be a
case of murder."

  "You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?"

  "I should say so. Hopkins's writing shows considerable agita-
tion, and he is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there has
been violence, and that the body is left for our inspection. A
mere suicide would not have caused him to send for me. As to
the release of the lady, it would appear that she has been locked
in her room during the tragedy. We are moving in high life,
Watson, crackling paper, 'E. B.' monogram, coat-of-arms, pic-
turesque address. I think that friend Hopkins will live up to his
reputation, and that we shall have an interesting morning. The
crime was committed before twelve last night."

  "How can you possibly tell?"

  "By an inspection of the trains, and by reckoning the time.
The local police had to be called in, they had to communicate
with Scotland Yard, Hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to
send for me. All that makes a fair night's work. Well, here we
are at Chiselhurst Station, and we shall soon set our doubts at
rest. "

  A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes
brought us to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old
lodge-keeper, whose haggard face bore the reflection of some
great disaster. The avenue ran through a noble park, between
lines of ancient elms, and ended in a low, widespread house,
pillared in front after the fashion of Palladio. The central part
was evidently of a great age and shrouded in ivy, but the large
windows showed that modern changes had been carried out, and
one wing of the house appeared to be entirely new. The youthful
figure and alert, eager face of Inspector Stanley Hopkins con-
fronted us in the open doorway.

  "I'm very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes. And you, too,
Dr. Watson. But, indeed, if I had my time over again, I should
not have troubled you, for since the lady has come to herself,
she has given so clear an account of the affair that there is not
much left for us to do. You remember that Lewisham gang of
burglars?"

  "What, the three Randalls?"

  "Exactly; the father and two sons. It's their work. I have not a
doubt of it. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago and were
seen and described. Rather cool to do another so soon and so
near, but it is they, beyond all doubt. It's a hanging matter this
time."

  "Sir Eustace is dead, then?"

  "Yes, his head was knocked in with his own poker."

  "Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me."

  "Exactly -- one of the richest men in Kent -- Lady Brackenstall
is in the morning-room. Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful
experience. She seemed half dead when I saw her first. I think
you had best see her and hear her account of the facts. Then we
will examine the dining-room together."

  Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom have I
seen so graceful a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beauti-
ful a face. She was a blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and
would no doubt have had the perfect complexion which goes
with such colouring, had not her recent experience left her drawn
and haggard. Her sufferings were physical as well as mental, for
over one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling, which her
maid, a tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously with vine-
gar and water. The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch, but
her quick, observant gaze, as we entered the room, and the alert
expression of her beautiful features, showed that neither her wits
nor her courage had been shaken by her terrible experience. She
was enveloped in a loose dressing-gown of blue and silver, but a
black sequin-covered dinner-dress lay upon the couch beside her.

  "I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins," she said,
wearily. "Could you not repeat it for me? Well, if you think it
necessary, I will tell these gentlemen what occurTed. Have they
been in the dining-room yet?"

  "I thought they had better hear your ladyship's story first."

  "I shall be glad when you can arrange matters. It is horrible to
me to think of him still lying there." She shuddered and buried
her face in her hands. As she did so, the loose gown fell back
from her forearms. Holmes uttered an exclamation.

  "You have other injuries, madam! What is this?" Two vivid
red spots stood out on one of the white, round limbs. She hastily
covered it.

  "It is nothing. It has no connection with this hideous business
to-night. If you and your friend will sit down, I will tell you all I
can.

  "I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I have been
married about a year. I suppose that it is no use my attempting to
conceal that our marriage has not been a happy one. I fear that
all our neighbours would tell you that, even if I were to attempt
to deny it. Perhaps the fault may be partly mine. I was brought
up in the freer, less conventional atmosphere of South Australia,
and this English life, with its proprieties and its primness, is not
congenial to me. But the main reason lies in the one fact, which
is notorious to everyone, and that is that Sir Eustace was a
confirmed drunkard. To be with such a man for an hour is
unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means for a sensitive and
high-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and night? It is a
sacrilege, a crime, a villainy to hold that such a marriage is
binding. I say that these monstrous laws of yours will bring a
curse upon the land -- God will not let such wickedness endure."
For an instant she sat up, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes
blazing from under the terrible mark upon her brow. Then the
strong, soothing hand of the austere maid drew her head down
on to the cushion, and the wild anger died away into passionate
sobbing. At last she continued:

  "I will tell you about last night. You are aware, perhaps, that
in this house all the servants sleep in the modern wing. This
central block is made up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen
behind and our bedroom above. My maid, Theresa, sleeps above
my room. There is no one else, and no sound could alarm those
who are in the farther wing. This must have been well known to
the robbers, or they would not have acted as they did.

  "Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten. The servants had
already gone to their quarters. Only my maid was up, and she
had remained in her room at the top of the house until I needed
her services. I sat until after eleven in this room, absorbed in a
book. Then I walked round to see that all was right before I went
upstairs. It was my custom to do this myself, for, as I have
explained, Sir Eustace was not always to be trusted. I went into
the kitchen, the butler's pantry, the gun-room, the billiard-room,
the drawing-room, and finally the dining-room. As I approached the
window, which is covered with thick curtains, I suddenly felt
the wind blow upon my face and realized that it was open. I
flung the curtain aside and found myself face to face with a
broad-shouldered elderly man, who had just stepped into the
room. The window is a long French one, which really forms a
door leading to the lawn. I held my bedroom candle lit in my
hand, and, by its light, behind the first man I saw two others,
who were in the act of entering. I stepped back, but the fellow
was on me in an instant. He caught me first by the wrist and then
by the throat. I opened my mouth to scream, but he struck me a
savage blow with his fist over the eye, and felled me to the
ground. I must have been unconscious for a few minutes, for
when I came to myself, I found that they had torn down the
bell-rope, and had secured me tightly to the oaken chair which
stands at the head of the dining-table. I was so firmly bound that
I could not move, and a handkerchief round my mouth prevented
me from uttering a sound. It was at this instant that my unfortu-
nate husband entered the room. He had evidently heard some
suspicious sounds, and he came prepared for such a scene as he
found. He was dressed in nightshirt and trousers, with his fa-
vourite blackthorn cudgel in his hand. He rushed at the burglars,
but another -- it was an elderly man -- stooped, picked the poker
out of the grate and struck him a horrible blow as he passed. He
fell with a groan and never moved again. I fainted once more,
but again it could only have been for a very few minutes during
which I was insensible. When I opened my eyes I found that
they had collected the silver from the sideboard, and they had
drawn a bottle of wine which stood there. Each of them had a
glass in his hand. I have already told you, have I not, that one
was elderly, with a beard, and the others young, hairless lads.
They might have been a father with his two sons. They talked
together in whispers. Then they came over and made sure that I
was securely bound. Finally they withdrew, closing the window
after them. It was quite a quarter of an hour before I got my
mouth free. When I did so, my sceams brought the maid to my
assistance. The other servants were soon alarmed, and we sent
for the local police, who instantly communicated with London.
That is really all that I can tell you, gentlemen, and I trust that it
will not be necessary for me to go over so painful a story
again."

  "Any questions, Mr. Holmes?" asked Hopkins.

  "I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall's
patience and time," said Holmes. "Before I go into the dining-
room, I should like to hear your experience." He looked at the
maid.

  "I saw the men before ever they came into the house," said
she. "As I sat by my bedroom window I saw three men in the
moonlight down by the lodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing
of it at the time. It was more than an hour after that I heard my
mistress scream and down I ran, to find her, poor lamb, just as
she says, and him on the floor, with his blood and brains over
the room. It was enough to drive a woman out of her wits, tied
there, and her very dress spotted with him, but she never wanted
courage, did Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide, and Lady Brack-
enstall of Abbey Grange hasn't learned new ways. You've ques-
tioned her long enough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming
to her own room, just with her old Theresa, to get the rest that
she badly needs."

  With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm
round her mistress and led her from the room.

  "She has been with her all her life," said Hopkins. "Nursed
her as a baby, and came with her to England when they first left
Australia, eighteen months ago. Theresa Wright is her name, and
the kind of maid you don't pick up nowadays. This way, Mr.
Holmes, if you please!"

  The keen interest had passed out of Holmes's expressive face,
and I knew that with the mystery all the charm of the case had
departed. There still remained an arrest to be effected, but what
were these commonplace rogues that he should soil his hands
with them? An abstruse and learned specialist who finds that he
has been called in for a case of measles would experience
something of the annoyance which I read in my friend's eyes.
Yet the scene in the dining-room of the Abbey Grange was
sufficiently strange to arrest his attention and to recall his waning
interest.

  It was a very large and high chamber, with carved oak ceiling,
oaken panelling, and a fine array of deer's heads and ancient
weapons around the walls. At the further end from the door was
the high French window of which we had heard. Three smaller
windows on the right-hand side filled the apartment with cold
winter sunshine. On the left was a large, deep fireplace, with a
massive, overhanging oak mantelpiece. Beside the fireplace was
a heavy oaken chair with arms and crossbars at the bottom. In
and out through the open woodwork was woven a crimson cord
which was secured at each side to the crosspiece below. In
releasing the lady, the cord had been slipped off her, but the
knots with which it had been secured still remained. These
details only struck our attention afterwards, for our thoughts
were entirely absorbed by the terrible object which lay upon the
tigerskin hearthrug in front of the fire.

  It was the body of a tall, well-made man, about forty years of
age. He lay upon his back, his face upturned, with his white
teeth grinning through his short, black beard. His two clenched
hands were raised above his head, and a heavy, blackthorn stick
lay across them. His dark, handsome, aquiline features were
convulsed into a spasm of vindictive hatred, which had set his
dead face in a terribly fiendish expression. He had evidently
been in his bed when the alarm had broken out, for he wore a
foppish, embroidered nightshirt, and his bare feet projected from
his trousers. His head was horribly injured, and the whole room
bore witness to the savage ferocity of the blow which had struck
him down. Beside him lay the heavy poker, bent into a curve by
the concussion. Holmes examined both it and the indescribable
wreck which it had wrought.

  "He must be a powerful man, this elder Randall," he remarked.

