The case-book of Sherlock Holmes Arthur Conan Doyle 66010 downloads.pdf

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The case-book of Sherlock
Holmes
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will
have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using
this eBook.

Title: The case-book of Sherlock Holmes

Author: Arthur Conan Doyle

Release date: January 3, 2023 [eBook #69700]
Most recently updated: October 19, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: John Murray, 1927

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69700

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CASE-
BOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES ***

THE CASE-BOOK OF
SHERLOCK HOLMES
BY ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.

First Published 1927

PREFACE

I fear that Mr. Sherlock Holmes may become like one of those popular
tenors who, having outlived their time, are still tempted to make repeated
farewell bows to their indulgent audiences. This must cease and he must go
the way of all flesh, material or imaginary. One likes to think that there is
some fantastic limbo for the children of imagination, some strange,
impossible place where the beaux of Fielding may still make love to the
belles of Richardson, where Scott's heroes still may strut, Dickens's
delightful Cockneys still raise a laugh, and Thackeray's worldlings continue
to carry on their reprehensible careers. Perhaps in some humble corner of
such a Valhalla, Sherlock and his Watson may for a time find a place, while

some more astute sleuth with some even less astute comrade may fill the
stage which they have vacated.

His career has been a long one—though it is possible to exaggerate it;
decrepit gentlemen who approach me and declare that his adventures
formed the reading of their boyhood do not meet the response from me
which they seem to expect. One is not anxious to have one's personal dates
handled so unkindly. As a matter of cold fact Holmes made his début in A
Study in Scarlet and in The Sign of Four, two small booklets which
appeared between 1887 and 1889. It was in 1891 that "A Scandal in
Bohemia," the first of the long series of short stories, appeared in The
Strand Magazine. The public seemed appreciative and desirous of more, so
that from that date, thirty-six years ago, they have been produced in a
broken series which now contains no fewer than fifty-six stories,
republished in The Adventures, The Memoirs, The Return, and His Last
Bow, and there remain these twelve published during the last few years
which are here produced under the title of The Case-Book of Sherlock
Holmes. He began his adventures in the very heart of the later Victorian
Era, carried it through the all-too-short reign of Edward, and has managed
to hold his own little niche even in these feverish days. Thus it would be
true to say that those who first read of him as young men have lived to see
their own grown-up children following the same adventures in the same
magazine. It is a striking example of the patience and loyalty of the British
public.

I had fully determined at the conclusion of The Memoirs to bring
Holmes to an end, as I felt that my literary energies should not be directed
too much into one channel. That pale, clear-cut face and loose-limbed figure
were taking up an undue share of my imagination. I did the deed, but,
fortunately, no coroner had pronounced upon the remains, and so, after a
long interval, it was not difficult for me to respond to the flattering demand
and to explain my rash act away. I have never regretted it, for I have not in
actual practice found that these lighter sketches have prevented me from
exploring and finding my limitations in such varied branches of literature as
history, poetry, historical novels, psychic research, and the drama. Had
Holmes never existed I could not have done more, though he may perhaps

have stood a little in the way of the recognition of my more serious literary
work.

And so, reader, farewell to Sherlock Holmes! I thank you for your past
constancy, and can but hope that some return has been made in the shape of
that distraction from the worries of life and stimulating change of thought
which can only be found in the fairy kingdom of romance.

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.

CONTENTS

I The Adventure of the Illustrious Client
II The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier
III The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone
IV The Adventure of the Three Gables
V The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire
VI The Adventure of the Three Garridebs
VII The Problem of Thor Bridge
VIII The Adventure of the Creeping Man
IX The Adventure of the Lion's Mane
X The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger
XI The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place
XII The Adventure of the Retired Colourman

I

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS CLIENT

"It can't hurt now," was Mr. Sherlock Holmes's comment when, for the
tenth time in as many years, I asked his leave to reveal the following
narrative. So it was that at last I obtained permission to put on record what
was, in some ways, the supreme moment of my friend's career.

Both Holmes and I had a weakness for the Turkish Bath. It was over a
smoke in the pleasant lassitude of the drying-room that I have found him
less reticent and more human than anywhere else. On the upper floor of the
Northumberland Avenue establishment there is an isolated corner where
two couches lie side by side, and it was on these that we lay upon
September 3, 1902, the day when my narrative begins. I had asked him
whether anything was stirring, and for answer he had shot his long, thin,
nervous arm out of the sheets which enveloped him and had drawn an
envelope from the inside pocket of the coat which hung beside him.

"It may be some fussy, self-important fool, it may be a matter of life or
death," said he, as he handed me the note. "I know no more than this
message tells me."

It was from the Carlton Club, and dated the evening before. This is what
I read:

"Sir James Damery presents his compliments to Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
and will call upon him at 4.30 to-morrow. Sir James begs to say that the
matter upon which he desires to consult Mr. Holmes is very delicate, and
also very important. He trusts, therefore, that Mr. Holmes will make every
effort to grant this interview, and that he will confirm it over the telephone
to the Carlton Club."

"I need not say that I have confirmed it, Watson," said Holmes, as I
returned the paper. "Do you know anything of this man Damery?"

"Only that his name is a household word in Society."

"Well, I can tell you a little more than that. He has rather a reputation for
arranging delicate matters which are to be kept out of the papers. You may
remember his negotiations with Sir George Lewis over the Hammerford
Will case. He is a man of the world with a natural turn for diplomacy. I am
bound, therefore, to hope that it is not a false scent and that he has some
real need for our assistance."

"Our?"

"Well, if you will be so good, Watson."

"I shall be honoured."

"Then you have the hour—four-thirty. Until then we can put the matter
out of our heads."

I was living in my own rooms in Queen Anne Street at the time, but I
was round at Baker Street before the time named. Sharp to the half-hour,
Colonel Sir James Damery was announced. It is hardly necessary to
describe him, for many will remember that large, bluff, honest personality,
that broad, clean-shaven face, above all, that pleasant, mellow voice.
Frankness shone from his grey Irish eyes, and good humour played round
his mobile, smiling lips. His lucent top-hat, his dark frock-coat, indeed,
every detail, from the pearl pin in the black satin cravat to the lavender
spats over the varnished shoes, spoke of the meticulous care in dress for
which he was famous. The big, masterful aristocrat dominated the little
room.

"Of course, I was prepared to find Dr. Watson," he remarked, with a
courteous bow. "His collaboration may be very necessary, for we are
dealing on this occasion, Mr. Holmes, with a man to whom violence is
familiar and who will, literally, stick at nothing. I should say that there is no
more dangerous man in Europe."

"I have had several opponents to whom that flattering term has been
applied," said Holmes, with a smile. "Don't you smoke? Then you will
excuse me if I light my pipe. If your man is more dangerous than the late
Professor Moriarty, or than the living Colonel Sebastian Moran, then he is
indeed worth meeting. May I ask his name?"

"Have you ever heard of Baron Gruner?

"You mean the Austrian murderer?"

Colonel Damery threw up his kid-gloved hands with a laugh. "There is
no getting past you, Mr. Holmes! Wonderful! So you have already sized
him up as a murderer?"

"It is my business to follow the details of Continental crime. Who could
possibly have read what happened at Prague and have any doubts as to the
man's guilt! It was a purely technical legal point and the suspicious death of
a witness that saved him! I am as sure that he killed his wife when the so-
called 'accident' happened in the Splügen Pass as if I had seen him do it. I
knew, also, that he had come to England, and had a presentiment that
sooner or later he would find me some work to do. Well, what has Baron
Gruner been up to? I presume it is not this old tragedy which has come up
again?"

"No, it is more serious than that. To revenge crime is important, but to
prevent it is more so. It is a terrible thing, Mr. Holmes, to see a dreadful
event, an atrocious situation, preparing itself before your eyes, to clearly
understand whither it will lead and yet to be utterly unable to avert it. Can a
human being be placed in a more trying position?"

"Perhaps not."

"Then you will sympathize with the client in whose interests I am
acting."

"I did not understand that you were merely an intermediary. Who is the
principal?"

"Mr. Holmes, I must beg you not to press that question. It is important
that I should be able to assure him that his honoured name has been in no
way dragged into the matter. His motives are, to the last degree, honourable
and chivalrous, but he prefers to remain unknown. I need not say that your
fees will be assured and that you will be given a perfectly free hand. Surely
the actual name of your client is immaterial?"

"I am sorry," said Holmes. "I am accustomed to have mystery at one end
of my cases, but to have it at both ends is too confusing. I fear, Sir James,
that I must decline to act."

Our visitor was greatly disturbed. His large, sensitive face was darkened
with emotion and disappointment.

"You hardly realize the effect of your own action, Mr. Holmes," said he.
"You place me in a most serious dilemma, for I am perfectly certain that
you would be proud to take over the case if I could give you the facts, and
yet a promise forbids me from revealing them all. May I, at least, lay all
that I can before you?"

"By all means, so long as it is understood that I commit myself to
nothing."

"That is understood. In the first place, you have no doubt heard of
General de Merville?"

"De Merville of Khyber fame? Yes, I have heard of him."

"He has a daughter, Violet de Merville, young, rich, beautiful,
accomplished, a wonder-woman in every way. It is this daughter, this
lovely, innocent girl, whom we are endeavouring to save from the clutches
of a fiend."

"Baron Gruner has some hold over her, then?"

"The strongest of all holds where a woman is concerned—the hold of
love. The fellow is, as you may have heard, extraordinarily handsome, with
a most fascinating manner, a gentle voice, and that air of romance and

mystery which means so much to a woman. He is said to have the whole
sex at his mercy and to have made ample use of the fact.

"But how came such a man to meet a lady of the standing of Miss Violet
de Merville?"

"It was on a Mediterranean yachting voyage. The company, though
select, paid their own passages. No doubt the promoters hardly realized the
Baron's true character until it was too late. The villain attached himself to
the lady, and with such effect that he has completely and absolutely won her
heart. To say that she loves him hardly expresses it. She dotes upon him,
she is obsessed by him. Outside of him there is nothing on earth. She will
not hear one word against him. Everything has been done to cure her of her
madness, but in vain. To sum up, she proposes to marry him next month. As
she is of age and has a will of iron, it is hard to know how to prevent her."

"Does she know about the Austrian episode?"

"The cunning devil has told her every unsavoury public scandal of his
past life, but always in such a way as to make himself out to be an innocent
martyr. She absolutely accepts his version and will listen to no other."

"Dear me! But surely you have inadvertently let out the name of your
client? It is no doubt General de Merville."

Our visitor fidgeted in his chair.

"I could deceive you by saying so, Mr. Holmes, but it would not be true.
De Merville is a broken man. The strong soldier has been utterly
demoralized by this incident. He has lost the nerve which never failed him
on the battlefield and has become a weak, doddering old man, utterly
incapable of contending with a brilliant, forceful rascal like this Austrian.
My client, however, is an old friend, one who has known the General
intimately for many years and taken a paternal interest in this young girl
since she wore short frocks. He cannot see this tragedy consummated
without some attempt to stop it. There is nothing in which Scotland Yard
can act. It was his own suggestion that you should be called in, but it was,
as I have said, on the express stipulation that he should not be personally

involved in the matter. I have no doubt, Mr. Holmes, with your great powers
you could easily trace my client back through me, but I must ask you, as a
point of honour, to refrain from doing so, and not to break in upon his
incognito."

Holmes gave a whimsical smile.

"I think I may safely promise that," said he. "I may add that your
problem interests me, and that I shall be prepared to look into it. How shall
I keep in touch with you?"

"The Carlton Club will find me. But, in case of emergency, there is a
private telephone call, 'XX.31.'"

Holmes noted it down and sat, still smiling, with the open memorandum-
book upon his knee.

"The Baron's present address, please?"

"Vernon Lodge, near Kingston. It is a large house. He has been fortunate
in some rather shady speculations and is a rich man, which, naturally,
makes him a more dangerous antagonist."

"Is he at home at present?"

"Yes."

"Apart from what you have told me, can you give me any further
information about the man?"

"He has expensive tastes. He is a horse fancier. For a short time he
played polo at Hurlingham, but then this Prague affair got noised about and
he had to leave. He collects books and pictures. He is a man with a
considerable artistic side to his nature. He is, I believe, a recognized
authority upon Chinese pottery, and has written a book upon the subject."

"A complex mind," said Holmes. "All great criminals have that. My old
friend Charlie Peace was a violin virtuoso. Wainwright was no mean artist. I
could quote many more. Well, Sir James, you will inform your client that I

am turning my mind upon Baron Gruner. I can say no more. I have some
sources of information of my own, and dare say we may find some means
of opening matter up."

When our visitor had left us, Holmes sat so long in deep thought that it
seemed to me that he had forgotten my presence. At last, however, he came
briskly back to earth.

"Well, Watson, any views?" he asked.

"I should think you had better see the young lady herself."

"My dear Watson, if her poor old broken father cannot move her, how
shall I, a stranger, prevail? And yet there is something in the suggestion if
all else fails. But I think we must begin from a different angle. I rather
fancy that Shinwell Johnson might be a help."

I have not had occasion to mention Shinwell Johnson in these memoirs
because I have seldom drawn my cases from the latter phases of my friend's
career. During the first years of the century he became a valuable assistant.
Johnson, I grieve to say, made his name first as a very dangerous villain and
served two terms at Parkhurst. Finally, he repented and allied himself to
Holmes, acting as his agent in the huge criminal underworld of London, and
obtaining information which often proved to be of vital importance. Had
Johnson been a "nark" of the police he would soon have been exposed, but
as he dealt with cases which never came directly into the courts, his
activities were never realized by his companions. With the glamour of his
two convictions upon him, he had the entrée of every night-club, doss-
house, and gambling-den in the town, and his quick observation and active
brain made him an ideal agent for gaining information. It was to him that
Sherlock Holmes now proposed to turn.

It was not possible for me to follow the immediate steps taken by my
friend, for I had some pressing professional business of my own, but I met
him by appointment that evening at Simpson's, where, sitting at a small

table in the front window, and looking down at the rushing stream of life in
the Strand, he told me something of what had passed.

"Johnson is on the prowl," said he. "He may pick up some garbage in the
darker recesses of the underworld, for it is down there, amid the black roots
of crime, that we must hunt for this man's secrets."

"But, if the lady will not accept what is already known, why should any
fresh discovery of yours turn her from her purpose?"

"Who knows, Watson? Woman's heart and mind are insoluble puzzles to
the male. Murder might be condoned or explained, and yet some smaller
offence might rankle. Baron Gruner remarked to me——"

"He remarked to you!"

"Oh, to be sure, I had not told you of my plans! Well, Watson, I love to
come to close grips with my man. I like to meet him eye to eye and read for
myself the stuff that he is made of. When I had given Johnson his
instructions, I took a cab out to Kingston and found the Baron in a most
affable mood."

"Did he recognize you?"

"There was no difficulty about that, for I simply sent in my card. He is
an excellent antagonist, cool as ice, silky voiced and soothing as one of
your fashionable consultants, and poisonous as a cobra. He has breed in
him, a real aristocrat of crime, with a superficial suggestion of afternoon tea
and all the cruelty of the grave behind it. Yes, I am glad to have had my
attention called to Baron Adelbert Gruner."

"You say he was affable?"

"A purring cat who thinks he sees prospective mice. Some people's
affability is more deadly than the violence of coarser souls. His greeting
was characteristic. 'I rather thought I should see you sooner or later, Mr.
Holmes,' said he. 'You have been engaged, no doubt, by General de

Merville to endeavour to stop my marriage with his daughter, Violet. That is
so, is it not?'