  "Yes," said Hopkins. "I have some record of the fellow, and
he is a rough customer."

  "You should have no difficulty in getting him."

  "Not the slightest. We have been on the look-out for him, and
there was some idea that he had got away to America. Now that
we know that the gang are here, I don't see how they can escape.
We have the news at every seaport already, and a reward will be
offered before evening. What beats me is how they could have
done so mad a thing, knowing that the lady could describe them
and that we could not fail to recognize the description."

  "Exactly. One would have expected that they would silence
Lady Brackenstall as well."

  "They may not have realized," I suggested, "that she had
recovered from her faint."

  "That is likely enough. If she seemed to be senseless, they
would not take her life. What about this poor fellow, Hopkins? I
seem to have heard some queer stories about him."

  " He was a good-hearted man when he was sober, but a
perfect fiend when he was drunk, or rather when he was half
drunk, for he seldom really went the whole way. The devil
seemed to be in him at such times, and he was capable of
anything. From what I hear, in spite of all his wealth and his
title, he very nearly came our way once or twice. There was a
scandal about his drenching a dog with petroleum and setting it
on fire -- her ladyship's dog, to make the matter worse -- and that
was only hushed up with difficulty. Then he threw a decanter at
that maid, Theresa Wright -- there was trouble about that. On the
whole, and between ourselves, it will be a brighter house without
him. What are you looking at now?"

  Holmes was down on his knees, examining with great atten-
tion the knots upon the red cord with which the lady had been
secured. Then he carefully scrutinized the broken and frayed end
where it had snapped off when the burglar had dragged it down.

  "When this was pulled down, the bell in the kitchen must
have rung loudly," he remarked.

  "No one could hear it. The kitchen stands right at the back of
the house."

  "How did the burglar know no one would hear it? How dared
he pull at a bellrope in that reckless fashion?"

  "Exactly, Mr. Holmes, exactly. You put the very question
which I have asked myself again and again. There can be no
doubt that this fellow must have known the house and its habits.
He must have perfectly understood that the servants would all be
in bed at that comparatively early hour, and that no one could
possibly hear a bell ring in the kitchen. Therefore, he must have
been in close league with one of the servants. Surely that is
evident. But there are eight servants, and all of good character."

  "Other things being equal," said Holmes, "one would sus-
pect the one at whose head the master threw a decanter. And yet
that would involve treachery towards the mistress to whom this
woman seems devoted. Well, well, the point is a minor one, and
when you have Randall you will probably find no difficulty in
securing his accomplice. The lady's story certainly seems to be
corroborated, if it needed corroboration, by every detail which
we see before us." He walked to the French window and threw
it open. "There are no signs here, but the ground is iron hard,
and one would not expect them. I see that these candles in the
mantelpiece have been lighted."

  "Yes, it was by their light, and that of the lady's bedroom
candle, that the burglars saw their way about."

  "And what did they take?"

  "Well, they did not take much -- only half a dozen articles of
plate off the sideboard. Lady Brackenstall thinks that they were
themselves so disturbed by the death of Sir Eustace that they did
not ransack the house, as they would otherwise have done."

  "No doubt that is true, and yet they drank some wine, I
understand."

  "To steady their nerves."

  "Exactly. These three glasses upon the sideboard have been
untouched, I suppose?"

  "Yes, and the bottle stands as they left it."

  "Let us look at it. Halloa, halloa! What is this?"

  The three glasses were grouped together, all of them tinged
with wine, and one of them containing some dregs of beeswing.
The bottle stood near them, two-thirds full, and beside it lay a
long, deeply stained cork. Its appearance and the dust upon the
bottle showed that it was no common vintage which the murder-
ers had enjoyed.

  A change had come over Holmes's manner. He had lost his
listless expression, and again I saw an alert light of interest in
his keen, deep-set eyes. He raised the cork and examined it
minutely.

  "How did they draw it?" he asked.

  Hopkins pointed to a half-opened drawer. In it lay some table
linen and a large corkscrew.

  "Did Lady Brackenstall say that screw was used?"

  "No, you remember that she was senseless at the moment
when the bottle was opened."

  "Quite so. As a matter of fact, that screw was not used. This
bottle was opened by a pocket screw, probably contained in a
knife, and not more than an inch and a half long. If you will
examine the top of the cork, you will observe that the screw was
driven in three times before the cork was extracted. It has never
been transfixed. This long screw would have transfixed it and
drawn it up with a single pull. When you catch this fellow, you
will find that he has one of these multiplex knives in his
possession."

  "Excellent!" said Hopkins.

  "But these glasses do puzzle me, I confess. Lady Brackenstall
actually saw the three men drinking, did she not?"

  "Yes; she was clear about that."

  "Then there is an end of it. What more is to be said? And yet,
you must admlt, that the three glasses are very remarkable,
Hopkins. What? You see nothing remarkable? Well, well, let it
pass. Perhaps, when a man has special knowledge and special
powers like my own, it rather encourages him to seek a complex
explanation when a simpler one is at hand. Of course, it must be
a mere chance about the glasses. Well, good-morning, Hopkins.
I don't see that I can be of any use to you, and you appear to
have your case very clear. You will let me know when Randall is
arrested, and any further developments which may occur. I trust
that I shall soon have to congratulate you upon a successful
conclusion. Come, Watson, I fancy that we may employ our-
selves more profitably at home."

  During our return journey, I could see by Holmes's face that
he was much puzzled by something which he had observed.
Every now and then, by an effort, he would throw off the
impression, and talk as if the matter were clear, but then his
doubts would settle down upon him again, and his knitted brows
and abstracted eyes would show that his thoughts had gone back
once more to the great dining-room of the Abbey Grange, in
which this midnight tragedy had been enacted. At last, by a
sudden impulse, just as our train was crawling out of a suburban
station, he sprang on to the platform and pulled me out after
him.

  "Excuse me, my dear fellow," said he, as we watched the
rear carriages of our train disappearing round a curve, "I am
sorry to make you the victim of what may seem a mere whim,
but on my life, Watson, I simply can't leave that case in this
condition. Every instinct that I possess cries out against it. It's
wrong -- it's all wrong -- I'll swear that it's wrong. And yet the
lady's story was complete, the maid's corroboration was suffi-
cient, the detail was fairly exact. What have I to put up against
that? Three wine-glasses, that is all. But if I had not taken things
for granted, if I had examined everything with care which I
should have shown had we approached the case de novo and had
no cut-and-dried story to warp my mind, should I not then have
found something more definite to go upon? Of course I should.
Sit down on this bench, Watson, until a train for Chiselhurst
arrives, and allow me to lay the evidence before you, imploring
you in the first instance to dismiss from your mind the idea that
anything which the maid or her mistress may have said must
necessarily be true. The lady's charming personality must not be
permitted to warp our judgment.

   "Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at
in cold blood, would excite our suspicion. These burglars made a
considerable haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago. Some account of
them and of their appearance was in the papers, and would
naturally occur to anyone who wished to invent a story in which
imaginary robbers should play a part. As a matter of fact,
burglars who have done a good stroke of business are as a rule
only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet without
embarking on another perilous undertaking. Again, it is unusual
for burglars to operate at so early an hour, it is unusual for
burglars to strike a lady to prevent her screaming, since one
would imagine that was the sure way to make her scream, it is
unusual for them to commit murder when their numbers are
sufficient to overpower one man, it is unusual for them to be
content with a limited plunder when there was much more within
their reach, and finally, I should say, that it was very unusual for
such men to leave a bottle half empty. How do all these unusuals
strike you, Watson?"

  "Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet
each of them is quite possible in itself. The most unusual thing
of all, as it seems to me, is that the lady should be tied to the
chair. "

  "Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson, for it is evident
that they must either kill her or else secure her in such a way that
she could not give immediate notice of their escape. But at any
rate I have shown, have I not, that there is a certain element of
improbability about the lady's story? And now, on the top of
this, comes the incident of the wineglasses."

  "What about the wineglasses?"

  "Can you see them in your mind's eye?"

  "I see them clearly."

  "We are told that three men drank from them. Does that strike
you as likely?"

  "Why not? There was wine in each glass."

  "Exactly, but there was beeswing only in one glass. You must
have noticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind?"

  "The last glass filled would be most likely to contain beeswing."

  "Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable
that the first two glasses were clear and the third heavily charged
with it. There are two possible explanations, and only two. One
is that after the second glass was filled the bottle was violently
agitated, and so the third glass received the beeswing. That does
not appear probable. No, no, I am sure that I am right."

  "What, then, do you suppose?"

  "That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both
were poured into a third glass, so as to give the false impression
that three people had been here. In that way all the beeswing
would be in the last glass, would it not? Yes, I am convinced
that this is so. But if I have hit upon the true explanation of this
one small phenomenon, then in an instant the case rises from the
commonplace to the exceedingly remarkable, for it can only
mean that Lady Brackenstall and her maid have deliberately lied
to us, that not one word of their story is to be believed, that they
have some very strong reason for covering the real criminal, and
that we must construct our case for ourselves without any help
from them. That is the mission which now lies before us, and
here, Watson, is the Sydenham train."

  The household at the Abbey Grange were much surprised at
our return, but Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins
had gone off to report to headquarters, took possession of the
dining-room, locked the door upon the inside, and devoted him-
self for two hours to one of those minute and laborious investiga-
tions which form the solid basis on which his brilliant edifices of
deduction were reared. Seated in a corner like an interested
student who observes the demonstration of his professor, I fol-
lowed every step of that remarkable research. The window, the
curtains, the carpet, the chair, the rope -- each in turn was mi-
nutely examined and duly pondered. The body of the unfortunate
baronet had been removed, and all else remained as we had seen
it in the morning. Finally, to my astonishment, Holmes climbed
up on to the massive mantelpiece. Far above his head hung the
few inches of red cord which were still attached to the wire. For
a long time he gazed upward at it, and then in an attempt to get
nearer to it he rested his knee upon a wooden bracket on the
wall. This brought his hand within a few inches of the broken
end of the rope, but it was not this so much as the bracket itself
which seemed to engage his attention. Finally, he sprang down
with an ejaculation of satisfaction.