"I acquiesced.

"'My dear man,' said he, 'you will only ruin your own well-deserved
reputation. It is not a case in which you can possibly succeed. You will have
barren work, to say nothing of incurring some danger. Let me very strongly
advise you to draw off at once.'

"'It is curious,' I answered, 'but that was the very advice which I had
intended to give you. I have a respect for your brains, Baron, and the little
which I have seen of your personality has not lessened it. Let me put it to
you as man to man. No one wants to rake up your past and make you
unduly uncomfortable. It is over, and you are now in smooth waters, but if
you persist in this marriage you will raise up a swarm of powerful enemies
who will never leave you alone until they have made England too hot to
hold you. Is the game worth it? Surely you would be wiser if you left the
lady alone. It would not be pleasant for you if these facts of your past were
brought to her notice.'

"The Baron has little waxed tips of hair under his nose, like the short
antennae of an insect. These quivered with amusement as he listened, and
he finally broke into a gentle chuckle.

"'Excuse my amusement, Mr. Holmes,' said he, 'but it is really funny to
see you trying to play a hand with no cards in it. I don't think anyone could
do it better, but it is rather pathetic, all the same. Not a colour card there,
Mr. Holmes, nothing but the smallest of the small.'

"'So you think.'

"'So I know. Let me make the thing clear to you, for my own hand is so
strong that I can afford to show it. I have been fortunate enough to win the
entire affection of this lady. This was given to me in spite of the fact that I
told her very clearly of all the unhappy incidents in my past life. I also told
her that certain wicked and designing persons—I hope you recognize
yourself—would come to her and tell her these things, and I warned her

how to treat them. You have heard of post-hypnotic suggestion, Mr.
Holmes? Well, you will see how it works, for a man of personality can use
hypnotism without any vulgar passes or tomfoolery. So she is ready for you
and, I have no doubt, would give you an appointment, for she is quite
amenable to her father's will—save only in the one little matter.'

"Well, Watson, there seemed to be no more to say, so I took my leave
with as much cold dignity as I could summon, but, as I had my hand on the
door-handle, he stopped me.

"'By the way, Mr. Holmes,' said he, 'did you know Le Brun, the French
agent?'

"'Yes,' said I.

"'Do you know what befell him?'

"'I heard that he was beaten by some Apaches in the Montmartre district
and crippled for life.'

"'Quite true, Mr. Holmes. By a curious coincidence he had been
inquiring into my affairs only a week before. Don't do it, Mr. Holmes; it's
not a lucky thing to do. Several have found that out. My last word to you is,
go your own way and let me go mine. Good-bye!'

"So there you are, Watson. You are up to date now."

"The fellow seems dangerous."

"Mighty dangerous. I disregard the blusterer, but this is the sort of man
who says rather less than he means."

"Must you interfere? Does it really matter if he marries the girl?"

"Considering that he undoubtedly murdered his last wife, I should say it
mattered very much. Besides, the client! Well, well, we need not discuss
that. When you have finished your coffee you had best come home with me,
for the blithe Shinwell will be there with his report."

We found him sure enough, a huge, coarse, red-faced, scorbutic man,
with a pair of vivid black eyes which were the only external sign of the very
cunning mind within. It seems that he had dived down into what was
peculiarly his kingdom, and beside him on the settee was a brand which he
had brought up in the shape of a slim, flame-like young woman with a pale,
intense face, youthful, and yet so worn with sin and sorrow that one read
the terrible years which had left their leprous mark upon her.

"This is Miss Kitty Winter," said Shinwell Johnson, waving his fat hand
as an introduction. "What she don't know—well, there, she'll speak for
herself. Put my hand right on her, Mr. Holmes, within an hour of your
message."

"I'm easy to find," said the young woman. "Hell, London, gets me every
time. Same address for Porky Shinwell. We're old mates, Porky, you and I.
But, by Gripes! there is another who ought to be down in a lower hell than
we if there was any justice in the world! That is the man you are after, Mr.
Holmes."

Holmes smiled. "I gather we have your good wishes, Miss Winter."

"If I can help to put him where he belongs, I'm yours to the rattle," said
our visitor, with fierce energy. There was an intensity of hatred in her white,
set face and her blazing eyes such as woman seldom and man never can
attain. "You needn't go into my past, Mr. Holmes. That's neither here nor
there. But what I am Adelbert Gruner made me. If I could pull him down!"
She clutched frantically with her hands into the air. "Oh, if I could only pull
him into the pit where he has pushed so many!"

"You know how the matter stands?"

"Porky Shinwell has been telling me. He's after some other poor fool and
wants to marry her this time. You want to stop it. Well, you surely know
enough about this devil to prevent any decent girl in her senses wanting to
be in the same parish with him."

"She is not in her senses. She is madly in love. She has been told all
about him. She cares nothing."

"Told about the murder?"

"Yes."

"My Lord, she must have a nerve!"

"She puts them all down as slanders."

"Couldn't you lay proofs before her silly eyes?"

"Well, can you help us do so?"

"Ain't I a proof myself? If I stood before her and told her how he used
me——"

"Would you do this?"

"Would I? Would I not!"

"Well, it might be worth trying. But he has told her most of his sins and
had pardon from her, and I understand she will not reopen the question."

"I'll lay he didn't tell her all," said Miss Winter. "I caught a glimpse of
one or two murders besides the one that made such a fuss. He would speak
of someone in his velvet way and then look at me with a steady eye and
say: 'He died within a month.' It wasn't hot air, either. But I took little notice
—you see, I loved him myself at that time. Whatever he did went with me,
same as with this poor fool! There was just one thing that shook me. Yes, by
Gripes! if it had not been for his poisonous, lying tongue that explains and
soothes, I'd have left him that very night. It's a book he has—a brown
leather book with a lock, and his arms in gold on the outside. I think he was
a bit drunk that night, or he would not have shown it to me."

"What was it, then?"

"I tell you, Mr. Holmes, this man collects women, and takes a pride in
his collection, as some men collect moths or butterflies. He had it all in that
book. Snapshot photographs, names, details, everything about them. It was
a beastly book—a book no man, even if he had come from the gutter, could

have put together. But it was Adelbert Gruner's book all the same. 'Souls I
have ruined.' He could have put that on the outside if he had been so
minded. However, that's neither here nor there, for the book would not
serve you, and, if it would, you can't get it."

"Where is it?"

"How can I tell you where it is now? It's more than a year since I left
him. I know where he kept it then. He's a precise, tidy cat of a man in many
of his ways, so maybe it is still in the pigeon-hole of the old bureau in the
inner study. Do you know his house?"

"I've been in the study," said Holmes.

"Have you, though? You haven't been slow on the job if you only started
this morning. Maybe dear Adelbert has met his match this time. The outer
study is the one with the Chinese crockery in it—big glass cupboard
between the windows. Then behind his desk is the door that leads to the
inner study—a small room where he keeps papers and things."

"Is he not afraid of burglars?"

"Adelbert is no coward. His worst enemy couldn't say that of him. He
can look after himself. There's a burglar alarm at night. Besides, what is
there for a burglar—unless they got away with all this fancy crockery?"

"No good," said Shinwell Johnson, with the decided voice of the expert.
"No fence wants stuff of that sort that you can neither melt nor sell."

"Quite so," said Holmes. "Well, now, Miss Winter, if you would call here
to-morrow evening at five, I would consider in the meanwhile whether your
suggestion of seeing this lady personally may not be arranged. I am
exceedingly obliged to you for your co-operation. I need not say that my
clients will consider liberally——"

"None of that, Mr. Holmes," cried the young woman. "I am not out for
money. Let me see this man in the mud, and I've got all I worked for—in
the mud with my foot on his cursed face. That's my price. I'm with you to-

morrow or any other day so long as you are on his track. Porky here can tell
you always where to find me."

I did not see Holmes again until the following evening, when we dined
once more at our Strand restaurant. He shrugged his shoulders when I asked
him what luck he had had in his interview. Then he told the story, which I
would repeat in this way. His hard, dry statement needs some little editing
to soften it into the terms of real life.

"There was no difficulty at all about the appointment," said Holmes, "for
the girl glories in showing abject filial obedience in all secondary things in
an attempt to atone for her flagrant breach of it in her engagement. The
General 'phoned that all was ready, and the fiery Miss W. turned up
according to schedule, so that at half-past five a cab deposited us outside
104 Berkeley Square, where the old soldier resides—one of those awful
grey London castles which would make a church seem frivolous. A footman
showed us into a great yellow-curtained drawing-room, and there was the
lady awaiting us, demure, pale, self-contained, as inflexible and remote as a
snow image on a mountain.

"I don't quite know how to make her clear to you, Watson. Perhaps you
may meet her before we are through, and you can use your own gift of
words. She is beautiful, but with the ethereal other-world beauty of some
fanatic whose thoughts are set on high. I have seen such faces in the
pictures of the old masters of the Middle Ages. How a beast-man could
have laid his vile paws upon such a being of the beyond I cannot imagine.
You may have noticed how extremes call to each other, the spiritual to the
animal, the cave-man to the angel. You never saw a worse case than this.

"She knew what we had come for, of course—that villain had lost no
time in poisoning her mind against us. Miss Winter's advent rather amazed
her, I think, but she waved us into our respective chairs like a Reverend
Abbess receiving two rather leprous mendicants. If your head is inclined to
swell, my dear Watson, take a course of Miss Violet de Merville.

"'Well, sir,' said she, in a voice like the wind from an iceberg, 'your name
is familiar to me. You have called, as I understand, to malign my fiancé,
Baron Gruner. It is only by my father's request that I see you at all, and I
warn you in advance that anything you can say could not possibly have the
slightest effect upon my mind.'

"I was sorry for her, Watson. I thought of her for the moment as I would
have thought of a daughter of my own. I am not often eloquent. I use my
head, not my heart. But I really did plead with her with all the warmth of
words that I could find in my nature. I pictured to her the awful position of
the woman who only wakes to a man's character after she is his wife—a
woman who has to submit to be caressed by bloody hands and lecherous
lips. I spared her nothing—the shame, the fear, the agony, the hopelessness
of it all. All my hot words could not bring one tinge of colour to those ivory
cheeks or one gleam of emotion to those abstracted eyes. I thought of what
the rascal had said about a post-hypnotic influence. One could really
believe that she was living above the earth in some ecstatic dream. Yet there
was nothing indefinite in her replies.

"'I have listened to you with patience, Mr. Holmes,' said she. 'The effect
upon my mind is exactly as predicted. I am aware that Adelbert, that my
fiancé, has had a stormy life in which he has incurred bitter hatreds and
most unjust aspersions. You are only the last of a series who have brought
their slanders before me. Possibly you mean well, though I learn that you
are a paid agent who would have been equally willing to act for the Baron
as against him. But in any case I wish you to understand once for all that I
love him and that he loves me, and that the opinion of all the world is no
more to me than the twitter of those birds outside the window. If his noble
nature has ever for an instant fallen, it may be that I have been specially
sent to raise it to its true and lofty level. I am not clear,' here she turned her
eyes upon my companion, 'who this young lady may be.'

"I was about to answer when the girl broke in like a whirlwind. If ever
you saw flame and ice face to face, it was those two women.

"'I'll tell you who I am,' she cried, springing out of her chair, her mouth
all twisted with passion—'I am his last mistress. I am one of a hundred that
he has tempted and used and ruined and thrown into the refuse heap, as he

will you also. Your refuse heap is more likely to be a grave, and maybe
that's the best. I tell you, you foolish woman, if you marry this man he'll be
the death of you. It may be a broken heart or it may be a broken neck, but
he'll have you one way or the other. It's not out of love for you I'm speaking.
I don't care a tinker's curse whether you live or die. It's out of hate for him
and to spite him and to get back on him for what he did to me. But it's all
the same, and you needn't look at me like that, my fine lady, for you may be
lower than I am before you are through with it.'

"'I should prefer not to discuss such matters,' said Miss de Merville
coldly. 'Let me say once for all that I am aware of three passages in my
fiancé's life in which he became entangled with designing women, and that
I am assured of his hearty repentance for any evil that he may have done.'

"'Three passages!' screamed my companion. 'You fool! You unutterable
fool!'

"'Mr. Holmes, I beg that you will bring this interview to an end,' said the
icy voice. 'I have obeyed my father's wish in seeing you, but I am not
compelled to listen to the ravings of this person.'

"With an oath Miss Winter darted forward, and if I had not caught her
wrist she would have clutched this maddening woman by the hair. I dragged
her towards the door, and was lucky to get her back into the cab without a
public scene, for she was beside herself with rage. In a cold way I felt pretty
furious myself, Watson, for there was something indescribably annoying in
the calm aloofness and supreme self-complaisance of the woman whom we
were trying to save. So now once again you know exactly how we stand,
and it is clear that I must plan some fresh opening move, for this gambit
won't work. I'll keep in touch with you, Watson, for it is more than likely
that you will have your part to play, though it is just possible that the next
move may lie with them rather than with us."

And it did. Their blow fell—or his blow rather, for never could I believe
that the lady was privy to it. I think I could show you the very paving-stone
upon which I stood when my eyes fell upon the placard, and a pang of
horror passed through my very soul. It was between the "Grand Hotel" and
Charing Cross Station, where a one-legged news-vendor displayed his

evening papers. The date was just two days after the last conversation.
There, black upon yellow, was the terrible news-sheet:

+-------------+
| MURDEROUS |
| ATTACK |
| UPON |
| SHERLOCK |
| HOLMES. |
+-------------+

I think I stood stunned for some moments. Then I have a confused
recollection of snatching at a paper, of the remonstrance of the man, whom I
had not paid, and, finally, of standing in the doorway of a chemist's shop
while I turned up the fateful paragraph. This was how it ran:

"We learn with regret that Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known private
detective, was the victim this morning of a murderous assault which has left
him in a precarious position. There are no exact details to hand, but the
event seems to have occurred about twelve o'clock in Regent Street, outside
the Café Royal. The attack was made by two men armed with sticks, and
Mr. Holmes was beaten about the head and body, receiving injuries which
the doctors describe as most serious. He was carried to Charing Cross
Hospital, and afterwards insisted upon being taken to his rooms in Baker
Street. The miscreants who attacked him appear to have been respectably
dressed men, who escaped from the bystanders by passing through the Café
Royal and out into Glasshouse Street behind it. No doubt they belonged to
that criminal fraternity which has so often had occasion to bewail the
activity and ingenuity of the injured man."

I need not say that my eyes had hardly glanced over the paragraph before
I had sprung into a hansom and was on my way to Baker Street. I found Sir

Leslie Oakshott, the famous surgeon in the hall and his brougham waiting at
the kerb.

"No immediate danger," was his report. "Two lacerated scalp wounds
and some considerable bruises. Several stitches have been necessary.
Morphine has been injected and quiet is essential, but an interview of a few
minutes would not be absolutely forbidden."

With this permission I stole into the darkened room. The sufferer was
wide awake, and I heard my name in a hoarse whisper. The blind was three-
quarters down, but one ray of sunlight slanted through and struck the
bandaged head of the injured man. A crimson patch had soaked through the
white linen compress. I sat beside him and bent my head.

"All right, Watson. Don't look so scared," he muttered in a very weak
voice. "It's not as bad as it seems."

"Thank God for that!"

"I'm a bit of a single-stick expert, as you know. I took most of them on
my guard. It was the second man that was too much for me."

"What can I do, Holmes? Of course, it was that damned fellow who set
them on. I'll go and thrash the hide off him if you give the word."

"Good old Watson! No, we can do nothing there unless the police lay
their hands on the men. But their get-away had been well prepared. We may
be sure of that. Wait a little. I have my plans. The first thing is to exaggerate
my injuries. They'll come to you for news. Put it on thick, Watson. Lucky if
I live the week out—concussion—delirium—what you like! You can't
overdo it."

"But Sir Leslie Oakshott?"

"Oh, he's all right. He shall see the worst side of me. I'll look after that."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. Tell Shinwell Johnson to get that girl out of the way. Those
beauties will be after her now. They know, of course, that she was with me
in the case. If they dared to do me in it is not likely they will neglect her.
That is urgent. Do it to-night."

"I'll go now. Anything more?"

"Put my pipe on the table—and the tobacco-slipper. Right! Come in each
morning and we will plan our campaign."

I arranged with Johnson that evening to take Miss Winter to a quiet
suburb and see that she lay low until the danger was past.

For six days the public were under the impression that Holmes was at the
door of death. The bulletins were very grave and there were sinister
paragraphs in the papers. My continual visits assured me that it was not so
bad as that. His wiry constitution and his determined will were working
wonders. He was recovering fast, and I had suspicions at times that he was
really finding himself faster than he pretended, even to me. There was a
curious secretive streak in the man which led to many dramatic effects, but
left even his closest friend guessing as to what his exact plans might be. He
pushed to an extreme the axiom that the only safe plotter was he who
plotted alone. I was nearer him than anyone else, and yet I was always
conscious of the gap between.

On the seventh day the stitches were taken out, in spite of which there
was a report of erysipelas in the evening papers. The same evening papers
had an announcement which I was bound, sick or well, to carry to my
friend. It was simply that among the passengers on the Cunard boat
Ruritania, starting from Liverpool on Friday, was the Baron Adelbert
Gruner, who had some important financial business to settle in the States
before his impending wedding to Miss Violet de Merville, only daughter of,
etc., etc. Holmes listened to the news with a cold, concentrated look upon
his pale face, which told me that it hit him hard.

"Friday!" he cried. "Only three clear days. I believe the rascal wants to
put himself out of danger's way. But he won't, Watson! By the Lord Harry,
he won't! Now, Watson, I want you to do something for me."

"I am here to be used, Holmes."

"Well, then, spend the next twenty-four hours in an intensive study of
Chinese pottery."

He gave no explanations and I asked for none. By long experience I had
learned the wisdom of obedience. But when I had left his room I walked
down Baker Street, revolving in my head how on earth I was to carry out so
strange an order. Finally I drove to the London Library in St. James's
Square, put the matter to my friend Lomax, the sub-librarian, and departed
to my rooms with a goodly volume under my arm.

It is said that the barrister who crams up a case with such care that he
can examine an expert witness upon the Monday has forgotten all his forced
knowledge before the Saturday. Certainly I should not like now to pose as
an authority upon ceramics. And yet all that evening, and all that night with
a short interval for rest, and all next morning I was sucking in knowledge
and committing names to memory. There I learned of the hall-marks of the
great artist-decorators, of the mystery of cyclical dates, the marks of the
Hung-wu and the beauties of the Yung-lo, the writings of Tang-ying, and the
glories of the primitive period of the Sung and the Yuan. I was charged with
all this information when I called upon Holmes next evening. He was out of
bed now, though you would not have guessed it from the published reports,
and he sat with his much-bandaged head resting upon his hand in the depth
of his favourite arm-chair.

"Why, Holmes," I said, "if one believed the papers you are dying."

"That," said he, "is the very impression which I intended to convey. And
now, Watson, have you learned your lessons?"

"At least I have tried to."

"Good. You could keep up an intelligent conversation on the subject?"

"I believe I could."

"Then hand me that little box from the mantel-piece."

He opened the lid and took out a small object most carefully wrapped in
some fine Eastern silk. This he unfolded, and disclosed a delicate little
saucer of the most beautiful deep-blue colour.

"It needs careful handling, Watson. This is the real egg-shell pottery of
the Ming dynasty. No finer piece ever passed through Christie's. A complete
set of this would be worth a king's ransom—in fact, it is doubtful if there is
a complete set outside the Imperial palace of Peking. The sight of this
would drive a real connoisseur wild."

"What am I to do with it?"

Holmes handed me a card upon which was printed: "Dr. Hill Barton, 369
Half Moon Street."

"That is your name for the evening, Watson. You will call upon Baron
Gruner. I know something of his habits, and at half-past eight he would
probably be disengaged. A note will tell him in advance that you are about
to call, and you will say that you are bringing him a specimen of an
absolutely unique set of Ming china. You may as well be a medical man,
since that is a part which you can play without duplicity. You are a collector,
this set has come your way, you have heard of the Baron's interest in the
subject, and you are not averse to selling at a price."

"What price?"

"Well asked, Watson. You would certainly fall down badly if you did not
know the value of your own wares. This saucer was got for me by Sir
James, and comes, I understand, from the collection of his client. You will
not exaggerate if you say that it could hardly be matched in the world."

"I could perhaps suggest that the set should be valued by an expert."

"Excellent, Watson! You scintillate to-day. Suggest Christie or Sotheby.
Your delicacy prevents your putting a price for yourself."

"But if he won't see me?"

"Oh, yes, he will see you. He has the collection mania in its most acute
form—and especially on this subject, on which he is an acknowledged
authority. Sit down, Watson, and I will dictate the letter. No answer needed.
You will merely say that you are coming, and why."

It was an admirable document, short, courteous, and stimulating to the
curiosity of the connoisseur. A district messenger was duly dispatched with
it. On the same evening, with the precious saucer in my hand and the card
of Dr. Hill Barton in my pocket, I set off on my own adventure.

The beautiful house and grounds indicated that Baron Gruner was, as Sir
James had said, a man of considerable wealth. A long winding drive, with
banks of rare shrubs on either side, opened out into a great gravelled square
adorned with statues. The place had been built by a South African gold king
in the days of the great boom, and the long, low house with the turrets at the
corners, though an architectural nightmare, was imposing in its size and
solidity. A butler who would have adorned a bench of bishops showed me
in, and handed me over to a plush-clad footman, who ushered me into the
Baron's presence.

He was standing at the open front of a great case which stood between
the windows, and which contained part of his Chinese collection. He turned
as I entered with a small brown vase in his hand.

"Pray sit down, doctor," said he. "I was looking over my own treasures
and wondering whether I could really afford to add to them. This little Tang
specimen, which dates from the seventh century, would probably interest
you. I am sure you never saw finer workmanship or a richer glaze. Have
you the Ming saucer with you of which you spoke?"

I carefully unpacked it and handed it to him. He seated himself at his
desk, pulled over the lamp, for it was growing dark, and set himself to
examine it. As he did so the yellow light beat upon his own features, and I
was able to study them at my ease.

He was certainly a remarkably handsome man. His European reputation
for beauty was fully deserved. In figure he was not more than of middle
size, but was built upon graceful and active lines. His face was swarthy,
almost Oriental, with large, dark, languorous eyes which might easily hold
an irresistible fascination for women. His hair and moustache were raven
black, the latter short, pointed, and carefully waxed. His features were
regular and pleasing, save only his straight, thin-lipped mouth. If ever I saw
a murderer's mouth it was there—a cruel, hard gash in the face, compressed,
inexorable, and terrible. He was ill-advised to train his moustache away
from it, for it was Nature's danger-signal, set as a warning to his victims.
His voice was engaging and his manners perfect. In age I should have put
him at little over thirty, though his record afterwards showed that he was
forty-two.

"Very fine—very fine indeed!" he said at last. "And you say you have a
set of six to correspond. What puzzles me is that I should not have heard of
such magnificent specimens. I only know of one in England to match this,
and it is certainly not likely to be in the market. Would it be indiscreet if I
were to ask you, Dr. Hill Barton, how you obtained this?"

"Does it really matter?" I asked, with as careless an air as I could muster.
"You can see that the piece is genuine, and, as to the value, I am content to
take an expert's valuation."

"Very mysterious," said he, with a quick, suspicious flash of his dark
eyes. "In dealing with objects of such value, one naturally wishes to know
all about the transaction. That the piece is genuine is certain. I have no
doubts at all about that. But suppose—I am bound to take every possibility
into account—that it should prove afterwards that you had no right to sell?"

"I would guarantee you against any claim of the sort."

"That, of course, would open up the question as to what your guarantee
was worth."

"My bankers would answer that."

"Quite so. And yet the whole transaction strikes me as rather unusual."

"You can do business or not," said I, with indifference. "I have given you
the first offer as I understood that you were a connoisseur, but I shall have
no difficulty in other quarters."

"Who told you I was a connoisseur?"

"I was aware that you had written a book upon the subject."

"Have you read the book?"

"No."

"Dear me, this becomes more and more difficult for me to understand!
You are a connoisseur and collector with a very valuable piece in your
collection, and yet you have never troubled to consult the one book which
would have told you of the real meaning and value of what you held. How
do you explain that?"

"I am a very busy man. I am a doctor in practice."

"That is no answer. If a man has a hobby he follows it up, whatever his
other pursuits may be. You said in your note that you were a connoisseur."

"So I am."

"Might I ask you a few questions to test you? I am obliged to tell you,
doctor—if you are indeed a doctor—that the incident becomes more and
more suspicious. I would ask you what do you know of the Emperor Shomu
and how do you associate him with the Shoso-in near Nara? Dear me, does
that puzzle you? Tell me a little about the Northern Wei dynasty and its
place in the history of ceramics."

I sprang from my chair in simulated anger.

"This is intolerable, sir," said I. "I came here to do you a favour, and not
to be examined as if I were a schoolboy. My knowledge on these subjects
may be second only to your own, but I certainly shall not answer questions
which have been put in so offensive a way."

He looked at me steadily. The languor had gone from his eyes. They
suddenly glared. There was a gleam of teeth from between those cruel lips.

"What is the game? You are here as a spy. You are an emissary of
Holmes. This is a trick that you are playing upon me. The fellow is dying, I
hear, so he sends his tools to keep watch upon me. You've made your way in
here without leave, and, by God! you may find it harder to get out than to
get in."

He had sprung to his feet, and I stepped back, bracing myself for an
attack, for the man was beside himself with rage. He may have suspected
me from the first; certainly this cross-examination had shown him the truth;
but it was clear that I could not hope to deceive him. He dived his hand into
a side-drawer and rummaged furiously. Then something struck upon his ear,
for he stood listening intently.

"Ah!" he cried. "Ah!" and dashed into the room behind him.

Two steps took me to the open door, and my mind will ever carry a clear
picture of the scene within. The window leading out to the garden was wide
open. Beside it, looking like some terrible ghost, his head girt with bloody
bandages, his face drawn and white, stood Sherlock Holmes. The next
instant he was through the gap, and I heard the crash of his body among the
laurel bushes outside. With a howl of rage the master of the house rushed
after him to the open window.

And then! It was done in an instant, and yet I clearly saw it. An arm—a
woman's arm—shot out from among the leaves. At the same instant the
Baron uttered a horrible cry—a yell which will always ring in my memory.
He clapped his two hands to his face and rushed round the room, beating his
head horribly against the walls. Then he fell upon the carpet, rolling and
writhing, while scream after scream resounded through the house.

"Water! For God's sake, water!" was his cry.

I seized a carafe from a side-table and rushed to his aid. At the same
moment the butler and several footmen ran in from the hall. I remember
that one of them fainted as I knelt by the injured man and turned that awful

face to the light of the lamp. The vitriol was eating into it everywhere and
dripping from the ears and the chin. One eye was already white and glazed.
The other was red and inflamed. The features which I had admired a few
minutes before were now like some beautiful painting over which the artist
has passed a wet and foul sponge. They were blurred, discoloured,
inhuman, terrible.

In a few words I explained exactly what had occurred, so far as the
vitriol attack was concerned. Some had climbed through the window and
others had rushed out on to the lawn, but it was dark and it had begun to
rain. Between his screams the victim raged and raved against the avenger.
"It was that hell-cat, Kitty Winter!" he cried. "Oh, the she-devil! She shall
pay for it! She shall pay! Oh, God in heaven, this pain is more than I can
bear!"

I bathed his face in oil, put cotton wadding on the raw surfaces, and
administered a hypodermic of morphia. All suspicion of me had passed
from his mind in the presence of this shock, and he clung to my hands as if
I might have the power even yet to clear those dead-fish eyes which gazed
up at me. I could have wept over the ruin had I not remembered very clearly
the vile life which had led up to so hideous a change. It was loathsome to
feel the pawing of his burning hands, and I was relieved when his family
surgeon, closely followed by a specialist, came to relieve me of my charge.
An inspector of police had also arrived, and to him I handed my real card. It
would have been useless as well as foolish to do otherwise, for I was nearly
as well known by sight at the Yard as Holmes himself. Then I left that house
of gloom and terror. Within an hour I was at Baker Street.

Holmes was seated in his familiar chair, looking very pale and
exhausted. Apart from his injuries, even his iron nerves had been shocked
by the events of the evening, and he listened with horror to my account of
the Baron's transformation.

"The wages of sin, Watson—the wages of sin!" said he. "Sooner or later
it will always come. God knows, there was sin enough," he added, taking
up a brown volume from the table. "Here is the book the woman talked of.
If this will not break off the marriage, nothing ever could. But it will,
Watson. It must. No self-respecting woman could stand it."

"It is his love diary?"

"Or his lust diary. Call it what you will. The moment the woman told us
of it I realized what a tremendous weapon was there, if we could but lay our
hands on it. I said nothing at the time to indicate my thoughts, for this
woman might have given it away. But I brooded over it. Then this assault
upon me gave me the chance of letting the Baron think that no precautions
need be taken against me. That was all to the good. I would have waited a
little longer, but his visit to America forced my hand. He would never have
left so compromising a document behind him. Therefore we had to act at
once. Burglary at night is impossible. He takes precautions. But there was a
chance in the evening if I could only be sure that his attention was engaged.
That was where you and your blue saucer came in. But I had to be sure of
the position of the book, and I knew I had only a few minutes in which to
act, for my time was limited by your knowledge of Chinese pottery.
Therefore I gathered the girl up at the last moment. How could I guess what
the little packet was that she carried so carefully under her cloak? I thought
she had come altogether on my business, but it seems she had some of her
own."

"He guessed I came from you."

"I feared he would. But you held him in play just long enough for me to
get the book, though not long enough for an unobserved escape. Ah, Sir
James, I am very glad you have come!"

Our courtly friend had appeared in answer to a previous summons. He
listened with the deepest attention to Holmes's account of what had
occurred.

"You have done wonders—wonders!" he cried, when he had heard the
narrative. "But if these injuries are as terrible as Dr. Watson describes, then
surely our purpose of thwarting the marriage is sufficiently gained without
the use of this horrible book."

Holmes shook his head.

"Women of the de Merville type do not act like that. She would love him
the more as a disfigured martyr. No, no. It is his moral side, not his
physical, which we have to destroy. That book will bring her back to earth
—and I know nothing else that could. It is in his own writing. She cannot
get past it."