  "It's all right, Watson," said he. "We have got our case --
one of the most remarkable in our collection. But, dear me, how
slow-witted I have been, and how nearly I have committed the
blunder of my lifetime! Now, I think that, with a few missing
links, my chain is almost complete."

  "You have got your men?"

  "Man, Watson, man. Only one, but a very formidable person.
Strong as a lion -- witness the blow that bent that poker! Six foot
three in height, active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers,
finally, remarkably quick-witted, for this whole ingenious story
is of his concoction. Yes, Watson, we have come upon the
handiwork of a very remarkable individual. And yet, in that
bell-rope, he has given us a clue which should not have left us a
doubt. "

  "Where was the clue?"

  "Well, if you were to pull down a bell-rope, Watson, where
would you expect it to break? Surely at the spot where it is
attached to the wire. Why should it break three inches from the
top, as this one has done?"

  "Because it is frayed there?"

  "Exactly. This end, which we can examine, is frayed. He was
cunning enough to do that with his knife. But the other end is not
frayed. You could not observe that from here, but if you were on
the mantelpiece you would see that it is cut clean off without any
mark of fraying whatever. You can reconstruct what occurred.
The man needed the rope. He would not tear it down for fear of
giving the alarm by ringing the bell. What did he do? He sprang
up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reach it, put his knee on
the bracket -- you will see the impression in the dust -- and so got
his knife to bear upon the cord. I could not reach the place by at
least three inches -- from which I infer that he is at least three
inches a bigger man than I. Look at that mark upon the seat of
the oaken chair! What is it?"

  "Blood."

  "Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts the lady's story out
of court. If she were seated on the chair when the crime was
done, how comes that mark? No, no, she was placed in the chair
after the death of her husband. I'll wager that the black dress
shows a corresponding mark to this. We have not yet met our
Waterloo, Watson, but this is our Marengo, for it begins in
defeat and ends in victory. I should like now to have a few
words with the nurse, Theresa. We must be wary for a while, if
we are to get the information which we want."

  She was an interesting person, this stern Australian nurse --
taciturn, suspicious, ungracious, it took some time before Holmes's
pleasant manner and frank acceptance of all that she said thawed
her into a corresponding amiability. She did not attempt to
conceal her hatred for her late employer.

  "Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard
him call my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not
dare to speak so if her brother had been there. Then it was that
he threw it at me. He might have thrown a dozen if he had but
left my bonny bird alone. He was forever ill-treating her, and she
too proud to complain. She will not even tell me all that he has
done to her. She never told me of those marks on her arm that
you saw this morning, but I know very well that they come from
a stab with a hatpin. The sly devil -- God forgive me that I should
speak of him so, now that he is dead! But a devil he was, if ever
one walked the earth. He was all honey when first we met
him -- only eighteen months ago, and we both feel as if it were
eighteen years. She had only just arrived in London. Yes, it was
her first voyage -- she had never been from home before. He won
her with his title and his money and his false London ways. If
she made a mistake she has paid for it, if ever a woman did.
What month did we meet him? Well, I tell you it was just after
we arrived. We arrived in June, and it was July. They were
married in January of last year. Yes, she is down in the morning-
room again, and I have no doubt she will see you, but you must
not ask too much of her, for she has gone through all that flesh
and blood will stand."

  Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked
brighter than before. The maid had entered with us, and began
once more to foment the bruise upon her mistress's brow.

  "I hope," said the lady, "that you have not come to cross-
examine me again?"

  "No," Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice, "I will not
cause you any unnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my
whole desire is to make things easy for you, for I am convinced
that you are a much-tried woman. If you will treat me as a friend
and trust me, you may find that I will justify your trust."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "To tell me the truth."

  "Mr. Holmes!"

  "No, no, Lady Brackenstall -- it is no use. You may have
heard of any little reputation which I possess. I will stake it all
on the fact that your story is an absolute fabrication."

  Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces
and frightened eyes.

  "You are an impudent fellow!" cried Theresa. "Do you mean
to say that my mistress has told a lie?"

  Holmes rose from his chair.

  "Have you nothing to tell me?"

  "I have told you everything."

  "Think once more, Lady Brackenstall. Would it not be better
to be frank?"

  For an instant there was hesitation in her beautiful face. Then
some new strong thought caused it to set like a mask.

  "I have told you all I know."

  Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. "I am sorry,"
he said, and without another word we left the room and the
house. There was a pond in the park, and to this my friend led
the way. It was frozen over, but a single hole was left for the
convenience of a solitary swan. Holmes gazed at it, and then
passed on to the lodge gate. There he scribbled a short note for
Stanley Hopkins, and left it with the lodge-keeper.

  "It may be a hit, or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do
something for friend Hopkins, just to justify this second visit,"
said he. "I will not quite take him into my confidence yet. I
think our next scene of operations must be the shipping office of
the Adelaide-Southampton line, which stands at the end of Pall
Mall, if I remember right. There is a second line of steamers
which connect South Australia with England, but we will draw
the larger cover first."

  Holmes's card sent in to the manager ensured instant attention,
and he was not long in acquiring all the information he needed.
In June of '95, only one of their line had reached a home port. It
was the Rock of Gibraltar, their largest and best boat. A refer-
ence to the passenger list showed that Miss Fraser, of Adelaide,
with her maid had made the voyage in her. The boat was now
somewhere south of the Suez Canal on her way to Australia. Her
officers were the same as in '95, with one exception. The first
officer, Mr. Jack Crocker, had been made a captain and was to
take charge of their new ship, the Bass Rock, sailing in two
days' time from Southampton. He lived at Sydenham, but he
was likely to be in that morning for instructions, if we cared to
wait for him.

  No, Mr. Holmes had no desire to see him, but would be glad
to know more about his record and character.

  His record was magnificent. There was not an officer in the
fleet to touch him. As to his character, he was reliable on duty
but a wild, desperate fellow off the deck of his ship -- hot-
headed, excitable, but loyal, honest, and kind-hearted. That was
the pith of the information with which Holmes left the office of
the Adelaide-Southampton company. Thence he drove to Scot-
land Yard, but, instead of entering, he sat in his cab with his
brows drawn down, lost in profound thought. Finally he drove
round to the Charing Cross telegraph office, sent off a message,
and then, at last, we made for Baker Street once more.

  "No, I couldn't do it, Watson," said he, as we reentered our
room. "Once that warrant was made out, nothing on earth would
save him. Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done
more real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had
done by his crime. I have learned caution now, and I had rather
play tricks with the law of England than with my own con-
science. Let us know a little more before we act."

  Before evening, we had a visit from Inspector Stanley Hop-
kins. Things were not going very well with him.

  "I believe that you are a wizard, Mr. Holmes. I really do
sometimes think that you have powers that are not human. Now,
how on earth could you know that the stolen silver was at the
bottom of that pond?"

  "I didn't know it."

  "But you told me to examine it."

  "You got it, then?"

  "Yes, I got it."

  "I am very glad if I have helped you."

  "But you haven't helped me. You have made the affair far
more difficult. What sort of burglars are they who steal silver
and then throw it into the nearest pond?"

  "It was certainly rather eccentric behaviour. I was merely
going on the idea that if the silver had been taken by persons
who did not want it -- who merely took it for a blind, as it
were -- then they would naturally be anxious to get rid of it."

  "But why should such an idea cross your mind?"

  "Well, I thought it was possible. When they came out through
the French window, there was the pond with one tempting little
hole in the ice, right in front of their noses. Could there be a
better hiding-place?"

  "Ah, a hiding-place -- that is better!" cried Stanley Hopkins.
"Yes, yes, I see it all now! It was early, there were folk upon
the roads, they were afraid of being seen with the silver, so they
sank it in the pond, intending to return for it when the coast was
clear. Excellent, Mr. Holmes -- that is better than your idea of a
blind. "

  "Quite so, you have got an admirable theory. I have no doubt
that my own ideas were quite wild, but you must admit that they
have ended in discovering the silver."

  ''Yes, sir -- yes. It was all your doing. But I have had a bad
setback."

  "A setback?"

  "Yes, Mr. Holmes. The Randall gang were arrested in New
York this morning."

  "Dear me, Hopkins! That is certainly rather against your
theory that they committed a murder in Kent last night."

  "It is fatal, Mr. Holmes -- absolutely fatal. Still, there are
other gangs of three besides the Randalls, or it may be some new
gang of which the police have never heard."

  "Quite so, it is perfectly possible. What, are you off?"

  "Yes, Mr. Holmes, there is no rest for me until I have got to
the bottom of the business. I suppose you have no hint to give
me?"

  "I have given you one."

  "Which?"

  "Well, I suggested a blind."

  "But why, Mr. Holmes, why?"

  "Ah, that's the question, of course. But I commend the idea
to your mind. You might possibly find that there was something
in it. You won't stop for dinner? Well, good-bye, and let us
know how you get on."

  Dinner was over, and the table cleared before Holmes alluded
to the matter again. He had lit his pipe and held his slippered feet
to the cheerful blaze of the fire. Suddenly he looked at his
watch.

  "I expect developments, Watson."

  "When?' '

  "Now -- within a few minutes. I dare say you thought I acted
rather badly to Stanley Hopkins just now?"

  "I trust your judgment."

  "A very sensible reply, Watson. You must look at it this way:
what I know is unofficial, what he knows is official. I have the
right to private judgment, but he has none. He must disclose all,
or he is a traitor to his service. In a doubtful case I would not put
him in so painful a position, and so I reserve my information
until my own mind is clear upon the matter."

  "But when will that be?"

  "The time has come. You will now be present at the last
scene of a remarkable little drama."

  There was a sound upon the stairs, and our door was opened
to admit as fine a specimen of manhood as ever passed through
it. He was a very tall young man, golden-moustached, blue-
eyed, with a skin which had been burned by tropical suns, and a
springy step, which showed that the huge frame was as active as
it was strong. He closed the door behind him, and then he stood
with clenched hands and heaving breast, choking down some
overmastering emotion.

  "Sit down, Captain Crocker. You got my telegram?"

  Our visitor sank into an armchair and looked from one to the
other of us with questioning eyes.

  "I got yow telegram, and I came at the hour you said. I heard
that you had been down to the office. There was no getting away
from you. Let's hear the worst. What are you going to do with
me? Arrest me? Speak out, man! You can't sit there and play
with me like a cat with a mouse."

  "Give him a cigar," said Holmes. "Bite on that, Captain
Crocker, and don't let your nerves run away with you. I should
not sit here smoking with you if I thought that you were a
common criminal, you may be sure of that. Be frank with me
and we may do some good. Play tricks with me, and I'll crush
you."

  "What do you wish me to do?"

  "To give me a true account of all that happened at the Abbey
Grange last night -- a true account, mind you, with nothing added
and nothing taken off. I know so much already that if you go one
inch off the straight, I'll blow this police whistle from my
window and the affair goes out of my hands forever."

  The sailor thought for a little. Then he struck his leg with his
great sunburned hand.

  "I'll chance it," he cried. "I believe you are a man of your
word, and a white man, and I'll tell you the whole story. But one
thing I will say first. So far as I am concerned, I regret nothing
and I fear nothing, and I would do it all again and be proud of
the job. Damn the beast, if he had as many lives as a cat, he
would owe them all to me! But it's the lady, Mary -- Mary
Fraser -- for never will I call her by that accursed name. When I
think of getting her into trouble, I who would give my life just to
bring one smile to her dear face, it's that that turns my soul into
water. And yet -- and yet -- what less could I do? I'll tell you my
story, gentlemen, and then I'll ask you, as man to man, what
less could I do?

  "I must go back a bit. You seem to know everything, so I
expect that you know that I met her when she was a passenger
and I was first officer of the Rock of Gibraltar. From the first
day I met her, she was the only woman to me. Every day of that
voyage I loved her more, and many a time since have I kneeled
down in the darkness of the night watch and kissed the deck of
that ship because I knew her dear feet had trod it. She was never
engaged to me. She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated
a man. I have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side,
and all good comradeship and friendship on hers. When we
parted she was a free woman, but I could never again be a free
man.

  "Next time I came back from sea, I heard of her marriage.
Well, why shouldn't she marry whom she liked? Title and
money -- who could carry them better than she? She was born for
all that is beautiful and dainty. I didn't grieve over her marriage.
I was not such a selfish hound as that. I just rejoiced that good
luck had come her way, and that she had not thrown herself
away on a penniless sailor. That's how I loved Mary Fraser.

  "Well, I never thought to see her again, but last voyage I was
promoted, and the new boat was not yet launched, so I had to
wait for a couple of months with my people at Sydenham. One
day out in a country lane I met Theresa Wright, her old maid.
She told me all about her, about him, about everything. I tell
you, gentlemen, it nearly drove me mad. This drunken hound,
that he should dare to raise his hand to her, whose boots he was
not worthy to lick! I met Theresa again. Then I met Mary
herself -- and met her again. Then she would meet me no more.
But the other day I had a notice that I was to start on my voyage
within a week, and I determined that I would see her once before
I left. Theresa was always my friend, for she loved Mary and
hated this villain almost as much as I did. From her I learned the
ways of the house. Mary used to sit up reading in her own little
room downstairs. I crept round there last night and scratched at
the window. At first she would not open to me, but in her heart I
know that now she loves me, and she could not leave me in the
frosty night. She whispered to me to come round to the big front
window, and I found it open before me, so as to let me into the
dining-room. Again I heard from her own lips things that made
my blood boil, and again I cursed this brute who mishandled the
woman I loved. Well, gentlemen, I was standing with her just
inside the window, in all innocence, as God is my judge, when
he rushed like a madman into the room, called her the vilest
name that a man could use to a woman, and welted her across
the face with the stick he had in his hand. I had sprung for the
poker, and it was a fair fight between us. See here, on my arm,
where his first blow fell. Then it was my turn, and I went
through him as if he had been a rotten pumpkin. Do you think I
was sorry? Not I! It was his life or mine, but far more than that,
it was his life or hers, for how could I leave her in the power of
this madman? That was how I killed him. Was I wrong? Well,
then, what would either of you gentlemen have done, if you had
been in my position?"

  "She had screamed when he struck her, and that brought old
Theresa down from the room above. There was a bottle of wine
on the sideboard, and I opened it and poured a little between
Mary's lips, for she was half dead with shock. Then I took a
drop myself. Theresa was as cool as ice, and it was her plot as
much as mine. We must make it appear that burglars had done
the thing. Theresa kept on repeating our story to her mistress,
while I swarmed up and cut the rope of the bell. Then I lashed
her in her chair, and frayed out the end of the rope to make it
look natural, else they would wonder how in the world a burglar
could have got up there to cut it. Then I gathered up a few plates
and pots of silver, to carry out the idea of the robbery, and there
I left them, with orders to give the alarm when I had a quarter of
an hour's start. I dropped the silver into the pond, and made off
for Sydenham, feeling that for once in my life I had done a real
good night's work. And that's the truth and the whole truth, Mr.
Holmes, if it costs me my neck."

  Holmes smoked for some time in silence. Then he crossed the
room, and shook our visitor by the hand.

  "That's what I think," said he. "I know that every word is
true, for you have hardly said a word which I did not know. No
one but an acrobat or a sailor could have got up to that bell-rope
from the bracket, and no one but a sailor could have made the
knots with which the cord was fastened to the chair. Only once
had this lady been brought into contact with sailors, and that was
on her voyage, and it was someone of her own class of life,
since she was trying hard to shield him, and so showing that she
loved him. You see how easy it was for me to lay my hands
upon you when once I had started upon the right trail."

  "I thought the police never could have seen through our
dodge."

  "And the police haven't, nor will they, to the best of my
belief. Now, look here, Captain Crocker, this is a very serious
matter, though I am willing to admit that you acted under the
most extreme provocation to which any man could be subjected.
I am not sure that in defence of your own life your action will
not be pronounced legitimate. However, that is for a British jury
to decide. Meanwhile I have so much sympathy for you that, if
you choose to disappear in the next twenty-four hours, I will
promise you that no one will hinder you."

  "And then it will all come out?"

  "Certainly it will come out."

  The sailor flushed with anger.

  "What sort of proposal is that to make a man? I know enough
of law to understand that Mary would be held as accomplice. Do
you think I would leave her alone to face the music while I slunk
away? No, sir, let them do their worst upon me, but for heaven's
sake, Mr. Holmes, find some way of keeping my poor Mary out
of the courts. "

  Holmes for a second time held out his hand to the sailor.

  "I was only testing you, and you ring true every time. Well, it
is a great responsibility that I take upon myself, but I have given
Hopkins an excellent hint, and if he can't avail himself of it I can
do no more. See here, Captain Crocker, we'll do this in due
form of law. You are the prisoner. Watson, you are a British
jury, and I never met a man who was more eminently fitted to
represent one. I am the judge. Now, gentleman of the jury, you
have heard the evidence. Do you find the prisoner guilty or not
guilty?"

  "Not guilty, my lord," said I.

  "Vox populi, vox Dei. You are acquitted, Captain Crocker.
So long as the law does not find some other victim you are safe
from me. Come back to this lady in a year, and may her future
and yours justify us in the judgment which we have pronounced
this night!"

           The Adventure of the Second Stain

  I had intended "The Adventure of the Abbey Grange" to be the
last of those exploits of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, which
I should ever communicate to the public. This resolution of mine
was not due to any lack of material, since I have notes of many
hundreds of cases to which I have never alluded, nor was it
caused by any waning interest on the part of my readers in the
singular personality and unique methods of this remarkable man.
The real reason lay in the reluctance which Mr. Holmes has
shown to the continued publication of his experiences. So long
as he was in actual professional practice the records of his
successes were of some practical value to him, but since he has
definitely retired from London and betaken himself to study and
bee-farming on the Sussex Downs, notoriety has become hateful
to him, and he has peremptorily requested that his wishes in this
matter should be strictly observed. It was only upon my repre-
senting to him that I had given a promise that "The Adventure of
the Second Stain" should be published when the times were
ripe, and pointing out to him that it is only appropriate that this
long series of episodes should culminate in the most important
international case which he has ever been called upon to handle,
that I at last succeeded in obtaining his consent that a carefully
guarded account of the incident should at last be laid before the
public. If in telling the story I seem to be somewhat vague in
certain details, the public will readily understand that there is an
excellent reason for my reticence.

  It was, then, in a year, and even in a decade, that shall be
nameless, that upon one Tuesday morning in autumn we found
two visitors of European fame within the walls of our humble
room in Baker Street. The one, austere, high-nosed, eagle-eyed,
and dominant, was none other than the illustrious Lord Bellinger,
twice Premier of Britain. The other, dark, clear-cut, and elegant,
hardly yet of middle age, and endowed with every beauty of
body and of mind, was the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope,
Secretary for European Affairs, and the most rising statesman in
the country. They sat side by side upon our paper-littered settee,
and it was easy to see from their worn and anxious faces that it
was business of the most pressing importance which had brought
them. The Premier's thin, blue-veined hands were clasped tightly
over the ivory head of his umbrella, and his gaunt, ascetic face
looked gloomily from Holmes to me. The European Secretary
pulled nervously at his moustache and fidgeted with the seals of
his watch-chain.

  "When I discovered my loss, Mr. Holmes, which was at eight
o'clock this morning, I at once informed the Prime Minister. It
was at his suggestion that we have both come to you."

  "Have you informed the police?"

  "No, sir," said the Prime Minister, with the quick, decisive
manner for which he was famous. "We have not done so, nor is
it possible that we should do so. To inform the police must, in
the long run, mean to inform the public. This is what we
particularly desire to avoid."

  "And why. sir?"

  "Because the document in question is of such immense impor-
tance that its publication might very easily -- I might almost say
probably -- lead to European complications of the utmost mo-
ment. It is not too much to say that peace or war may hang upon
the issue. Unless its recovery can be attended with the utmost
secrecy, then it may as well not be recovered at all, for all that is
aimed at by those who have taken it is that its contents should be
generally known."

  "I understand. Now, Mr. Trelawney Hope, I should be much
obliged if you would tell me exactly the circumstances under
which this document disappeared."