Sir James carried away both it and the precious saucer. As I was myself
overdue, I went down with him into the street. A brougham was waiting for
him. He sprang in, gave a hurried order to the cockaded coachman, and
drove swiftly away. He flung his overcoat half out of the window to cover
the armorial bearings upon the panel, but I had seen them in the glare of our
fanlight none the less. I gasped with surprise. Then I turned back and
ascended the stair to Holmes's room.

"I have found out who our client is," I cried, bursting with my great
news. "Why, Holmes, it is——"

"It is a loyal friend and a chivalrous gentleman," said Holmes, holding
up a restraining hand. "Let that now and for ever be enough for us."

I do not know how the incriminating book was used. Sir James may have
managed it. Or it is more probable that so delicate a task was entrusted to
the young lady's father. The effect, at any rate, was all that could be desired.
Three days later appeared a paragraph in The Morning Post to say that the
marriage between Baron Adelbert Gruner and Miss Violet de Merville
would not take place. The same paper had the first police-court hearing of
the proceedings against Miss Kitty Winter on the grave charge of vitriol-
throwing. Such extenuating circumstances came out in the trial that the
sentence, as will be remembered, was the lowest that was possible for such
an offence. Sherlock Holmes was threatened with a prosecution for
burglary, but when an object is good and a client is sufficiently illustrious,
even the rigid British law becomes human and elastic. My friend has not yet
stood in the dock.

II

THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLANCHED SOLDIER

The ideas of my friend Watson, though limited, are exceedingly
pertinacious. For a long time he has worried me to write an experience of
my own. Perhaps I have rather invited this persecution, since I have often
had occasion to point out to him how superficial are his own accounts and
to accuse him of pandering to popular taste instead of confining himself
rigidly to facts and figures. "Try it yourself, Holmes!" he has retorted, and I
am compelled to admit that, having taken my pen in my hand, I do begin to
realize that the matter must be presented in such a way as may interest the
reader. The following case can hardly fail to do so, as it is among the
strangest happenings in my collection, though it chanced that Watson had
no note of it in his collection. Speaking of my old friend and biographer, I
would take this opportunity to remark that if I burden myself with a
companion in my various little inquiries it is not done out of sentiment or
caprice, but it is that Watson has some remarkable characteristics of his
own, to which in his modesty he has given small attention amid his
exaggerated estimates of my own performances. A confederate who
foresees your conclusions and course of action is always dangerous, but one
to whom each development comes as a perpetual surprise, and to whom the
future is always a closed book, is, indeed, an ideal helpmate.

I find from my notebook that it was in January, 1903, just after the
conclusion of the Boer War, that I had my visit from Mr. James M. Dodd, a
big, fresh, sunburned, upstanding Briton. The good Watson had at that time
deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our
association. I was alone.

It is my habit to sit with my back to the window and to place my visitors
in the opposite chair, where the light falls full upon them. Mr. James M.
Dodd seemed somewhat at a loss how to begin the interview. I did not
attempt to help him, for his silence gave me more time for observation. I
have found it wise to impress clients with a sense of power, and so I gave
him some of my conclusions.

"From South Africa, sir, I perceive."

"Yes, sir," he answered, with some surprise.

"Imperial Yeomanry, I fancy."

"Exactly."

"Middlesex Corps, no doubt."

"That is so. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard."

I smiled at his bewildered expression.

"When a gentleman of virile appearance enters my room with such tan
upon his face as an English sun could never give, and with his handkerchief
in his sleeve instead of in his pocket, it is not difficult to place him. You
wear a short beard, which shows that you were not a regular. You have the
cut of a riding-man. As to Middlesex, your card has already shown me that
you are a stockbroker from Throgmorton Street. What other regiment would
you join?"

"You see everything."

"I see no more than you, but I have trained myself to notice what I see.
However, Mr. Dodd, it was not to discuss the science of observation that
you called upon me this morning. What has been happening at Tuxbury Old
Park?"

"Mr. Holmes——!"

"My dear sir, there is no mystery. Your letter came with that heading, and
as you fixed this appointment in very pressing terms it was clear that
something sudden and important had occurred."

"Yes, indeed. But the letter was written in the afternoon, and a good deal
has happened since then. If Colonel Emsworth had not kicked me out——"

"Kicked you out!"

"Well, that was what it amounted to. He is a hard nail, is Colonel
Emsworth. The greatest martinet in the Army in his day, and it was a day of
rough language, too. I couldn't have stuck the Colonel if it had not been for
Godfrey's sake."

I lit my pipe and leaned back in my chair.

"Perhaps you will explain what you are talking about."

My client grinned mischievously.

"I had got into the way of supposing that you knew everything without
being told," said he. "But I will give you the facts, and I hope to God that
you will be able to tell me what they mean. I've been awake all night
puzzling my brain, and the more I think the more incredible does it become.

"When I joined up in January, 1901—just two years ago—young
Godfrey Emsworth had joined the same squadron. He was Colonel
Emsworth's only son—Emsworth, the Crimean V.C.—and he had the
fighting blood in him, so it is no wonder he volunteered. There was not a
finer lad in the regiment. We formed a friendship—the sort of friendship
which can only be made when one lives the same life and shares the same
joys and sorrows. He was my mate—and that means a good deal in the
Army. We took the rough and the smooth together for a year of hard
fighting. Then he was hit with a bullet from an elephant gun in the action
near Diamond Hill outside Pretoria. I got one letter from the hospital at
Cape Town and one from Southampton. Since then not a word—not one
word, Mr. Holmes, for six months and more, and he my closest pal.

"Well, when the war was over, and we all got back, I wrote to his father
and asked where Godfrey was. No answer. I waited a bit and then I wrote
again. This time I had a reply, short and gruff. Godfrey had gone on a
voyage round the world, and it was not likely that he would be back for a
year. That was all.

"I wasn't satisfied, Mr. Holmes. The whole thing seemed to me so
damned unnatural. He was a good lad and he would not drop a pal like that.
It was not like him. Then, again, I happened to know that he was heir to a

lot of money, and also that his father and he did not always hit it off too
well. The old man was sometimes a bully, and young Godfrey had too much
spirit to stand it. No, I wasn't satisfied, and I determined that I would get to
the root of the matter. It happened, however, that my own affairs needed a
lot of straightening out, after two years' absence, and so it is only this week
that I have been able to take up Godfrey's case again. But since I have taken
it up I mean to drop everything in order to see it through."

Mr. James M. Dodd appeared to be the sort of person whom it would be
better to have as a friend than as an enemy. His blue eyes were stern and his
square jaw had set hard as he spoke.

"Well, what have you done?" I asked.

"My first move was to get down to his home, Tuxbury Old Park, near
Bedford, and to see for myself how the ground lay. I wrote to the mother,
therefore—I had had quite enough of the curmudgeon of a father—and I
made a clean frontal attack: Godfrey was my chum, I had a great deal of
interest which I might tell her of our common experiences, I should be in
the neighbourhood, would there be any objection, et cetera? In reply I had
quite an amiable answer from her and an offer to put me up for the night.
That was what took me down on Monday.

"Tuxbury Old Hall is inaccessible—five miles from anywhere. There
was no trap at the station, so I had to walk, carrying my suit-case, and it was
nearly dark before I arrived. It is a great wandering house, standing in a
considerable park. I should judge it was of all sorts of ages and styles,
starting on a half-timbered Elizabethan foundation and ending in a Victorian
portico. Inside it was all panelling and tapestry and half-effaced old
pictures, a house of shadows and mystery. There was a butler, old Ralph,
who seemed about the same age as the house and there was his wife, who
might have been older. She had been Godfrey's nurse, and I had heard him
speak of her as second only to his mother in his affections, so I was drawn
to her in spite of her queer appearance. The mother I liked also—a gentle
little white mouse of a woman. It was only the Colonel himself whom I
barred.

"We had a bit of a barney right away, and I should have walked back to
the station if I had not felt that it might be playing his game for me to do so.
I was shown straight into his study, and there I found him, a huge, bow-
backed man with a smoky skin and a straggling grey beard, seated behind
his littered desk. A red-veined nose jutted out like a vulture's beak, and two
fierce grey eyes glared at me from under tufted brows. I could understand
now why Godfrey seldom spoke of his father.

"'Well, sir,' said he in a rasping voice. 'I should be interested to know the
real reasons for this visit.'

"I answered that I had explained them in my letter to his wife.

"'Yes, yes; you said that you had known Godfrey in Africa. We have, of
course, only your word for that.'

"'I have his letters to me in my pocket.'

"'Kindly let me see them.'

"He glanced at the two which I handed him, and then he tossed them
back.

"'Well, what then?' he asked.

"'I was fond of your son Godfrey, sir. Many ties and memories united us.
Is it not natural that I should wonder at his sudden silence and should wish
to know what has become of him?'

"'I have some recollection, sir, that I had already corresponded with you
and had told you what had become of him. He has gone upon a voyage
round the world. His health was in a poor way after his African experiences,
and both his mother and I were of opinion that complete rest and change
were needed. Kindly pass that explanation on to any other friends who may
be interested in the matter.'

"'Certainly,' I answered. 'But perhaps you would have the goodness to let
me have the name of the steamer and of the line by which he sailed,

together with the date. I have no doubt that I should be able to get a letter
through to him.'

"My request seemed both to puzzle and to irritate my host. His great
eyebrows came down over his eyes and he tapped his fingers impatiently on
the table. He looked up at last with the expression of one who has seen his
adversary make a dangerous move at chess, and has decided how to meet it.

"'Many people, Mr. Dodd,' said he, 'would take offence at your infernal
pertinacity and would think that this insistence had reached the point of
damned impertinence.'

"'You must put it down, sir, to my real love for your son.'

"'Exactly. I have already made every allowance upon that score. I must
ask you, however, to drop these inquiries. Every family has its own inner
knowledge and its own motives, which cannot always be made clear to
outsiders, however well-intentioned. My wife is anxious to hear something
of Godfrey's past which you are in a position to tell her, but I would ask you
to let the present and the future alone. Such inquiries serve no useful
purpose, sir, and place us in a delicate and difficult position.'

"So I came to a dead end, Mr. Holmes. There was no getting past it. I
could only pretend to accept the situation and register a vow inwardly that I
would never rest until my friend's fate had been cleared up. It was a dull
evening. We dined quietly, the three of us, in a gloomy, faded old room. The
lady questioned me eagerly about her son, but the old man seemed morose
and depressed. I was so bored by the whole proceeding that I made an
excuse as soon as I decently could and retired to my bedroom. It was a
large, bare room on the ground floor, as gloomy as the rest of the house, but
after a year of sleeping upon the veldt, Mr. Holmes, one is not too particular
about one's quarters. I opened the curtains and looked out into the garden,
remarking that it was a fine night with a bright half-moon. Then I sat down
by the roaring fire with the lamp on a table beside me, and endeavoured to
distract my mind with a novel. I was interrupted, however, by Ralph, the
old butler, who came in with a fresh supply of coals.

"'I thought you might run short in the night-time, sir. It is bitter weather
and these rooms are cold.'

"He hesitated before leaving the room, and when I looked round he was
standing facing me with a wistful look upon his wrinkled face.

"'Beg your pardon, sir, but I could not help hearing what you said of
young Master Godfrey at dinner. You know, sir, that my wife nursed him,
and so I may say I am his foster-father. It's natural we should take an
interest. And you say he carried himself well, sir?'

"'There was no braver man in the regiment. He pulled me out once from
under the rifles of the Boers, or maybe I should not be here.'

"The old butler rubbed his skinny hands.

"'Yes, sir, yes, that is Master Godfrey all over. He was always
courageous. There's not a tree in the park, sir, that he has not climbed.
Nothing would stop him. He was a fine boy—and oh, sir, he was a fine
man.'

"I sprang to my feet.

"'Look here!' I cried. 'You say he was. You speak as if he were dead.
What is all this mystery? What has become of Godfrey Emsworth?'

"I gripped the old man by the shoulder, but he shrank away.

"'I don't know what you mean, sir. Ask the master about Master Godfrey.
He knows. It is not for me to interfere.'

"He was leaving the room, but I held his arm.

"'Listen,' I said. 'You are going to answer one question before you leave
if I have to hold you all night. Is Godfrey dead?'

"He could not face my eyes. He was like a man hypnotized. The answer
was dragged from his lips. It was a terrible and unexpected one.

"'I wish to God he was!' he cried, and, tearing himself free, he dashed
from the room.

"You will think, Mr. Holmes, that I returned to my chair in no very
happy state of mind. The old man's words seemed to me to bear only one
interpretation. Clearly my poor friend had become involved in some
criminal, or, at the least, disreputable, transaction which touched the family
honour. That stern old man had sent his son away and hidden him from the
world lest some scandal should come to light. Godfrey was a reckless
fellow. He was easily influenced by those around him. No doubt he had
fallen into bad hands and been misled to his ruin. It was a piteous business,
if it was indeed so, but even now it was my duty to hunt him out and see if I
could aid him. I was anxiously pondering the matter when I looked up, and
there was Godfrey Emsworth standing before me."

My client had paused as one in deep emotion.

"Pray continue," I said. "Your problem presents some very unusual
features."

"He was outside the window, Mr. Holmes, with his face pressed against
the glass. I have told you that I looked out at the night. When I did so, I left
the curtains partly open. His figure was framed in this gap. The window
came down to the ground and I could see the whole length of it, but it was
his face which held my gaze. He was deadly pale—never have I seen a man
so white. I reckon ghosts may look like that; but his eyes met mine, and
they were the eyes of a living man. He sprang back when he saw that I was
looking at him, and he vanished into the darkness.

"There was something shocking about the man, Mr. Holmes. It wasn't
merely that ghastly face glimmering as white as cheese in the darkness. It
was more subtle than that—something slinking, something furtive,
something guilty—something very unlike the frank, manly lad that I had
known. It left a feeling of horror in my mind.

"But when a man has been soldiering for a year or two with brother Boer
as a playmate, he keeps his nerve and acts quickly. Godfrey had hardly
vanished before I was at the window. There was an awkward catch, and I

was some little time before I could throw it up. Then I nipped through and
ran down the garden path in the direction that I thought he might have
taken.

"It was a long path and the light was not very good but it seemed to me
something was moving ahead of me. I ran on and called his name, but it
was no use. When I got to the end of the path there were several others
branching in different directions to various outhouses. I stood hesitating,
and as I did so I heard distinctly the sound of a closing door. It was not
behind me in the house, but ahead of me, somewhere in the darkness. That
was enough, Mr. Holmes, to assure me that what I had seen was not a
vision. Godfrey had run away from me and he had shut a door behind him.
Of that I was certain.

"There was nothing more I could do, and I spent an uneasy night turning
the matter over in my mind and trying to find some theory which would
cover the facts. Next day I found the Colonel rather more conciliatory, and
as his wife remarked that there were some places of interest in the
neighbourhood, it gave me an opening to ask whether my presence for one
more night would incommode them. A somewhat grudging acquiescence
from the old man gave me a clear day in which to make my observations. I
was already perfectly convinced that Godfrey was in hiding somewhere
near, but where and why remained to be solved.

"The house was so large and so rambling that a regiment might be hid
away in it and no one the wiser. If the secret lay there, it was difficult for
me to penetrate it. But the door which I had heard close was certainly not in
the house. I must explore the garden and see what I could find. There was
no difficulty in the way, for the old people were busy in their own fashion
and left me to my own devices.