  "That can be done in a very few words, Mr. Holmes. The
letter -- for it was a letter from a foreign potentate -- was received
six days ago. It was of such importance that I have never left it
in my safe, but I have taken it across each evening to my house
in Whitehall Terrace, and kept it in my bedroom in a locked
despatch-box. It was there last night. Of that I am certain. I
actually opened the box while I was dressing for dinner and saw
the document inside. This morning it was gone. The despatch-
box had stood beside the glass upon my dressing-table all night.
I am a light sleeper, and so is my wife. We are both prepared to
swear that no one could have entered the room during the night.
And yet I repeat that the paper is gone."

  "What time did you dine?"

  "Half-past seven."

  "How long was it before you went to bed?"

  "My wife had gone to the theatre. I waited up for her. It was
half-past eleven before we went to our room."

  "Then for four hours the despatch-box had lain unguarded?"

  "No one is ever permitted to enter that room save the house-
maid in the morning, and my valet, or my wife's maid, during
the rest of the day. They are both trusty servants who have been
with us for some time. Besides, neither of them could possibly
have known that there was anything more valuable than the
ordinary departmental papers in my despatch-box."

  "Who did know of the existence of that letter?"

  "No one in the house."

  "Surely your wife knew?"

  "No, sir. I had said nothing to my wife until I missed the
paper this morning."

  The Premier nodded approvingly.

  "I have long known, sir, how high is your sense of public
duty," said he. "I am convinced that in the case of a secret of
this importance it would rise superior to the most intimate do-
mestic ties."

  The European Secretary bowed.

  "You do me no more than justice, sir. Until this morning I
have never breathed one word to my wife upon this matter."

  "Could she have guessed?"

  "No, Mr. Holmes, she could not have guessed -- nor could
anyone have guessed."

  "Have you lost any documents before?"

  "No, sir."

  "Who is there in England who did know of the existence of
this letter?"

  "Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday,
but the pledge of secrecy which attends every Cabinet meeting
was increased by the solemn warning which was given by the
Prime Minister. Good heavens, to think that within a few hours I
should myself have lost it!" His handsome face was distorted
with a spasm of despair, and his hands tore at his hair. For a
moment we caught a glimpse of the natural man, impulsive,
ardent, keenly sensitive. The next the aristocratic mask was
replaced, and the gentle voice had returned. "Besides the mem-
bers of the Cabinet there are two, or possibly three, departmental
officials who know of the letter. No one else in England, Mr.
Holmes, I assure you."

  "But abroad?"

  "I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the man who
wrote it. I am well convinced that his Ministers -- that the usual
official channels have not been employed."

  Holmes considered for some little time.

  "Now, sir, I must ask you more particularly what this docu-
ment is, and why its disappearance should have such momentous
consequences?"

  The two statesmen exchanged a quick glance and the Pre-
mier's shaggy eyebrows gathered in a frown.

  "Mr. Holmes, the envelope is a long, thin one of pale blue
colour. There is a seal of red wax stamped with a crouching lion.
It is addressed in large, bold handwriting to --"

  "I fear, sir," said Holmes, "that, interesting and indeed
essential as these details are, my inquiries must go more to the
root of things. What was the letter?"

  "That is a State secret of the utmost importance, and I fear
that I cannot tell you, nor do I see that it is necessary. If by the
aid of the powers which you are said to possess you can find
such an envelope as I describe with its enclosure, you will have
deserved well of your country, and earned any reward which it
lies in our power to bestow."

  Sherlock Holmes rose with a smile.

  "You are two of the most busy men in the country," said he,
"and in my own small way I have also a good many calls upon
me. I regret exceedingly that I cannot help you in this matter,
and any continuation of this interview would be a waste of
time."

  The Premier sprang to his feet with that quick, fierce gleam of
his deep-set eyes before which a Cabinet has cowered. "I am not
accustomed, sir," he began, but mastered his anger and resumed
his seat. For a minute or more we all sat in silence. Then the old
statesman shrugged his shoulders.

  "We must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are
right, and it is unreasonable for us to expect you to act unless we
give you our entire confidence."

  "I agree with you," said the younger statesman.

  "Then I will tell you, relying entirely upon your honour and
that of your colleague, Dr. Watson. I may appeal to your patrio-
tism also, for I could not imagine a greater misfortune for the
country than that this affair should come out."

  "You may safely trust us."

  "The letter, then, is from a certain foreign potentate who has
been ruffled by some recent Colonial developments of this coun-
try. It has been written hurriedly and upon his own responsibility
entirely. Inquiries have shown that his Ministers know nothing of
the matter. At the same time it is couched in so unfortunate a
manner, and certain phrases in it are of so provocative a charac-
ter, that its publication would undoubtedly lead to a most danger-
ous state of feeling in this country. There would be such a
ferment, sir, that I do not hesitate to say that within a week of
the publication of that letter this country would be involved in a
great war."

  Holmes wrote a name upon a slip of paper and handed it to the
Premier.

  "Exactly. It was he. And it is this letter -- this letter which
may well mean the expenditure of a thousand millions and the
lives of a hundred thousand men -- which has become lost in this
unaccountable fashion."

  "Have you informed the sender?"

  "Yes, sir, a cipher telegram has been despatched."

  "Perhaps he desires the publication of the letter."

  "No, sir, we have strong reason to believe that he already
understands that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed
manner. It would be a greater blow to him and to his country
than to us if this letter were to come out."

  "If this is so, whose interest is it that the letter should come
out? Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?"

  "There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high
international politics. But if you consider the European situation
you will have no difficulty in perceiving the motive. The whole
of Europe is an armed camp. There is a double league which
makes a fair balance of military power. Great Britain holds the
scales. If Britain were driven into war with one confederacy, it
would assure the supremacy of the other confederacy, whether
they joined in the war or not. Do you follow?"

  "Very clearly. It is then the interest of the enemies of this
potentate to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a breach
between his country and ours?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the
hands of an enemy?"

  "To any of the great Chancelleries of Europe. It is probably
speeding on its way thither at the present instant as fast as steam
can take it."

  Mr. Trelawney Hope dropped his head on his chest and groaned
aloud. The Premier placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder.

  "It is your misfortune, my dear fellow. No one can blame
you. There is no precaution which you have neglected. Now,
Mr. Holmes, you are in full possession of the facts. What course
do you recommend?"

  Holmes shook his head mournfully.

  "You think, sir, that unless this document is recovered there
will be war?"

  "I think it is very probable."

  "Then, sir, prepare for war."

  "That is a hard saying, Mr. Holmes."

  "Consider the facts, sir. It is inconceivable that it was taken
after eleven-thirty at night, since I understand that Mr. Hope and
his wife were both in the room from that hour until the loss was
found out. It was taken, then, yesterday evening between seven-
thirty and eleven-thirty, probably near the earlier hour, since
whoever took it evidently knew that it was there and would
naturally secure it as early as possible. Now, sir, if a document
of this importance were taken at that hour, where can it be now?
No one has any reason to retain it. It has been passed rapidly on
to those who need it. What chance have we now to overtake or
even to trace it? It is beyond our reach."

  The Prime Minister rose from the settee.

  "What you say is perfectly logical, Mr. Holmes. I feel that
the matter is indeed out of our hands."

  "Let us presume, for argument's sake, that the document was
taken by the maid or by the valet --"

  "They are both old and tried servants."

  "I understand you to say that your room is on the second
floor, that there is no entrance from without, and that from
within no one could go up unobserved. It must, then, be some-
body in the house who has taken it. To whom would the thief
take it? To one of several international spies and secret agents
whose names are tolerably familiar to me. There are three who
may be said to be the heads of their profession. I will begin my
research by going round and finding if each of them is at his
post. If one is missing -- especially if he has disappeared since
last night -- we will have some indication as to where the docu-
ment has gone."

  "Why should he be missing?" asked the European Secretary.
"He would take the letter to an Embassy in London, as likely as
not."

  "I fancy not. These agents work independently, and their
relations with the Embassies are often strained."

  The Prime Minister nodded his acquiescence.

  "I believe you are right, Mr. Holmes. He would take so
valuable a prize to headquarters with his own hands. I think that
your course of action is an excellent one. Meanwhile, Hope, we
cannot neglect all our other duties on account of this one misfor-
tune. Should there be any fresh developments during the day we
shall communicate with you, and you will no doubt let us know
the results of your own inquiries."

  The two statesmen bowed and walked gravely from the room.

  When our illustrious visitors had departed Holmes lit his pipe
in silence and sat for some time lost in the deepest thought. I had
opened the morning paper and was immersed in a sensational
crime which had occurred in London the night before, when my
friend gave an exclamation, sprang to his feet, and laid his pipe
down upon the mantelpiece.

  "Yes," said he, "there is no better way of approaching it.
The situation is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we
could be sure which of them has taken it, it is just possible that it
has not yet passed out of his hands. After all, it is a question of
money with these fellows, and I have the British treasury behind
me. If it's on the market I'll buy it -- if it means another penny
on the income-tax. It is conceivable that the fellow might hold it
back to see what bids come from this side before he tries his luck
on the other. There are only those three capable of playing so
bold a game -- there are Oberstein, La Rothiere, and Eduardo
Lucas. I will see each of them."

  I glanced at my morning paper.

  "Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?"

  "Yes."

  "You will not see him."

  "Why not?"

  "He was murdered in his house last night."

  My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our
adventures that it was with a sense of exultation that I realized
how completely I had astonished him. He stared in amazement,
and then snatched the paper from my hands. This was the
paragraph which I had been engaged in reading when he rose
from his chair.

                MURDER IN WESTMINSTER

       A crime of mysterious character was committed last night

     at 16 Godolphin Street, one of the old-fashioned and se-

     cluded rows of eighteenth century houses which lie between

     the river and the Abbey, almost in the shadow of the great

     Tower of the Houses of Parliament. This small but select

     mansion has been inhabited for some years by Mr. Eduardo

     Lucas, well known in society circles both on account of his

     charming personality and because he has the well-deserved

     reputation of being one of the best amateur tenors in the

     country. Mr. Lucas is an unmarried man, thirty-four years

     of age, and his establishment consists of Mrs. Pringle, an

     elderly housekeeper, and of Mitton, his valet. The former

     retires early and sleeps at the top of the house. The valet

     was out for the evening, visiting a friend at Hammersmith.