"There were several small outhouses, but at the end of the garden there
was a detached building of some size—large enough for a gardener's or a
gamekeeper's residence. Could this be the place whence the sound of that
shutting door had come? I approached it in a careless fashion, as though I
were strolling aimlessly round the grounds. As I did so, a small, brisk,
bearded man in a black coat and bowler hat—not at all the gardener type—

came out of the door. To my surprise, he locked it after him and put the key
in his pocket. Then he looked at me with some surprise on his face.

"'Are you a visitor here?' he asked.

"I explained that I was and that I was a friend of Godfrey's.

"'What a pity that he should be away on his travels, for he would have so
liked to see me,' I continued.

"'Quite so. Exactly,' said he, with a rather guilty air. 'No doubt you will
renew your visit at some more propitious time.' He passed on, but when I
turned I observed that he was standing watching me, half-concealed by the
laurels at the far end of the garden.

"I had a good look at the little house as I passed it, but the windows were
heavily curtained, and, so far as one could see, it was empty. I might spoil
my own game, and even be ordered off the premises, if I were too
audacious, for I was still conscious that I was being watched. Therefore, I
strolled back to the house and waited for night before I went on with my
inquiry. When all was dark and quiet, I slipped out of my window and made
my way as silently as possible to the mysterious lodge.

"I have said that it was heavily curtained, but now I found that the
windows were shuttered as well. Some light, however, was breaking
through one of them, so I concentrated my attention upon this. I was in
luck, for the curtain had not been quite closed, and there was a crack in the
shutter so that I could see the inside of the room. It was a cheery place
enough, a bright lamp and a blazing fire. Opposite to me was seated the
little man whom I had seen in the morning. He was smoking a pipe and
reading a paper."

"What paper?" I asked.

My client seemed annoyed at the interruption of his narrative.

"Can it matter?" he asked.

"It is most essential."

"I really took no notice."

"Possibly you observed whether it was a broad-leafed paper or of that
smaller type which one associates with weeklies."

"Now that you mention it, it was not large. It might have been The
Spectator. However, I had little thought to spare upon such details, for a
second man was seated with his back to the window, and I could swear that
this second man was Godfrey. I could not see his face, but I knew the
familiar slope of his shoulders. He was leaning upon his elbow in an
attitude of great melancholy, his body turned towards the fire. I was
hesitating as to what I should do when there was a sharp tap on my
shoulder, and there was Colonel Emsworth beside me.

"'This way, sir!' said he in a low voice. He walked in silence to the house
and I followed him into my own bedroom. He had picked up a timetable in
the hall.

"'There is a train to London at eight-thirty,' said he. 'The trap will be at
the door at eight.'

"He was white with rage, and, indeed, I felt myself in so difficult a
position that I could only stammer out a few incoherent apologies, in which
I tried to excuse myself by urging my anxiety for my friend.

"'The matter will not bear discussion,' said he abruptly. 'You have made a
most damnable intrusion into the privacy of our family. You were here as a
guest and you have become a spy. I have nothing more to say, sir, save that I
have no wish ever to see you again.'

"At this I lost my temper, Mr. Holmes, and I spoke with some warmth.

"'I have seen your son, and I am convinced that for some reason of your
own you are concealing him from the world. I have no idea what your
motives are in cutting him off in this fashion, but I am sure that he is no
longer a free agent. I warn you, Colonel Emsworth, that until I am assured

as to the safety and well-being of my friend I shall never desist in my
efforts to get to the bottom of the mystery, and I shall certainly not allow
myself to be intimidated by anything which you may say or do.'

"The old fellow looked diabolical, and I really thought he was about to
attack me. I have said that he was a gaunt, fierce old giant, and though I am
no weakling I might have been hard put to it to hold my own against him.
However, after a long glare of rage he turned upon his heel and walked out
of the room. For my part, I took the appointed train in the morning, with the
full intention of coming straight to you and asking for your advice and
assistance at the appointment for which I had already written."

Such was the problem which my visitor laid before me. It presented, as
the astute reader will have already perceived, few difficulties in its solution,
for a very limited choice of alternatives must get to the root of the matter.
Still, elementary as it was, there were points of interest and novelty about it
which may excuse my placing it upon record. I now proceeded, using my
familiar method of logical analysis, to narrow down the possible solutions.

"The servants," I asked; "how many were in the house?"

"To the best of my belief there were only the old butler and his wife.
They seemed to live in the simplest fashion."

"There was no servant, then, in the detached house?"

"None, unless the little man with the beard acted as such. He seemed,
however, to be quite a superior person."

"That seems very suggestive. Had you any indication that food was
conveyed from the one house to the other?"

"Now that you mention it, I did see old Ralph carrying a basket down the
garden walk and going in the direction of this house. The idea of food did
not occur to me at the moment."

"Did you make any local inquiries?"

"Yes, I did. I spoke to the station-master and also to the innkeeper in the
village. I simply asked if they knew anything of my old comrade, Godfrey
Emsworth. Both of them assured me that he had gone for a voyage round
the world. He had come home and then had almost at once started off again.
The story was evidently universally accepted."

"You said nothing of your suspicions?"

"Nothing."

"That was very wise. The matter should certainly be inquired into. I will
go back with you to Tuxbury Old Park."

"To-day?"

It happened that at the moment I was clearing up the case which my
friend Watson has described as that of the Abbey School, in which the Duke
of Greyminster was so deeply involved. I had also a commission from the
Sultan of Turkey which called for immediate action, as political
consequences of the gravest kind might arise from its neglect. Therefore it
was not until the beginning of the next week, as my diary records, that I was
able to start forth on my mission to Bedfordshire in company with Mr.
James M. Dodd. As we drove to Euston we picked up a grave and taciturn
gentleman of iron-grey aspect, with whom I had made the necessary
arrangements.

"This is an old friend," said I to Dodd. "It is possible that his presence
may be entirely unnecessary, and, on the other hand, it may be essential. It
is not necessary at the present stage to go further into the matter."

The narratives of Watson have accustomed the reader, no doubt, to the
fact that I do not waste words or disclose my thoughts while a case is
actually under consideration. Dodd seemed surprised, but nothing more was
said and the three of us continued our journey together. In the train I asked
Dodd one more question which I wished our companion to hear.

"You say that you saw your friend's face quite clearly at the window, so
clearly that you are sure of his identity?"

"I have no doubt about it whatever. His nose was pressed against the
glass. The lamplight shone full upon him."

"It could not have been someone resembling him?"

"No, no; it was he."

"But you say he was changed?"

"Only in colour. His face was—how shall I describe it?—it was of a fish-
belly whiteness. It was bleached."

"Was it equally pale all over?"

"I think not. It was his brow which I saw so clearly as it was pressed
against the window."

"Did you call to him?"

"I was too startled and horrified for the moment. Then I pursued him, as
I have told you, but without result."

My case was practically complete, and there was only one small incident
needed to round it off. When, after a considerable drive, we arrived at the
strange old rambling house which my client had described, it was Ralph,
the elderly butler, who opened the door. I had requisitioned the carriage for
the day and had asked my elderly friend to remain within it unless we
should summon him. Ralph, a little wrinkled old fellow, was in the
conventional costume of black coat and pepper-and-salt trousers, with only
one curious variant. He wore brown leather gloves, which at sight of us he
instantly shuffled off, laying them down on the hall-table as we passed in. I
have, as my friend Watson may have remarked, an abnormally acute set of
senses, and a faint but incisive scent was apparent. It seemed to centre on
the hall-table. I turned, placed my hat there, knocked it off, stooped to pick
it up, and contrived to bring my nose within a foot of the gloves. Yes, it was
undoubtedly from them that the curious tarry odour was oozing. I passed on
into the study with my case complete. Alas, that I should have to show my

hand so when I tell my own story! It was by concealing such links in the
chain that Watson was enabled to produce his meretricious finales.

Colonel Emsworth was not in his room, but he came quickly enough on
receipt of Ralph's message. We heard his quick, heavy step in the passage.
The door was flung open and he rushed in with bristling beard and twisted
features, as terrible an old man as ever I have seen. He held our cards in his
hand, and he tore them up and stamped on the fragments.

"Have I not told you, you infernal busybody, that you are warned off the
premises? Never dare to show your damned face here again. If you enter
again without my leave I shall be within my rights if I use violence. I'll
shoot you, sir! By God, I will! As to you, sir," turning upon me, "I extend
the same warning to you. I am familiar with your ignoble profession, but
you must take your reputed talents to some other field. There is no opening
for them here."

"I cannot leave here," said my client firmly, "until I hear from Godfrey's
own lips that he is under no restraint."

Our involuntary host rang the bell.

"Ralph," he said, "telephone down to the county police and ask the
inspector to send up two constables. Tell him there are burglars in the
house."

"One moment," said I. "You must be aware, Mr. Dodd, that Colonel
Emsworth is within his rights and that we have no legal status within his
house. On the other hand, he should recognize that your action is prompted
entirely by solicitude for his son. I venture to hope that, if I were allowed to
have five minutes' conversation with Colonel Emsworth, I could certainly
alter his view of the matter."

"I am not so easily altered," said the old soldier. "Ralph, do what I have
told you. What the devil are you waiting for? Ring up the police!"

"Nothing of the sort," I said, putting my back to the door. "Any police
interference would bring about the very catastrophe which you dread." I

took out my notebook and scribbled one word upon a loose sheet. "That,"
said I, as I handed it to Colonel Emsworth, "is what has brought us here."

He stared at the writing with a face from which every expression save
amazement had vanished.

"How do you know?" he gasped, sitting down heavily in his chair.

"It is my business to know things. That is my trade."

He sat in deep thought, his gaunt hand tugging at his straggling beard.
Then he made a gesture of resignation.

"Well, if you wish to see Godfrey, you shall. It is no doing of mine, but
you have forced my hand. Ralph, tell Mr. Godfrey and Mr. Kent that in five
minutes we shall be with them."

At the end of that time we passed down the garden path and found
ourselves in front of the mystery house at the end. A small bearded man
stood at the door with a look of considerable astonishment upon his face.

"This is very sudden, Colonel Emsworth," said he. "This will disarrange
all our plans."

"I can't help it, Mr. Kent. Our hands have been forced. Can Mr. Godfrey
see us?"

"Yes; he is waiting inside." He turned and led us into a large, plainly
furnished front room. A man was standing with his back to the fire, and at
the sight of him my client sprang forward with outstretched hand.

"Why, Godfrey, old man, this is fine!"

But the other waved him back.

"Don't touch me, Jimmie. Keep your distance. Yes, you may well stare! I
don't quite look the smart Lance-Corporal Emsworth, of B Squadron, do I?"

His appearance was certainly extraordinary. One could see that he had
indeed been a handsome man with clear-cut features sunburned by an
African sun, but mottled in patches over this darker surface were curious
whitish patches which had bleached his skin.

"That's why I don't court visitors," said he. "I don't mind you, Jimmie,
but I could have done without your friend. I suppose there is some good
reason for it, but you have me at a disadvantage."

"I wanted to be sure that all was well with you, Godfrey. I saw you that
night when you looked into my window, and I could not let the matter rest
till I had cleared things up."

"Old Ralph told me you were there, and I couldn't help taking a peep at
you. I hoped you would not have seen me, and I had to run to my burrow
when I heard the window go up."

"But what in Heaven's name is the matter?"

"Well, it's not a long story to tell," said he, lighting a cigarette. "You
remember that morning fight at Buffelsspruit, outside Pretoria, on the
Eastern railway line? You heard I was hit?"

"Yes, I heard that, but I never got particulars."

"Three of us got separated from the others. It was very broken country,
you may remember. There was Simpson—the fellow we called Baldy
Simpson—and Anderson, and I. We were clearing brother Boer, but he lay
low and got the three of us. The other two were killed. I got an elephant
bullet through my shoulder. I stuck on to my horse, however, and he
galloped several miles before I fainted and rolled off the saddle.

"When I came to myself it was nightfall, and I raised myself up, feeling
very weak and ill. To my surprise there was a house close beside me, a
fairly large house with a broad stoep and many windows. It was deadly
cold. You remember the kind of numb cold which used to come at evening,
a deadly, sickening sort of cold, very different from a crisp healthy frost.
Well, I was chilled to the bone, and my only hope seemed to lie in reaching

that house. I staggered to my feet and dragged myself along, hardly
conscious of what I did. I have a dim memory of slowly ascending the
steps, entering a wide-opened door, passing into a large room which
contained several beds, and throwing myself down with a gasp of
satisfaction upon one of them. It was unmade, but that troubled me not at
all. I drew the clothes over my shivering body and in a moment I was in a
deep sleep.

"It was morning when I wakened, and it seemed to me that instead of
coming out into a world of sanity I had emerged into some extraordinary
nightmare. The African sun flooded through the big, curtainless windows,
and every detail of the great, bare, whitewashed dormitory stood out hard
and clear. In front of me was standing a small, dwarf-like man with a huge,
bulbous head, who was jabbering excitedly in Dutch, waving two horrible
hands which looked to me like brown sponges. Behind him stood a group of
people who seemed to be intensely amused by the situation, but a chill
came over me as I looked at them. Not one of them was a normal human
being. Every one was twisted or swollen or disfigured in some strange way.
The laughter of these strange monstrosities was a dreadful thing to hear.

"It seemed that none of them could speak English, but the situation
wanted clearing up, for the creature with the big head was growing
furiously angry and, uttering wild beast cries, he had laid his deformed
hands upon me and was dragging me out of bed, regardless of the fresh
flow of blood from my wound. The little monster was as strong as a bull,
and I don't know what he might have done to me had not an elderly man
who was clearly in authority been attracted to the room by the hubbub. He
said a few stern words in Dutch and my persecutor shrank away. Then he
turned upon me, gazing at me in the utmost amazement.

"'How in the world did you come here?' he asked, in amazement. 'Wait a
bit! I see that you are tired out and that wounded shoulder of yours wants
looking after. I am a doctor, and I'll soon have you tied up. But, man alive!
you are in far greater danger here than ever you were on the battlefield. You
are in the Leper Hospital, and you have slept in a leper's bed.'

"Need I tell you more, Jimmie? It seems that in view of the approaching
battle all these poor creatures had been evacuated the day before. Then, as

the British advanced, they had been brought back by this, their medical
superintendent, who assured me that, though he believed he was immune to
the disease, he would none the less never have dared to do what I had done.
He put me in a private room, treated me kindly, and within a week or so I
was removed to the general hospital at Pretoria.

"So there you have my tragedy. I hoped against hope, but it was not until
I had reached home that the terrible signs which you see upon my face told
me that I had not escaped. What was I to do? I was in this lonely house. We
had two servants whom we could utterly trust. There was a house where I
could live. Under pledge of secrecy, Mr. Kent, who is a surgeon, was
prepared to stay with me. It seemed simple enough on those lines. The
alternative was a dreadful one—segregation for life among strangers with
never a hope of release. But absolute secrecy was necessary, or even in this
quiet country-side there would have been an outcry, and I should have been
dragged to my horrible doom. Even you, Jimmie—even you had to be kept
in the dark. Why my father has relented I cannot imagine."

Colonel Emsworth pointed to me.

"This is the gentleman who forced my hand." He unfolded the scrap of
paper on which I had written the word "Leprosy." "It seemed to me that if
he knew so much as that it was safer that he should know all."

"And so it was," said I. "Who knows but good may come of it? I
understand that only Mr. Kent has seen the patient. May I ask, sir, if you are
an authority on such complaints, which are, I understand, tropical or semi-
tropical in their nature?"

"I have the ordinary knowledge of the educated medical man," he
observed, with some stiffness.

"I have no doubt, sir, that you are fully competent, but I am sure that you
will agree that in such a case a second opinion is valuable. You have
avoided this, I understand, for fear that pressure should be put upon you to
segregate the patient."

"That is so," said Colonel Emsworth.

"I foresaw this situation," I explained, "and I have brought with me a
friend whose discretion may absolutely be trusted. I was able once to do
him a professional service, and he is ready to advise as a friend rather than
as a specialist. His name is Sir James Saunders."

The prospect of an interview with Lord Roberts would not have excited
greater wonder and pleasure in a raw subaltern than was now reflected upon
the face of Mr. Kent.

"I shall indeed be proud," he murmured.

"Then I will ask Sir James to step this way. He is at present in the
carriage outside the door. Meanwhile, Colonel Emsworth, we may perhaps
assemble in your study, where I could give the necessary explanations."

And here it is that I miss my Watson. By cunning questions and
ejaculations of wonder he could elevate my simple art, which is but
systematized common sense, into a prodigy. When I tell my own story I
have no such aid. And yet I will give my process of thought even as I gave
it to my small audience, which included Godfrey's mother, in the study of
Colonel Emsworth.

"That process," said I, "starts upon the supposition that when you have
eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains however
improbable, must be the truth. It may well be that several explanations
remain, in which case one tries test after test until one or other of them has a
convincing amount of support. We will now apply this principle to the case
in point. As it was first presented to me, there were three possible
explanations of the seclusion or incarceration of this gentleman in an
outhouse of his father's mansion. There was the explanation that he was in
hiding for a crime, or that he was mad and that they wished to avoid an
asylum, or that he had some disease which caused his segregation. I could
think of no other adequate solutions. These, then, had to be sifted and
balanced against each other.

"The criminal solution would not bear inspection. No unsolved crime
had been reported from that district. I was sure of that. If it were some
crime not yet discovered, then clearly it would be to the interest of the

family to get rid of the delinquent and send him abroad rather than keep
him concealed at home. I could see no explanation for such a line of
conduct.

"Insanity was more plausible. The presence of the second person in the
outhouse suggested a keeper. The fact that he locked the door when he came
out strengthened the supposition and gave the idea of constraint. On the
other hand, this constraint could not be severe or the young man could not
have got loose and come down to have a look at his friend. You will
remember, Mr. Dodd, that I felt round for points, asking you, for example,
about the paper which Mr. Kent was reading. Had it been The Lancet or The
British Medical Journal it would have helped me. It is not illegal, however,
to keep a lunatic upon private premises so long as there is a qualified person
in attendance and that the authorities have been duly notified. Why, then, all
this desperate desire for secrecy? Once again I could not get the theory to fit
the facts.

"There remained the third possibility, into which, rare and unlikely as it
was, everything seemed to fit. Leprosy is not uncommon in South Africa.
By some extraordinary chance this youth might have contracted it. His
people would be placed in a very dreadful position, since they would desire
to save him from segregation. Great secrecy would be needed to prevent
rumours from getting about and subsequent interference by the authorities.
A devoted medical man, if sufficiently paid, would easily be found to take
charge of the sufferer. There would be no reason why the latter should not
be allowed freedom after dark. Bleaching of the skin is a common result of
the disease. The case was a strong one—so strong that I determined to act
as if it were actually proved. When on arriving here I noticed that Ralph,
who carries out the meals, had gloves which are impregnated with
disinfectants, my last doubts were removed. A single word showed you, sir,
that your secret was discovered, and if I wrote rather than said it, it was to
prove to you that my discretion was to be trusted."

I was finishing this little analysis of the case when the door was opened
and the austere figure of the great dermatologist was ushered in. But for
once his sphinx-like features had relaxed and there was a warm humanity in
his eyes. He strode up to Colonel Emsworth and shook him by the hand.

"It is often my lot to bring ill-tidings, and seldom good," said he. "This
occasion is the more welcome. It is not leprosy."

"What?"

"A well-marked case of pseudo-leprosy or ichthyosis, a scale-like
affection of the skin, unsightly, obstinate, but possibly curable, and certainly
non-infective. Yes, Mr. Holmes, the coincidence is a remarkable one. But is
it coincidence? Are there not subtle forces at work of which we know little?
Are we assured that the apprehension, from which this young man has no
doubt suffered terribly since his exposure to its contagion, may not produce
a physical effect which simulates that which it fears? At any rate, I pledge
my professional reputation—— But the lady has fainted! I think that Mr.
Kent had better be with her until she recovers from this joyous shock."

III

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MAZARIN STONE

It was pleasant to Dr. Watson to find himself once more in the untidy
room of the first floor in Baker Street which had been the starting-point of
so many remarkable adventures. He looked round him at the scientific
charts upon the wall, the acid-charred bench of chemicals, the violin-case
leaning in the corner, the coal-scuttle, which contained of old the pipes and
tobacco. Finally, his eyes came round to the fresh and smiling face of Billy,
the young but very wise and tactful page, who had helped a little to fill up
the gap of loneliness and isolation which surrounded the saturnine figure of
the great detective.

"It all seems very unchanged, Billy. You don't change, either. I hope the
same can be said of him?"

Billy glanced, with some solicitude, at the closed door of the bedroom.

"I think he's in bed and asleep," he said.

It was seven in the evening of a lovely summer's day, but Dr. Watson
was sufficiently familiar with the irregularity of his old friend's hours to feel
no surprise at the idea.

"That means a case, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir; he is very hard at it just now. I'm frightened for his health. He
gets paler and thinner, and he eats nothing. 'When will you be pleased to
dine, Mr. Holmes?' Mrs. Hudson asked. 'Seven-thirty, the day after to-
morrow,' said he. You know his way when he is keen on a case."

"Yes, Billy, I know."

"He's following someone. Yesterday he was out as a workman looking
for a job. To-day he was an old woman. Fairly took me in, he did, and I
ought to know his ways by now." Billy pointed with a grin to a very baggy
parasol which leaned against the sofa. "That's part of the old woman's
outfit," he said.

"But what is it all about, Billy?"

Billy sank his voice, as one who discusses great secrets of State. "I don't
mind telling you, sir, but it should go no farther. It's this case of the Crown
diamond."

"What—the hundred-thousand-pound burglary?"

"Yes, sir. They must get it back, sir. Why, we had the Prime Minister and
the Home Secretary both sitting on that very sofa. Mr. Holmes was very
nice to them. He soon put them at their ease and promised he would do all
he could. Then there is Lord Cantlemere——"

"Ah!"

"Yes, sir; you know what that means. He's a stiff 'un, sir, if I may say so.
I can get along with the Prime Minister, and I've nothing against the Home
Secretary, who seemed a civil, obliging sort of man, but I can't stand his

lordship. Neither can Mr. Holmes, sir. You see, he don't believe in Mr.
Holmes and he was against employing him. He'd rather he failed."

"And Mr. Holmes knows it?"

"Mr. Holmes always knows whatever there is to know."

"Well, we'll hope he won't fail and that Lord Cantlemere will be
confounded. But I say, Billy, what is that curtain for across the window?"

"Mr. Holmes had it put up there three days ago. We've got something
funny behind it."

Billy advanced and drew away the drapery which screened the alcove of
the bow window.

Dr. Watson could not restrain a cry of amazement. There was a facsimile
of his old friend, dressing-gown and all, the face turned three-quarters
towards the window and downwards, as though reading an invisible book,
while the body was sunk deep in an arm-chair. Billy detached the head and
held it in the air.

"We put it at different angles, so that it may seem more life-like. I
wouldn't dare touch it if the blind were not down. But when it's up you can
see this from across the way."

"We used something of the sort once before."

"Before my time," said Billy. He drew the window curtains apart and
looked out into the street. "There are folk who watch us from over yonder. I
can see a fellow now at the window. Have a look for yourself."

Watson had taken a step forward when the bedroom door opened, and
the long, thin form of Holmes emerged, his face pale and drawn, but his
step and bearing as active as ever. With a single spring he was at the
window, and had drawn the blind once more.

"That will do, Billy," said he. "You were in danger of your life then, my
boy, and I can't do without you just yet. Well, Watson, it is good to see you

in your old quarters once again. You come at a critical moment."

"So I gather."

"You can go, Billy. That boy is a problem, Watson. How far am I
justified in allowing him to be in danger?"

"Danger of what, Holmes?"

"Of sudden death. I'm expecting something this evening."

"Expecting what?"

"To be murdered, Watson."

"No, no; you are joking, Holmes!"

"Even my limited sense of humour could evolve a better joke than that.
But we may be comfortable in the meantime, may we not? Is alcohol
permitted? The gasogene and cigars are in the old place. Let me see you
once more in the customary arm-chair. You have not, I hope, learned to
despise my pipe and my lamentable tobacco? It has to take the place of food
these days."

"But why not eat?"

"Because the faculties become refined when you starve them. Why,
surely, as a doctor, my dear Watson, you must admit that what your
digestion gains in the way of blood supply is so much lost to the brain. I am
a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix. Therefore, it is the brain
I must consider."

"But this danger, Holmes?"

"Ah, yes; in case it should come off, it would perhaps be as well that you
should burden your memory with the name and address of the murderer.
You can give it to Scotland Yard, with my love and a parting blessing.
Sylvius is the name—Count Negretto Sylvius. Write it down, man, write it
down! 136 Moorside Gardens, N.W. Got it?"

Watson's honest face was twitching with anxiety. He knew only too well
the immense risks taken by Holmes, and was well aware that what he said
was more likely to be under-statement than exaggeration. Watson was
always the man of action, and he rose to the occasion.

"Count me in, Holmes. I have nothing to do for a day or two."

"Your morals don't improve, Watson. You have added fibbing to your
other vices. You bear every sign of the busy medical man, with calls on him
every hour."

"Not such important ones. But can't you have this fellow arrested?"

"Yes, Watson, I could. That's what worries him so."

"But why don't you?"

"Because I don't know where the diamond is."

"Ah! Billy told me—the missing Crown jewel!"

"Yes, the great yellow Mazarin stone. I've cast my net and I have my
fish. But I have not got the stone. What is the use of taking them? We can
make the world a better place by laying them by the heels. But that is not
what I am out for. It's the stone I want."

"And is this Count Sylvius one of your fish?"

"Yes, and he's a shark. He bites. The other is Sam Merton, the boxer. Not
a bad fellow, Sam, but the Count has used him. Sam's not a shark. He is a
great big silly bull-headed gudgeon. But he is flopping about in my net all
the same."

"Where is this Count Sylvius?"

"I've been at his very elbow all the morning. You've seen me as an old
lady, Watson. I was never more convincing. He actually picked up my
parasol for me once. 'By your leave, madame,' said he—half-Italian, you
know, and with the Southern graces of manner when in the mood, but a

devil incarnate in the other mood. Life is full of whimsical happenings,
Watson."

"It might have been tragedy."

"Well, perhaps it might. I followed him to old Straubenzee's workshop in
the Minories. Straubenzee made the air-gun—a very pretty bit of work, as I
understand, and I rather fancy it is in the opposite window at the present
moment. Have you seen the dummy? Of course, Billy showed it to you.
Well, it may get a bullet through its beautiful head at any moment. Ah,
Billy, what is it?"

The boy had reappeared in the room with a card upon a tray. Holmes
glanced at it with raised eyebrows and an amused smile.

"The man himself. I had hardly expected this. Grasp the nettle, Watson!
A man of nerve. Possibly you have heard of his reputation as a shooter of
big game. It would indeed be a triumphant ending to his excellent sporting
record if he added me to his bag. This is a proof that he feels my toe very
close behind his heel."

"Send for the police."

"I probably shall. But not just yet. Would you glance carefully out of the
window, Watson, and see if anyone is hanging about in the street?"

Watson looked warily round the edge of the curtain.

"Yes, there is one rough fellow near the door."

"That will be Sam Merton—the faithful but rather fatuous Sam. Where is
this gentleman, Billy?"

"In the waiting-room, sir."

"Show him up when I ring."

"Yes, sir."

"If I am not in the room, show him in all the same."

"Yes, sir."

Watson waited until the door was closed, and then he turned earnestly to
his companion.

"Look here, Holmes, this is simply impossible. This is a desperate man,
who sticks at nothing. He may have come to murder you."

"I should not be surprised."

"I insist upon staying with you."

"You would be horribly in the way."

"In his way?"

"No, my dear fellow—in my way."

"Well, I can't possibly leave you."

"Yes, you can, Watson. And you will, for you have never failed to play
the game. I am sure you will play it to the end. This man has come for his
own purpose, but he may stay for mine." Holmes took out his notebook and
scribbled a few lines. "Take a cab to Scotland Yard and give this to Youghal
of the C.I.D. Come back with the police. The fellow's arrest will follow."

"I'll do that with joy."

"Before you return I may have just time enough to find out where the
stone is." He touched the bell. "I think we will go out through the bedroom.
This second exit is exceedingly useful. I rather want to see my shark
without his seeing me, and I have, as you will remember, my own way of
doing it."

It was, therefore, an empty room into which Billy, a minute later,
ushered Count Sylvius. The famous game-shot, sportsman, and man-about-
town was a big, swarthy fellow, with a formidable dark moustache, shading

a cruel, thin-lipped mouth, and surmounted by a long, curved nose, like the
beak of an eagle. He was well dressed, but his brilliant necktie, shining pin,
and glittering rings were flamboyant in their effect. As the door closed
behind him he looked round him with fierce, startled eyes, like one who
suspects a trap at every turn. Then he gave a violent start as he saw the
impassive head and the collar of the dressing-gown which projected above
the arm-chair in the window. At first his expression was one of pure
amazement. Then the light of a horrible hope gleamed in his dark,
murderous eyes. He took one more glance round to see that there were no
witnesses, and then, on tiptoe, his thick stick half raised, he approached the
silent figure. He was crouching for his final spring and blow when a cool,
sardonic voice greeted him from the open bedroom door:

"Don't break it, Count! Don't break it!"

The assassin staggered back, amazement in his convulsed face. For an
instant he half raised his loaded cane once more, as if he would turn his
violence from the effigy to the original; but there was something in that
steady grey eye and mocking smile which caused his hand to sink to his
side.

"It's a pretty little thing," said Holmes, advancing towards the image.
"Tavernier, the French modeller, made it. He is as good at waxworks as
your friend Straubenzee is at air-guns."

"Air-guns, sir! What do you mean?"

"Put your hat and stick on the side-table. Thank you! Pray take a seat.
Would you care to put your revolver out also? Oh, very good, if you prefer
to sit upon it. Your visit is really most opportune, for I wanted badly to have
a few minutes' chat with you."

The Count scowled, with heavy, threatening eyebrows.

"I, too, wished to have some words with you, Holmes. That is why I am
here. I won't deny that I intended to assault you just now."

Holmes swung his leg on the edge of the table.

"I rather gathered that you had some idea of the sort in your head," said
he. "But why these personal attentions?"

"Because you have gone out of your way to annoy me. Because you
have put your creatures upon my track."

"My creatures! I assure you no!"

"Nonsense! I have had them followed. Two can play at that game,
Holmes."

"It is a small point, Count Sylvius, but perhaps you would kindly give
me my prefix when you address me. You can understand that, with my
routine of work, I should find myself on familiar terms with half the rogues'
gallery, and you will agree that exceptions are invidious."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, then."

"Excellent! But I assure you you are mistaken about my alleged agents."

Count Sylvius laughed contemptuously.