     From ten o'clock onward Mr. Lucas had the house to

     himself. What occured during that time has not yet tran-

     spired, but at a quarter to twelve Police-constable Barrett,

     passing along Godolphin Street, observed that the door of

     No. 16 was ajar. He knocked, but received no answer.

     Perceiving a light in the front room, he advanced into the

     passage and again knocked, but without reply. He then

     pushed open the door and entered. The room was in a state

     of wild disorder, the furniture being all swept to one side,

     and one chair lying on its back in the centre. Beside this

     chair, and still grasping one of its legs, lay the unfortunate

     tenant of the house. He had been stabbed to the heart and

     must have died instantly. The knife with which the crime

     had been committed was a curved Indian dagger, plucked

     down from a trophy of Oriental arms which adorned one of

     the walls. Robbery does not appear to have been the motive

     of the crime, for there had been no attempt to remove the

     valuable contents of the room. Mr. Eduardo Lucas was so

     well known and popular that his violent and mysterious fate

     will arouse painful interest and intense sympathy in a wide-

     spread circle of friends.

  "Well, Watson, what do you make of this?" asked Holmes,
after a long pause.

  "It is an amazing coincidence."

  "A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had
named as possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent
death during the very hours when we know that that drama was
being enacted. The odds are enormous against its being coinci-
dence. No figures could express them. No, my dear Watson, the
two events are connected -- must be connected. It is for us to find
the connection."

  "But now the official police must know all."

  "Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. They
know -- and shall know -- nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only we
know of both events, and can trace the relation between them.
There is one obvious point which would, in any case, have
turned my suspicions against Lucas. Godolphin Street, Westmin-
ster, is only a few minutes' walk from Whitehall Terrace. The
other secret agents whom I have named live in the extreme West
End. It was easier, therefore, for Lucas than for the others to
establish a connection or receive a message from the European
Secretary's household -- a small thing, and yet where events are
compressed into a few hours it may prove essential. Halloa! what
have we here?"

  Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady's card upon her salver.
Holmes glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it over to
me.

  "Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough
to step up," said he.

  A moment later our modest apartment, already so distin-
guished that morning, was further honoured by the entrance of
the most lovely woman in London: I had often heard of the
beauty of the youngest daughter of the Duke of Belminster, but
no description of it, and no contemplation of colourless photo-
graphs, had prepared me for the subtle, delicate charm and the
beautiful colouring of that exquisite head. And yet as we saw it
that autumn morning, it was not its beauty which would be the
first thing to impress the observer. The cheek was lovely but it
was paled with emotion, the eyes were bright, but it was the
brightness of fever, the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in
an effort after self-command. Terror -- not beauty -- was what
sprang first to the eye as our fair visitor stood framed for an
instant in the open door.

  "Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?"

  "Yes, madam, he has been here."

  "Mr. Holmes, I implore you not to tell him that I came
here." Holmes bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.

  "Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position. I beg
that you will sit down and tell me what you desire, but I fear
that I cannot make any unconditional promise."

  She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to
the window. It was a queenly presence -- tall, graceful, and
intensely womanly.

  "Mr. Holmes," she said -- and her white-gloved hands clasped
and unclasped as she spoke -- "I will speak frankly to you in
the hopes that it may induce you to speak frankly in return.
There is complete confidence between my husband and me on
all matters save one. That one is politics. On this his lips are
sealed. He tells me nothing. Now, I am aware that there was a
most deplorable occurrence in our house last night. I know that
a paper has disappeared. But because the matter is political my
husband refuses to take me into his complete confidence. Now it
is essential -- essential, I say -- that I should thoroughly under-
stand it. You are the only other person, save only these politi-
cians, who knows the true facts. I beg you then, Mr. Holmes, to
tell me exactly what has happened and what it will lead to. Tell
me all, Mr. Holmes. Let no regard for your client's interests
keep you silent, for I assure you that his interests, if he would
only see it, would be best served by taking me into his complete
confidence. What was this paper which was stolen?"

  "Madam, what you ask me is really impossible."

  She groaned and sank her face in her hands.

  "You must see that this is so, madam. If your husband thinks
fit to keep you in the dark over this matter, is it for me, who has
only learned the true facts under the pledge of professional
secrecy, to tell what he has withheld? It is not fair to ask it. It is
him whom you must ask."

  "I have asked him. I come to you as a last resource. But
without your telling me anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may
do a great service if you would enlighten me on one point."

  "What is it, madam?"

  "Is my husband's political career likely to suffer through this
incident?"

  "Well, madam, unless it is set right it may certainly have a
very unfonunate effect."

  "Ah!" She drew in her breath sharply as one whose doubts
are resolved.

  "One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an expression which
my husband dropped in the first shock of this disaster I under-
stood that terrible public consequences might arise from the loss
of this document."

  "If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it."

  "Of what nature are they?"

  "Nay, madam, there again you ask me more than I can
possibly answer."

  "Then I will take up no more of your time. I cannot blame
you, Mr. Holmes, for having refused to speak more freely, and
you on your side will not, I am sure, think the worse of me
because I desire, even against his will, to share my husband's
anxieties. Once more I beg that you will say nothing of my
visit.

  She looked back at us from the door, and I had a last impres-
sion of that beautiful haunted face, the startled eyes, and the
drawn mouth. Then she was gone.

  "Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department," said Holmes
with a smile, when the dwindling frou-frou of skirts had ended in
the slam of the front door. "What was the fair lady's game?
What did she really want?"

  "Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very
natural. "

  "Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson -- her manner, her
suppressed excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking
queshons. Remember that she comes of a caste who do not
lightly show emotion."

  "She was certainly much moved."

  "Remember also the curious earnestness with which she as-
sured us that it was best for her husband that she should know
all. What did she mean by that? And you must have observed,
Watson, how she manoeuvred to have the light at her back. She
did not wish us to read her expression."

  "Yes, she chose the one chair in the room."

  "And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable. You
remember the woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same
reason. No powder on her nose -- that proved to be the correct
solution. How can you build on such a quicksand? Their most
trivial action may mean volumes, or their most extraordinary
conduct may depend upon a hairpin or a curling tongs. Good-
morning, Watson."

  "You are off?"

  "Yes, I will while away the morning at Godolphin Street with
our friends of the regular establishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies
the solution of our problem, though I must admit that I have not
an inkling as to what form it may take. It is a capital mistake to
theorize in advance of the facts. Do you stay on guard, my good
Watson, and receive any fresh visitors. I'll join you at lunch if I
am able."

  All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood
which his friends would call taciturn, and others morose. He ran
out and ran in, smoked incessantly, played snatches on his
violin, sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at irregular hours,
and hardly answered the casual questions which I put to him. It
was evident to me that things were not going well with him or
his quest. He would say nothing of the case, and it was from the
papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest, and the arrest
with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the valet of the
deceased. The coroner's jury brought in the obvious Wilful
Murder, but the parties remained as unknown as ever. No motive
was suggested. The room was full of articles of value, but none
had been taken. The dead man's papers had not been tampered
with. They were carefully examined, and showed that he was a
keen student of international politics, an indefatigable gossip, a
remarkable linguist, and an untiring letter writer. He had been on
intimate terms with the leading politicians of several countries.
But nothing sensational was discovered among the documents
which filled his drawers. As to his relations with women, they
appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial. He had many
acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no one whom
he loved. His habits were regular, his conduct inoffensive. His
death was an absolute mystery and likely to remain so.

  As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a council of
despair as an alternative to absolute inaction. But no case could
be sustained against him. He had visited friends in Hammersmith
that night. The alibi was complete. It is true that he started home
at an hour which should have brought him to Westminster before
the time when the crime was discovered, but his own explanation
that he had walked part of the way seemed probable enough in
view of the fineness of the night. He had actually arrived at
twelve o'clock, and appeared to be overwhelmed by the unex-
pected tragedy. He had always been on good terms with his
master. Several of the dead man's possessions -- notably a small
case of razors -- had been found in the valet's boxes, but he
explained that they had been presents from the deceased, and the
housekeeper was able to corroborate the story. Mitton had been
in Lucas's employment for three years. It was noticeable that
Lucas did not take Mitton on the Continent with him. Sometimes
he visited Paris for three months on end, but Mitton was left in
charge of the Godolphin Street house. As to the housekeeper,
she had heard nothing on the night of the crime. If her master
had a visitor he had himself admitted him.

  So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could
follow it in the papers. If Holmes knew more, he kept his own
counsel, but, as he told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him
into his confidence in the case, I knew that he was in close touch
with every development. Upon the fourth day there appeared a
long telegram from Paris which seemed to solve the whole
question.

        A discovery has just been made by the Parisian police

      [said the Daily Telegraph] which raises the veil which hung

      round the tragic fate of Mr. Eduardo Lucas, who met his

      death by violence last Monday night at Godolphin Street,

      Westminster. Our readers will remember that the deceased

      gentleman was found stabbed in his room, and that some

      suspicion attached to his valet, but that the case broke down

      on an alibi. Yesterday a lady, who has been known as

      Mme. Henri Fournaye, occupying a small villa in the Rue

      Austerlitz, was reported to the authorities by her servants as

      being insane. An examination showed she had indeed de-

      veloped mania of a dangerous and permanent form. On

      inquiry, the police have discovered that Mme. Henri Fournaye

      only returned from a journey to London on Tuesday last,

      and there is evidence to connect her with the crime at

      Westminster. A comparison of photographs has proved

      conclusively that M. Henri Fournaye and Eduardo Lucas

      were really one and the same person, and that the deceased

      had for some reason lived a double life in London and

      Paris. Mme. Fournaye, who is of Creole origin, is of an

      extremely excitable nature, and has suffered in the past

      from attacks of jealousy which have amounted to frenzy. It

      is conjectured that it was in one of these that she committed

      the terrible crime which has caused such a sensation in

      London. Her movements upon the Monday night have not

      yet been traced, but it is undoubted that a woman answering

      to her description attracted much attention at Charing Cross

      Station on Tuesday morning by the wildness of her appear-

      ance and the violence or her gestures. It is probable, there-

      fore, that the crime was either committed when insane, or

      that its immediate effect was to drive the unhappy woman

      out of her mind. At present she is unable to give any

      coherent account of the past, and the doctors hold out no

      hopes of the reestablishment of her reason. There is evi-

      dence that a woman, who might have been Mme. Fournaye,

      was seen for some hours upon Monday night watching the

      house in Godolphin Street.