"Other people can observe as well as you. Yesterday there was an old
sporting man. To-day it was an elderly woman. They held me in view all
day."

"Really, sir, you compliment me. Old Baron Dowson said the night
before he was hanged that in my case what the law had gained the stage had
lost. And now you give my little impersonations your kindly praise!"

"It was you—you yourself?"

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "You can see in the corner the parasol
which you so politely handed to me in the Minories before you began to
suspect."

"If I had known, you might never——"

"Have seen this humble home again. I was well aware of it. We all have
neglected opportunities to deplore. As it happens, you did not know, so here
we are!"

The Count's knotted brows gathered more heavily over his menacing
eyes. "What you say only makes the matter worse. It was not your agents,
but your play-acting, busybody self! You admit that you have dogged me.
Why?"

"Come now, Count. You used to shoot lions in Algeria."

"Well?"

"But why?"

"Why? The sport—the excitement—the danger!"

"And, no doubt, to free the country from a pest?"

"Exactly!"

"My reasons in a nutshell!"

The Count sprang to his feet, and his hand involuntarily moved back to
his hip-pocket.

"Sit down, sir, sit down! There was another, more practical, reason. I
want that yellow diamond!"

Count Sylvius lay back in his chair with an evil smile.

"Upon my word!" said he.

"You knew that I was after you for that. The real reason why you are
here to-night is to find out how much I know about the matter and how far
my removal is absolutely essential. Well, I should say that, from your point
of view, it is absolutely essential, for I know all about it, save only one
thing, which you are about to tell me."

"Oh, indeed! And, pray, what is this missing fact?"

"Where the Crown diamond now is."

The Count looked sharply at his companion. "Oh, you want to know
that, do you? How the devil should I be able to tell you where it is?"

"You can, and you will."

"Indeed!"

"You can't bluff me, Count Sylvius." Holmes's eyes, as he gazed at him,
contracted and lightened until they were like two menacing points of steel.
"You are absolute plate-glass. I see to the very back of your mind."

"Then, of course, you see where the diamond is!"

Holmes clapped his hands with amusement, and then pointed a derisive
finger. "Then you do know. You have admitted it!"

"I admit nothing."

"Now, Count, if you will be reasonable, we can do business. If not, you
will get hurt."

Count Sylvius threw up his eyes to the ceiling. "And you talk about
bluff!" said he.

Holmes looked at him thoughtfully, like a master chess-player who
meditates his crowning move. Then he threw open the table drawer and
drew out a squat notebook.

"Do you know what I keep in this book?"

"No, sir, I do not!"

"You!"

"Me?"

"Yes, sir, you! You are all here—every action of your vile and dangerous
life."

"Damn you, Holmes!" cried the Count, with blazing eyes. "There are
limits to my patience!"

"It's all here, Count. The real facts as to the death of old Mrs. Harold,
who left you the Blymer estate, which you so rapidly gambled away."

"You are dreaming!"

"And the complete life history of Miss Minnie Warrender."

"Tut! You will make nothing of that!"

"Plenty more here, Count. Here is the robbery in the train-de-luxe to the
Riviera on February 13, 1892. Here is the forged cheque in the same year
on the Crédit Lyonnais."

"No; you're wrong there."

"Then I am right on the others! Now, Count, you are a card-player. When
the other fellow has all the trumps, it saves time to throw down your hand."

"What has all this talk to do with the jewel of which you spoke?"

"Gently, Count. Restrain that eager mind! Let me get to the points in my
own humdrum fashion. I have all this against you; but, above all, I have a
clear case against both you and your fighting bully in the case of the Crown
diamond."

"Indeed!"

"I have the cabman who took you to Whitehall and the cabman who
brought you away. I have the Commissionaire who saw you near the case. I
have Ikey Sanders, who refused to cut it up for you. Ikey has peached, and
the game is up."

The veins stood out on the Count's forehead. His dark, hairy hands were
clenched in a convulsion of restrained emotion. He tried to speak, but the
words would not shape themselves.

"That's the hand I play from," said Holmes. "I put it all upon the table.
But one card is missing. It's the King of Diamonds. I don't know where the
stone is."

"You never shall know."

"No? Now, be reasonable, Count. Consider the situation. You are going
to be locked up for twenty years. So is Sam Merton. What good are you
going to get out of your diamond? None in the world. But if you hand it
over—well, I'll compound a felony. We don't want you or Sam. We want the
stone. Give that up, and so far as I am concerned you can go free so long as
you behave yourself in the future. If you make another slip—well, it will be
the last. But this time my commission is to get the stone, not you."

"But if I refuse?"

"Why, then—alas!—it must be you and not the stone."

Billy had appeared in answer to a ring.

"I think, Count, that it would be as well to have your friend Sam at this
conference. After all, his interests should be represented. Billy, you will see
a large and ugly gentleman outside the front door. Ask him to come up."

"If he won't come, sir?"

"No violence, Billy. Don't be rough with him. If you tell him that Count
Sylvius wants him he will certainly come."

"What are you going to do now?" asked the Count, as Billy disappeared.

"My friend Watson was with me just now. I told him that I had a shark
and a gudgeon in my net; now I am drawing the net and up they come
together."

The Count had risen from his chair, and his hand was behind his back.
Holmes held something half protruding from the pocket of his dressing-
gown.

"You won't die in your bed, Holmes."

"I have often had the same idea. Does it matter very much? After all,
Count, your own exit is more likely to be perpendicular than horizontal. But
these anticipations of the future are morbid. Why not give ourselves up to
the unrestrained enjoyment of the present?"

A sudden wild-beast light sprang up in the dark, menacing eyes of the
master criminal. Holmes's figure seemed to grow taller as he grew tense and
ready.

"It is no use your fingering your revolver, my friend," he said, in a quiet
voice. "You know perfectly well that you dare not use it, even if I gave you
time to draw it. Nasty, noisy things, revolvers, Count. Better stick to air-
guns. Ah! I think I hear the fairy footstep of your estimable partner. Good
day, Mr. Merton. Rather dull in the street, is it not?"

The prize-fighter, a heavily built young man with a stupid, obstinate,
slab-sided face, stood awkwardly at the door, looking about him with a
puzzled expression. Holmes's debonair manner was a new experience, and
though he vaguely felt that it was hostile, he did not know how to counter it.
He turned to his more astute comrade for help.

"What's the game now, Count? What's this fellow want? What's up?" His
voice was deep and raucous.

The Count shrugged his shoulders and it was Holmes who answered.

"If I may put it in a nutshell, Mr. Merton, I should say it was all up."

The boxer still addressed his remarks to his associate.

"Is this cove trying to be funny, or what? I'm not in the funny mood
myself."

"No, I expect not," said Holmes. "I think I can promise you that you will
feel even less humorous as the evening advances. Now, look here, Count
Sylvius. I'm a busy man and I can't waste time. I'm going into that bedroom.
Pray make yourselves quite at home in my absence. You can explain to your
friend how the matter lies without the restraint of my presence. I shall try
over the Hoffmann Barcarolle upon my violin. In five minutes I shall return
for your final answer. You quite grasp the alternative, do you not? Shall we
take you, or shall we have the stone?"

Holmes withdrew, picking up his violin from the corner as he passed. A
few moments later the long-drawn, wailing notes of that most haunting of
tunes came faintly through the closed door of the bedroom.

"What is it, then?" asked Merton anxiously, as his companion turned to
him. "Does he know about the stone?"

"He knows a damned sight too much about it. I'm not sure that he doesn't
know all about it."

"Good Lord!" The boxer's sallow face turned a shade whiter.

"Ikey Sanders has split on us."

"He has, has he? I'll do him down a thick 'un for that if I swing for it."

"That won't help us much. We've got to make up our minds what to do."

"Half a mo'," said the boxer, looking suspiciously at the bedroom door.
"He's a leary cove that wants watching. I suppose he's not listening?"

"How can he be listening with that music going?"

"That's right. Maybe somebody's behind a curtain. Too many curtains in
this room." As he looked round he suddenly saw for the first time the effigy
in the window, and stood staring and pointing, too amazed for words.

"Tut! it's only a dummy," said the Count.

"A fake, is it? Well, strike me! Madame Tussaud ain't in it. It's the living
spit of him, gown and all. But them curtains, Count!"

"Oh, confound the curtains! We are wasting our time, and there is none
too much. He can lag us over this stone."

"The deuce he can!"

"But he'll let us slip if we only tell him where the swag is."

"What! Give it up? Give up a hundred thousand quid?"

"It's one or the other."

Merton scratched his short-cropped pate.

"He's alone in there. Let's do him in. If his light were out we should have
nothing to fear."

The Count shook his head.

"He is armed and ready. If we shot him we could hardly get away in a
place like this. Besides, it's likely enough that the police know whatever
evidence he has got. Hallo! What was that?"

There was a vague sound which seemed to come from the window. Both
men sprang round, but all was quiet. Save for the one strange figure seated
in the chair, the room was certainly empty.

"Something in the street," said Merton. "Now look here, guv'nor, you've
got the brains. Surely you can think a way out of it. If slugging is no use
then it's up to you."

"I've fooled better men than he," the Count answered. "The stone is here
in my secret pocket. I take no chances leaving it about. It can be out of
England to-night and cut into four pieces in Amsterdam before Sunday. He
knows nothing of Van Seddar."

"I thought Van Seddar was going next week."

"He was. But now he must get off by the next boat. One or other of us
must slip round with the stone to Lime Street and tell him."

"But the false bottom ain't ready."

"Well, he must take it as it is and chance it. There's not a moment to
lose." Again, with the sense of danger which becomes an instinct with the
sportsman, he paused and looked hard at the window. Yes, it was surely
from the street that the faint sound had come.

"As to Holmes," he continued, "we can fool him easily enough. You see,
the damned fool won't arrest us if he can get the stone. Well, we'll promise
him the stone. We'll put him on the wrong track about it, and before he finds
that it is the wrong track it will be in Holland and we out of the country."

"That sounds good to me!" cried Sam Merton, with a grin.

"You go on and tell the Dutchman to get a move on him. I'll see this
sucker and fill him up with a bogus confession. I'll tell him that the stone is
in Liverpool. Confound that whining music; it gets on my nerves! By the
time he finds it isn't in Liverpool it will be in quarters and we on the blue
water. Come back here, out of a line with that keyhole. Here is the stone."

"I wonder you dare carry it."

"Where could I have it safer? If we could take it out of Whitehall
someone else could surely take it out of my lodgings."

"Let's have a look at it."

Count Sylvius cast a somewhat unflattering glance at his associate, and
disregarded the unwashed hand which was extended towards him.

"What—d'ye think I'm going to snatch it off you? See here, mister, I'm
getting a bit tired of your ways."

"Well, well; no offence, Sam. We can't afford to quarrel. Come over to
the window if you want to see the beauty properly. Now hold it to the light!
Here!"

"Thank you!"

With a single spring Holmes had leaped from the dummy's chair and had
grasped the precious jewel. He held it now in one hand, while his other
pointed a revolver at the Count's head. The two villains staggered back in
utter amazement. Before they had recovered Holmes had pressed the
electric bell.

"No violence, gentlemen—no violence, I beg of you! Consider the
furniture! It must be very clear to you that your position is an impossible
one. The police are waiting below."

The Count's bewilderment overmastered his rage and fear.

"But how the deuce——?" he gasped.

"Your surprise is very natural. You are not aware that a second door from
my bedroom leads behind that curtain. I fancied that you must have heard
me when I displaced the figure, but luck was on my side. It gave me a
chance of listening to your racy conversation which would have been
painfully constrained had you been aware of my presence."

The Count gave a gesture of resignation.

"We give you best, Holmes. I believe you are the devil himself."

"Not far from him, at any rate," Holmes answered, with a polite smile.

Sam Merton's slow intellect had only gradually appreciated the situation.
Now, as the sound of heavy steps came from the stairs outside, he broke
silence at last.

"A fair cop!" said he. "But, I say, what about that bloomin' fiddle! I hear
it yet."

"Tut, tut!" Holmes answered. "You are perfectly right. Let it play! These
modern gramophones are a remarkable invention."

There was an inrush of police, the handcuffs clicked and the criminals
were led to the waiting cab. Watson lingered with Holmes, congratulating
him upon this fresh leaf added to his laurels. Once more their conversation
was interrupted by the imperturbable Billy with his card-tray.

"Lord Cantlemere, sir."

"Show him up, Billy. This is the eminent peer who represents the very
highest interests," said Holmes. "He is an excellent and loyal person, but
rather of the old regime. Shall we make him unbend? Dare we venture upon
a slight liberty? He knows, we may conjecture, nothing of what has
occurred."

The door opened to admit a thin, austere figure with a hatchet face and
drooping mid-Victorian whiskers of a glossy blackness which hardly
corresponded with the rounded shoulders and feeble gait. Holmes advanced
affably, and shook an unresponsive hand.

"How-do-you-do, Lord Cantlemere? It is chilly, for the time of year, but
rather warm indoors. May I take your overcoat?"

"No, I thank you; I will not take it off."

Holmes laid his hand insistently upon the sleeve.

"Pray allow me! My friend Dr. Watson would assure you that these
changes of temperature are most insidious."

His lordship shook himself free with some impatience.

"I am quite comfortable, sir. I have no need to stay. I have simply looked
in to know how your self-appointed task was progressing."

"It is difficult—very difficult."

"I feared that you would find it so."

There was a distinct sneer in the old courtier's words and manner.

"Every man finds his limitations, Mr. Holmes, but at least it cures us of
the weakness of self-satisfaction."

"Yes, sir, I have been much perplexed."

"No doubt."

"Especially upon one point. Possibly you could help me upon it?"

"You apply for my advice rather late in the day. I thought that you had
your own all-sufficient methods. Still, I am ready to help you."

"You see, Lord Cantlemere, we can no doubt frame a case against the
actual thieves."

"When you have caught them."

"Exactly. But the question is—how shall we proceed against the
receiver?"

"Is this not rather premature?"

"It is as well to have our plans ready. Now, what would you regard as
final evidence against the receiver?"

"The actual possession of the stone."

"You would arrest him upon that?"

"Most undoubtedly."

Holmes seldom laughed, but he got as near it as his old friend Watson
could remember.

"In that case, my dear sir, I shall be under the painful necessity of
advising your arrest."

Lord Cantlemere was very angry. Some of the ancient fires flickered up
into his sallow cheeks.

"You take a great liberty, Mr. Holmes. In fifty years of official life I
cannot recall such a case. I am a busy man, sir, engaged upon important
affairs, and I have no time or taste for foolish jokes. I may tell you frankly,
sir, that I have never been a believer in your powers, and that I have always
been of the opinion that the matter was far safer in the hands of the regular
police force. Your conduct confirms all my conclusions. I have the honour,
sir, to wish you good evening."

Holmes had swiftly changed his position and was between the peer and
the door.

"One moment, sir," said he. "To actually go off with the Mazarin stone
would be a more serious offence than to be found in temporary possession
of it."

"Sir, this is intolerable! Let me pass."

"Put your hand in the right-hand pocket of your overcoat."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Come—come; do what I ask."

An instant later the amazed peer was standing, blinking and stammering,
with the great yellow stone on his shaking palm.

"What! What! How is this, Mr. Holmes?"

"Too bad, Lord Cantlemere, too bad!" cried Holmes. "My old friend here
will tell you that I have an impish habit of practical joking. Also that I can
never resist a dramatic situation. I took the liberty—the very great liberty, I
admit—of putting the stone into your pocket at the beginning of our
interview."