  "What do you think of that, Holmes?" I had read the account
aloud to him, while he finished his breakfast.

  "My dear Watson," said he, as he rose from the table and
paced up and down the room, "you are most long-suffering, but
if I have told you nothing in the last three days, it is because
there is nothing to tell. Even now this report from Paris does not
help us much."

  "Surely it is final as regards the man's death."

  "The man's death is a mere incident -- a trivial episode -- in
comparison with our real task, which is to trace this document
and save a European catastrophe. Only one important thing has
happened in the last three days, and that is that nothing has
happened. I get reports almost hourly from the government, and
it is certain that nowhere in Europe is there any sign of trouble.
Now, if this letter were loose -- no, it can't be loose -- but if it
isn't loose, where can it be? Who has it? Why is it held back?
That's the question that beats in my brain like a hammer. Was it
indeed, a coincidence that Lucas should meet his death on the
night when the letter disappeared? Did the letter ever reach him?
If so, why is it not among his papers? Did this mad wife of his
carry it off with her? If so, is it in her house in Paris? How could
I search for it without the French police having their suspicions
aroused? It is a case, my dear Watson, where the law is as
dangerous to us as the criminals are. Every man's hand is against
us, and yet the interests at stake are colossal. Should I bring it to
a successful conclusion, it will certainly represent the crowning
glory of my career. Ah, here is my latest from the front!" He
glanced hurriedly at the note which had been handed in. "Hal-
loa! Lestrade seems to have observed something of interest. Put
on your hat, Watson, and we will stroll down together to
Westminster."

  It was my first visit to the scene of the crime -- a high, dingy,
narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the century
which gave it birth. Lestrade's bulldog features gazed out at us
from the front window, and he greeted us warmly when a big
constable had opened the door and let us in. The room into
which we were shown was that in which the crime had been
committed, but no trace of it now remained save an ugly,
irregular stain upon the carpet. This carpet was a small square
drugget in the centre of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse
of beautiful, old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks, highly
polished. Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weap-
ons, one of which had been used on that tragic night. In the
window was a sumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the
apartment, the pictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to
a taste which was luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.

  "Seen the Paris news?" asked Lestrade.

  Holmes nodded.

  "Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time.
No doubt it's just as they say. She knocked at the door -- surprise
visit, I guess, for he kept his life in water-tight compartments -- he
let her in, couldn't keep her in the street. She told him how she
had traced him, reproached him. One thing led to another, and
then with that dagger so handy the end soon came. It wasn't all
done in an instant, though, for these chairs were all swept over
yonder, and he had one in his hand as if he had tried to hold her
off with it. We've got it all clear as if we had seen it."

  Holmes raised his eyebrows.

  "And yet you have sent for me?"

  "Ah, yes, that's another matter -- a mere trifle, but the sort of
thing you take an interest in -- queer, you know, and what you
might call freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact --
can't have, on the face of it."

  "What is it, then?"

  "Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very
careful to keep things in their position. Nothing has been moved.
Officer in charge here day and night. This morning, as the man
was buried and the investigation over -- so far as this room is
concerned -- we thought we could tidy up a bit. This carpet. You
see, it is not fastened down, only just laid there. We had
occasion to raise it. We found --"

  "Yes? You found -- "

  Holmes's face grew tense with anxiety.

  "Well, I'm sure you would never guess in a hundred years
what we did find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great
deal must have soaked through, must it not?"

  "Undoubtedly it must."

  "Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on
the white woodwork to correspond."

  "No stain! But there must --"

  "Yes, so you would say. But the fact remains that there
isn't."

  He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning it
over, he showed that it was indeed as he said.

  "But the under side is as stained as the upper. It must have
left a mark."

  Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famous
expert.

  "Now, I'll show you the explanation. There is a second stain,
but it does not correspond with the other. See for yourself." As
he spoke he turned over another portion of the carpet, and there,
sure enough, was a great crimson spill upon the square white
facing of the old-fashioned floor. "What do you make of that,
Mr. Holmes?"

  "Why, it is simple enough. The two stains did correspond,
but the carpet has been turned round. As it was square and
unfastened it was easily done."

  "The official police don't need you, Mr. Holmes, to tell them
that the carpet must have been turned round. That's clear enough,
for the stains lie above each other -- if you lay it over this way.
But what I want to know is, who shifted the carpet, and why?"

  I could see from Holmes's rigid face that he was vibrating
with inward excitement.

  "Look here, Lestrade," said he, "has that constable in the
passage been in charge of the place all the time?"

  "Yes, he has."

  "Well, take my advice. Examine him carefully. Don't do it
before us. We'll wait here. You take him into the back room.
You'll be more likely to get a confession out of him alone. Ask
him how he dared to admit people and leave them alone in this
room. Don't ask him if he has done it. Take it for granted. Tell
him you know someone has been here. Press him. Tell him that a
full confession is his only chance of forgiveness. Do exactly
what I tell you!"

  "By George, if he knows I'll have it out of him!" cried
Lestrade. He darted into the hall, and a few moments later his
bullying voice sounded from the back room.

  "Now, Watson, now!" cried Holmes with frenzied eagerness.
All the demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless
manner burst out in a paroxysm of energy. He tore the drugget
from the floor, and in an instant was down on his hands and
knees clawing at each of the squares of wood beneath it. One
turned sideways as he dug his nails into the edge of it. It hinged
back like the lid of a box. A small black cavity opened beneath
it. Holmes plunged his eager hand into it and drew it out with a
bitter snarl of anger and disappointment. It was empty.

  "Quick, Watson, quick! Get it back again!" The wooden lid
was replaced, and the drugget had only just been drawn straight
when Lestrade's voice was heard in the passage. He found
Holmes leaning languidly against the mantelpiece, resigned and
patient, endeavouring to conceal his irrepressible yawns.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes. I can see that you
are bored to death with the whole affair. Well, he has confessed,
all right. Come in here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear
of your most inexcusable conduct."

  The big constable, very hot and penitent, sidled into the room.

  "I meant no harm, sir, I'm sure. The young woman came to
the door last evening -- mistook the house, she did. And then we
got talking. It's lonesome, when you're on duty here all day."

  "Well, what happened then?"

  "She wanted to see where the crime was done -- had read
about it in the papers, she said. She was a very respectable,
well-spoken young woman, sir, and I saw no harm in letting her
have a peep. When she saw that mark on the carpet. down she
dropped on the floor, and lay as if she were dead. I ran to the
back and got some water, but I could not bring her to. Then I
went round the corner to the Ivy Plant for some brandy, and by
the time I had brought it back the young woman had recovered
and was off -- ashamed of herself, I daresay, and dared not face
me."

  "How about moving that drugget?"

  "Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled, certainly, when I came back.
You see, she fell on it and it lies on a polished floor with nothing
to keep it in place. I straightened it out afterwards."

  "It's a lesson to you that you can't deceive me, Constable
MacPherson," said Lestrade, with dignity. "No doubt you thought
that your breach of duty could never be discovered, and yet a
mere glance at that drugget was enough to convince me that
someone had been admitted to the room. It's lucky for you my
man, that nothing is missing, or you would find yourseif in
Queer Street. I'm sorry to have called you down over such a
petty business, Mr. Holmes, but I thought the point of the
second stain not corresponding with the first would interest
you."

  "Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this woman only been
here once, constable?"

  "Yes, sir, only once."

  "Who was she?"

  "Don't know the name, sir. Was answering an advertisement
about typewriting and came to the wrong number -- very pleas-
ant, genteel young woman, sir."

  "Tall? Handsome?"

  "Yes, sir, she was a well-grown young woman. I suppose you
might say she was handsome. Perhaps some would say she was
very handsome. 'Oh, officer, do let me have a peep!' says she.
She had pretty, coaxing ways, as you might say, and I thought
there was no harm in letting her just put her head through the
door.

  "How was she dressed?"

  "Quiet, sir -- a long mantle down to her feet."

  "What time was it?"

  "It was just growing dusk at the time. They were lighting the
lamps as I came back with the brandy."

  "Very good," said Holmes. "Come, Watson, I think that we
have more important work elsewhere."

  As we left the house Lestrade remained in the front room
while the repentant constable opened the door to let us out.
Holmes turned on the step and held up something in his hand.
The constable stared intently.

  "Good Lord, sir!" he cried, with amazement on his face.
Holmes put his finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast
pocket, and burst out laughing as we turned down the street.
"Excellent!" said he. "Come, friend Watson, the curtain rings
up for the last act. You will be relieved to hear that there will be
no war, that the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope will suffer
no setback in his brilliant career, that the indiscreet Sovereign
will receive no punishment for his indiscretion, that the Prime
Minister will have no European complication to deal with, and
that with a little tact and management upon our part nobody will
be a penny the worse for what might have been a very ugly
incident."

  My mind filled with admiration for this extraordinary man.

  "You have solved it!" I cried.

  "Hardly that, Watson. There are some points which are as
dark as ever. But we have so much that it will be our own fault if
we cannot get the rest. We wiil go straight to Whitehall Terrace
and bring the matter to a head."

  When we arrived at the residence of the European Secretary it
was for Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope that Sherlock Holmes in-
quired. We were shown into the morning-room.

  "Mr. Holmes!" said the lady, and her face was pink with her
indignation. "This is surely most unfair and ungenerous upon
your part. I desired, as I have explained, to keep my visit to you
a secret, lest my husband should think that I was intruding into
his affairs. And yet you compromise me by coming here and so
showing that there are business relations between us."

  "Unfortunately, madam, I had no possible alternative. I have
been commissioned to recover this immensely important paper. I
must therefore ask you, madam, to be kind enough to place it in
my hands."

  The lady sprang to her feet, with the colour all dashed in an
instant from her beautiful face. Her eyes glazed -- she tottered -- I
thought that she would faint. Then with a grand effort she rallied
from the shock, and a supreme astonishment and indignation
chased every other expression from her features.

  "You -- you insult me, Mr. Holmes."

  "Come, come, madam, it is useless. Give up the letter."

  She darted to the bell.

  "The butler shall show you out."

  "Do not ring, Lady Hilda. If you do, then all my earnest
efforts to avoid a scandal will be frustrated. Give up the letter
and all will be set right. If you will work with me I can arrange
everything. If you work against me I must expose you."

  She stood grandly defiant, a queenly figure, her eyes fixed
upon his as if she would read his very soul. Her hand was on the
bell, but she had forborne to ring it.

  "You are trying to frighten me. It is not a very manly thing,
Mr. Holmes, to come here and browbeat a woman. You say that
you know something. What is it that you know?"

  "Pray sit down, madam. You will hurt yourself there if you
fall. I will not speak until you sit down. Thank you."

  "I give you five minutes, Mr. Holmes."

  "One is enough, Lady Hilda. I know of your visit to Eduardo
Lucas, of your giving him this document, of your ingenious
return to the room last night, and of the manner in which you
took the letter from the hiding-place under the carpet."

  She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before
she could speak.

  "You are mad, Mr. Holmes -- you are mad!" she cried, at
last.

  He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket. It was
the face of a woman cut out of a portrait.

  "I have carried this because I thought it might be useful,"
said he. "The policeman has recognized it."

  She gave a gasp, and her head dropped back in the chair.

  "Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The matter may still
be adjusted. I have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty
ends when I have returned the lost letter to your husband. Take
my advice and be frank with me. It is your only chance."

  Her courage was admirable. Even now she would not own
defeat.

  "I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some
absurd illusion."

  Holmes rose from his chair.

  "I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my best for
you. I can see that it is all in vain."

  He rang the bell. The butler entered.

  "Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?"

  "He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one."

  Holmes glanced at his watch.

  "Still a quarter of an hour," said he. "Very good, I shall
wait."

  The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady
Hilda was down on her knees at Holmes's feet, her hands
outstretched, her beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears.

  "Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!" she pleaded, in a
frenzy of supplication. "For heaven's sake, don't tell him! I love
him so! I would not bring one shadow on his life, and this I
know would break his noble heart."

  Holmes raised the lady. "I am thankful, madam, that you
have come to your senses even at this last moment! There is not
an instant to lose. Where is the letter?"

  She darted across to a writing-desk, unlocked it, and drew out
a long blue envelope.

  "Here it is, Mr. Holmes. Would to heaven I had never seen
it!"

  "How can we return it?" Holmes muttered. "Quick, quick,
we must think of some way! Where is the despatch-box?"

  "Still in his bedroom."

  "What a stroke of luck! Quick, madam, bring it here!"

  A moment later she had appeared with a red flat box in her
hand.

  "How did you open it before? You have a duplicate key? Yes,
of course you have. Open it!"

  From out of her bosom Lady Hilda had drawn a small key.
The box flew open. It was stuffed with papers. Holmes thrust the
blue envelope deep down into the heart of them, between the
leaves of some other document. The box was shut, locked, and
returned to the bedroom.

  "Now we are ready for him," said Holmes. "We have still
ten minutes. I am going far to screen you, Lady Hilda. In return
you will spend the time in telling me frankly the real meaning of
this extraordinary affair."

  "Mr. Holmes, I will tell you everything," cried the lady. "Oh,
Mr. Holmes, I would cut off my right hand before I gave him a
moment of sorrow! There is no woman in all London who loves
her husband as I do, and yet if he knew how I have acted -- how I
have been compelled to act -- he would never forgive me. For his
own honour stands so high that he could not forget or pardon a
lapse in another. Help me, Mr. Holmes! My happiness, his
happiness, our very lives are at stake!"

  "Quick, madam, the time grows short!"

  "It was a letter of mine, Mr. Holmes, an indiscreet letter
written before my marriage -- a foolish letter, a letter of an
impulsive, loving girl. I meant no harm, and yet he would have
thought it criminal. Had he read that letter his confidence would
have been forever destroyed. It is years since I wrote it. I had
thought that the whole matter was forgotten. Then at last I heard
from this man, Lucas, that it had passed into his hands, and that
he would lay it before my husband. I implored his mercy. He
said that he would return my letter if I would bring him a certain
document which he described in my husband's despatch-box. He
had some spy in the office who had told him of its existence. He
assured me that no harm could come to my husband. Put your-
self in my position, Mr. Holmes! What was I to do?"

  "Take your husband into your confidence."

  "I could not, Mr. Holmes, I could not! On the one side
seemed certain ruin, on the other, terrible as it seemed to take
my husband's paper, still in a matter of politics I could not
understand the consequences, while in a matter of love and trust
they were only too clear to me. I did it, Mr. Holmes! I took an
impression of his key. This man, Lucas, furnished a duplicate. I
opened his despatch-box, took the paper, and conveyed it to
Godolphin Street."

  "What happened there, madam?"

  "I tapped at the door as agreed. Lucas opened it. I followed
him into his room, leaving the hall door ajar behind me, for I
feared to be alone with the man. I remember that there was a
woman outside as I entered. Our business was soon done. He
had my letter on his desk, I handed him the document. He gave
me the letter. At this instant there was a sound at the door. There
were steps in the passage. Lucas quickly turned back the drug-
get, thrust the document into some hiding-place there, and cov-
ered it over.

  "What happened after that is like some fearful dream. I have a
vision of a dark, frantic face, of a woman's voice, which screamed
in French, 'My waiting is not in vain. At last, at last I have
found you with her!' There was a savage struggle. I saw him
with a chair in his hand, a knife gleamed in hers. I rushed from
the horrible scene, ran from the house, and only next morning in
the paper did I learn the dreadful result. That night I was happy,
for I had my letter, and I had not seen yet what the future would
bring.

  "It was the next morning that I realized that I had only
exchanged one trouble for another. My husband's anguish at the
loss of his paper went to my heart. I could hardly prevent myself
from there and then kneeling down at his feet and telling him
what I had done. But that again would mean a confession of the
past. I came to you that morning in order to understand the full
enormity of my offence. From the instant that I grasped it my
whole mind was turned to the one thought of getting back my
husband's paper. It must still be where Lucas had placed it, for it
was concealed before this dreadful woman entered the room. If it
had not been for her coming, I should not have known where his
hiding-place was. How was I to get into the room? For two days
I watched the place, but the door was never left open. Last night
I made a last attempt. What I did and how I succeeded, you have
already learned. I brought the paper back with me, and thought
of destroying it, since I could see no way of returning it without
confessing my guilt to my husband. Heavens, I hear his step
upon the stair!"

  The European Secretary burst excitedly into the room.

  "Any news, Mr. Holmes, any news?" he cried.

  "I have some hopes."

  "Ah, thank heaven!" His face became radiant. "The Prime
Minister is lunching with me. May he share your hopes? He has
nerves of steel, and yet I know that he has hardly slept since this
terrible event. Jacobs, will you ask the Prime Minister to come
up? As to you, dear, I fear that this is a matter of politics. We
will join you in a few minutes in the dining-room."

  The Prime Minister's manner was subdued, but I could see by
the gleam of his eyes and the twitchings of his bony hands that
he shared the excitement of his young colleague.

  "I understand that you have something to report, Mr. Holmes?"

  "Purely negative as yet," my friend answered. "I have in-
quired at every point where it might be, and I am sure that there
is no danger to be apprehended."

  "But that is not enough, Mr. Holmes. We cannot live forever
on such a volcano. We must have something definite."

  "I am in hopes of getting it. That is why I am here. The more
I think of the matter the more convinced I am that the letter has
never left this house."

  "Mr. Holmes!"

  "If it had it would certainly have been public by now."

  "But why should anyone take it in order to keep it in his
house?"

  "I am not convinced that anyone did take it."

  "Then how could it leave the despatch-box?"

  "I am not convinced that it ever did leave the despatch-box."

  "Mr. Holmes, this joking is very ill-timed. You have my
assurance that it left the box."

  "Have you examined the box since Tuesday morning?"

  "No. It was not necessary."

  "You may conceivably have overlooked it."

  "Impossible, I say."

  "But I am not convinced of it. I have known such things to
happen. I presume there are other papers there. Well, it may
have got mixed with them."

  "It was on the top."

  "Someone may have shaken the box and displaced it."

  "No, no, I had everything out."

  "Surely it is easily decided, Hope," said the Premier. "Let us
have the despatch-box brought in."

  The Secretary rang the bell.

  "Jacobs, bring down my despatch-box. This is a farcical
waste of time, but still, if nothing else will satisfy you, it shall
be done. Thank you, Jacobs, put it here. I have always had the
key on my watch-chain. Here are the papers, you see. Letter
from Lord Merrow, report from Sir Charles Hardy, memoran-
dum from Belgrade, note on the Russo-German grain taxes,
letter from Madrid, note from Lord Flowers -- Good heavens!
what is this? Lord Bellinger! Lord Bellinger!"

  The Premier snatched the blue envelope from his hand.

  "Yes, it is it -- and the letter is intact. Hope, I congratulate
you."

  "Thank you! Thank you! What a weight from my heart. But
this is inconceivable -- impossible. Mr. Holmes, you are a wiz-
ard, a sorcerer! How did you know it was there?"

  "Because I knew it was nowhere else."

  "I cannot believe my eyes!" He ran wildly to the door.
"Where is my wife? I must tell her that all is well. Hilda!
Hilda!" we heard his voice on the stairs.

  The Premier looked at Holmes with twinkling eyes.

  "Come, sir," said he. "There is more in this than meets the
eye. How came the letter back in the box?"

  Holmes turned away smiling from the keen scrutiny of those
wonderful eyes.

  "We also have our diplomatic secrets," said he and, picking
up his hat, he turned to the door.

[End of the Return of Sherlock Holmes]
.