The old peer stared from the stone to the smiling face before him.

"Sir, I am bewildered. But—yes—it is indeed the Mazarin stone. We are
greatly your debtors, Mr. Holmes. Your sense of humour may, as you admit,
be somewhat perverted, and its exhibition remarkably untimely, but at least

I withdraw any reflection I have made upon your amazing professional
powers. But how——"

"The case is but half finished; the details can wait. No doubt, Lord
Cantlemere, your pleasure in telling of this successful result in the exalted
circle to which you return will be some small atonement for my practical
joke. Billy, you will show his lordship out, and tell Mrs. Hudson that I
should be glad if she would send up dinner for two as soon as possible."

IV

THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE GABLES

I don't think that any of my adventures with Mr. Sherlock Holmes
opened quite so abruptly, or so dramatically, as that which I associate with
The Three Gables. I had not seen Holmes for some days, and had no idea of
the new channel into which his activities had been directed. He was in a
chatty mood that morning, however, and had just settled me into the well-
worn low arm-chair on one side of the fire, while he had curled down with
his pipe in his mouth upon the opposite chair, when our visitor arrived. If I
had said that a mad bull had arrived, it would give a clearer impression of
what occurred.

The door had flown open and a huge negro had burst into the room. He
would have been a comic figure if he had not been terrific, for he was
dressed in a very loud grey check suit with a flowing salmon-coloured tie.
His broad face and flattened nose were thrust forward, as his sullen dark
eyes, with a smouldering gleam of malice in them, turned from one of us to
the other.

"Which of you genelmen is Masser Holmes?" he asked.

Holmes raised his pipe with a languid smile.

"Oh! it's you, is it?" said our visitor, coming with an unpleasant, stealthy
step round the angle of the table. "See here, Masser Holmes, you keep your
hands out of other folks' business. Leave folks to manage their own affairs.
Got that, Masser Holmes?"

"Keep on talking," said Holmes. "It's fine."

"Oh! it's fine, is it?" growled the savage. "It won't be so damn fine if I
have to trim you up a bit. I've handled your kind before now, and they didn't
look fine when I was through with them. Look at that, Masser Holmes!"

He swung a huge knotted lump of a fist under my friend's nose. Holmes
examined it closely with an air of great interest. "Were you born so?" he
asked. "Or did it come by degrees?"

It may have been the icy coolness of my friend, or it may have been the
slight clatter which I made as I picked up the poker. In any case, our
visitor's manner became less flamboyant.

"Well, I've given you fair warnin'," said he. "I've a friend that's interested
out Harrow way—you know what I'm meaning—and he don't intend to
have no buttin' in by you. Got that? You ain't the law, and I ain't the law
either, and if you come in I'll be on hand also. Don't you forget it."

"I've wanted to meet you for some time," said Holmes. "I won't ask you
to sit down, for I don't like the smell of you, but aren't you Steve Dixie, the
bruiser?

"That's my name, Masser Holmes, and you'll get put through it for sure if
you give me any lip."

"It is certainly the last thing you need," said Holmes, staring at our
visitor's hideous mouth. "But it was the killing of young Perkins outside the
Holborn Bar—— What! you're not going?"

The negro had sprung back, and his face was leaden. "I won't listen to no
such talk," said he. "What have I to do with this 'ere Perkins, Masser

Holmes? I was trainin' at the Bull Ring in Birmingham when this boy done
gone get into trouble."

"Yes, you'll tell the magistrate about it, Steve," said Holmes. "I've been
watching you and Barney Stockdale——"

"So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes——"

"That's enough. Get out of it. I'll pick you up when I want you."

"Good mornin', Masser Holmes. I hope there ain't no hard feelin's about
this 'ere visit?"

"There will be unless you tell me who sent you."

"Why, there ain't no secret about that, Masser Holmes. It was that same
genelman that you have just done gone mention."

"And who set him on to it?"

"S'elp me. I don't know, Masser Holmes. He just say, 'Steve, you go see
Mr. Holmes, and tell him his life ain't safe if he go down Harrow way.'
That's the whole truth."

Without waiting for any further questioning, our visitor bolted out of the
room almost as precipitately as he had entered. Holmes knocked out the
ashes of his pipe with a quiet chuckle.

"I am glad you were not forced to break his woolly head, Watson. I
observed your manoeuvres with the poker. But he is really rather a harmless
fellow, a great muscular, foolish, blustering baby, and easily cowed, as you
have seen. He is one of the Spencer John gang and has taken part in some
dirty work of late which I may clear up when I have time. His immediate
principal, Barney, is a more astute person. They specialize in assaults,
intimidation, and the like. What I want to know is, who is at the back of
them on this particular occasion?"

"But why do they want to intimidate you?"

"It is this Harrow Weald case. It decides me to look into the matter, for if
it is worth anyone's while to take so much trouble, there must be something
in it."

"But what is it?"

"I was going to tell you when we had this comic interlude. Here is Mrs.
Maberley's note. If you care to come with me we will wire her and go out at
once."

DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES, (I read)—

I have had a succession of strange incidents occur to me in connection
with this house, and I should much value your advice. You would find me at
home any time to-morrow. The house is within a short walk of the Weald
Station. I believe that my late husband, Mortimer Maberley, was one of
your early clients.

Yours faithfully,
MARY MABERLEY.

The address was "The Three Gables, Harrow Weald."

"So that's that!" said Holmes. "And now, if you can spare the time,
Watson, we will get upon our way."

A short railway journey, and a shorter drive, brought us to the house, a
brick and timber villa, standing in its own acre of undeveloped grassland.
Three small projections above the upper windows made a feeble attempt to
justify its name. Behind was a grove of melancholy, half-grown pines, and
the whole aspect of the place was poor and depressing. None the less, we
found the house to be well furnished, and the lady who received us was a
most engaging elderly person, who bore every mark of refinement and
culture.

"I remember your husband well, madam," said Holmes, "though it is
some years since he used my services in some trifling matter."

"Probably you would be more familiar with the name of my son
Douglas."

Holmes looked at her with great interest.

"Dear me! Are you the mother of Douglas Maberley? I knew him
slightly. But, of course, all London knew him. What a magnificent creature
he was! Where is he now?"

"Dead, Mr. Holmes, dead! He was Attaché at Rome, and he died there of
pneumonia last month."

"I am sorry. One could not connect death with such a man. I have never
known anyone so vitally alive. He lived intensely—every fibre of him!"

"Too intensely, Mr. Holmes. That was the ruin of him. You remember
him as he was—debonair and splendid. You did not see the moody, morose,
brooding creature into which he developed. His heart was broken. In a
single month I seemed to see my gallant boy turn into a worn-out cynical
man."

"A love affair—a woman?"

"Or a fiend. Well, it was not to talk of my poor lad that I asked you to
come, Mr. Holmes."

"Dr. Watson and I are at your service."

"There have been some very strange happenings. I have been in this
house more than a year now, and as I wished to lead a retired life I have
seen little of my neighbours. Three days ago I had a call from a man who
said that he was a house agent. He said that this house would exactly suit a
client of his and that if I would part with it money would be no object. It
seemed to me very strange, as there are several empty houses on the market
which appear to be equally eligible, but naturally I was interested in what

he said. I therefore named a price which was five hundred pounds more
than I gave. He at once closed with the offer, but added that his client
desired to buy the furniture as well and would I put a price upon it. Some of
this furniture is from my old home, and it is, as you see, very good, so that I
named a good round sum. To this also he at once agreed. I had always
wanted to travel, and the bargain was so good a one that it really seemed
that I should be my own mistress for the rest of my life.

"Yesterday the man arrived with the agreement all drawn out. Luckily I
showed it to Mr. Sutro, my lawyer, who lives in Harrow. He said to me,
'This is a very strange document. Are you aware that if you sign it you
could not legally take anything out of the house—not even your own
private possessions?' When the man came again in the evening I pointed
this out, and I said that I meant only to sell the furniture.

"'No, no; everything,' said he.

"'But my clothes? My jewels?'

"'Well, well, some concession might be made for your personal effects.
But nothing shall go out of the house unchecked. My client is a very liberal
man, but he has his fads and his own way of doing things. It is everything
or nothing with him.'

"'Then it must be nothing,' said I. And there the matter was left, but the
whole thing seemed to me to be so unusual that I thought——"

Here we had a very extraordinary interruption.

Holmes raised his hand for silence. Then he strode across the room,
flung open the door, and dragged in a great gaunt woman whom he had
seized by the shoulder. She entered with ungainly struggles, like some huge
awkward chicken, torn squawking out of its coop.

"Leave me alone! What are you a-doin' of?" she screeched.

"Why, Susan, what is this?"

"Well, ma'am, I was comin' in to ask if the visitors was stayin' for lunch
when this man jumped out at me."

"I have been listening to her for the last five minutes, but did not wish to
interrupt your most interesting narrative. Just a little wheezy, Susan, are you
not? You breathe too heavily for that kind of work."

Susan turned a sulky but amazed face upon her captor. "Who be you,
anyhow, and what right have you a-pullin' me about like this?"

"It was merely that I wished to ask a question in your presence. Did you,
Mrs. Maberley, mention to anyone that you were going to write to me and
consult me?"

"No, Mr. Holmes, I did not."

"Who posted your letter?"

"Susan did."

"Exactly. Now, Susan, to whom was it that you wrote or sent a message
to say that your mistress was asking advice from me?"

"It's a lie. I sent no message."

"Now, Susan, wheezy people may not live long, you know. It's a wicked
thing to tell fibs. Whom did you tell?"

"Susan!" cried her mistress, "I believe you are a bad, treacherous
woman. I remember now that I saw you speaking to someone over the
hedge."

"That was my own business," said the woman sullenly.

"Suppose I tell you that it was Barney Stockdale to whom you spoke?"
said Holmes.

"Well, if you know, what do you want to ask for?"

"I was not sure, but I know now. Well now, Susan, it will be worth ten
pounds to you if you will tell me who is at the back of Barney."

"Someone that could lay down a thousand pounds for every ten you have
in the world."

"So, a rich man? No; you smiled—a rich woman. Now we have got so
far, you may as well give the name and earn the tenner."

"I'll see you in hell first."

"Oh, Susan! Language!"

"I am clearing out of here. I've had enough of you all. I'll send for my
box to-morrow." She flounced for the door.

"Good-bye, Susan. Paregoric is the stuff.... Now," he continued, turning
suddenly from lively to severe when the door had closed behind the flushed
and angry woman, "this gang means business. Look how close they play the
game. Your letter to me had the 10 p.m. postmark. And yet Susan passes the
word to Barney. Barney has time to go to his employer and get instructions;
he or she—I incline to the latter from Susan's grin when she thought I had
blundered—forms a plan. Black Steve is called in, and I am warned off by
eleven o'clock next morning. That's quick work, you know."

"But what do they want?"

"Yes, that's the question. Who had the house before you?"

"A retired sea captain, called Ferguson."

"Anything remarkable about him?"

"Not that ever I heard of."

"I was wondering whether he could have buried something. Of course,
when people bury treasure nowadays they do it in the Post Office bank. But
there are always some lunatics about. It would be a dull world without
them. At first I thought of some buried valuable. But why, in that case,

should they want your furniture? You don't happen to have a Raphael or a
first folio Shakespeare without knowing it?"

"No, I don't think I have anything rarer than a Crown Derby tea-set."

"That would hardly justify all this mystery. Besides, why should they not
openly state what they want? If they covet your tea-set, they can surely
offer a price for it without buying you out, lock, stock, and barrel. No, as I
read it, there is something which you do not know that you have, and which
you would not give up if you did know."

"That is how I read it," said I.

"Dr. Watson agrees, so that settles it."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, what can it be?"

"Let us see whether by this purely mental analysis we can get it to a finer
point. You have been in this house a year."

"Nearly two."

"All the better. During this long period no one wants anything from you.
Now suddenly within three or four days you have urgent demands. What
would you gather from that?"

"It can only mean," said I, "that the object, whatever it may be, has only
just come into the house."

"Settled once again," said Holmes. "Now, Mrs. Maberley, has any object
just arrived?"

"No; I have bought nothing new this year."

"Indeed! That is very remarkable. Well, I think we had best let matters
develop a little further until we have clearer data. Is that lawyer of yours a
capable man?"

"Mr. Sutro is most capable."

"Have you another maid, or was the fair Susan, who has just banged
your front door, alone?"

"I have a young girl."

"Try and get Sutro to spend a night or two in the house. You might
possibly want protection."

"Against whom?"

"Who knows? The matter is certainly obscure. If I can't find what they
are after, I must approach the matter from the other end, and try to get at the
principal. Did this house-agent man give any address?"

"Simply his card and occupation. Haines-Johnson, Auctioneer and
Valuer."

"I don't think we shall find him in the Directory. Honest business men
don't conceal their place of business. Well, you will let me know any fresh
development. I have taken up your case, and you may rely upon it that I
shall see it through."

As we passed through the hall Holmes's eyes, which missed nothing,
lighted upon several trunks and cases which were piled in the corner. The
labels shone out upon them.

"'Milano.' 'Lucerne.' These are from Italy."

"They are poor Douglas's things."

"You have not unpacked them? How long have you had them?"

"They arrived last week."

"But you said—why, surely this might be the missing link. How do we
know that there is not something of value there?"

"There could not possibly be, Mr. Holmes. Poor Douglas had only his
pay and a small annuity. What could he have of value?"

Holmes was lost in thought.

"Delay no longer, Mrs. Maberley," he said at last. "Have these things
taken upstairs to your bedroom. Examine them as soon as possible and see
what they contain. I will come to-morrow and hear your report."

It was quite evident that The Three Gables was under very close
surveillance, for as we came round the high hedge at the end of the lane
there was the negro prize-fighter standing in the shadow. We came on him
quite suddenly, and a grim and menacing figure he looked in that lonely
place. Holmes clapped his hand to his pocket.

"Lookin' for your gun, Masser Holmes?"

"No; for my scent-bottle, Steve."

"You are funny, Masser Holmes, ain't you?"

"It won't be funny for you, Steve, if I get after you. I gave you fair
warning this morning."

"Well, Masser Holmes, I done gone think over what you said, and I don't
want no more talk about that affair of Masser Perkins. S'pose I can help
you, Masser Holmes, I will."

"Well, then, tell me who is behind you on this job?"

"So help me the Lord! Masser Holmes, I told you the truth before. I don't
know. My boss Barney gives me orders and that's all."

"Well, just bear in mind, Steve, that the lady in that house, and
everything under that roof, is under my protection. Don't you forget it."

"All right, Masser Holmes. I'll remember.'

"I've got him thoroughly frightened for his own skin, Watson," Holmes
remarked as we walked on. "I think he would double-cross his employer if
he knew who he was. It was lucky I had some knowledge of the Spencer
John crowd, and that Steve was one of them. Now, Watson, this is a case for

Langdale Pike, and I am going to see him now. When I get back I may be
clearer in the matter."

I saw no more of Holmes during the day, but I could well imagine how
he spent it, for Langdale Pike was his human book of reference upon all
matters of social scandal. This strange, languid creature spent his waking
hours in the bow window of a St. James's Street club, and was the
receiving-station, as well as the transmitter, for all the gossip of the
Metropolis. He made, it was said, a four-figure income by the paragraphs
which he contributed every week to the garbage papers which cater for an
inquisitive public. If ever, far down in the turbid depths of London life,
there was some strange swirl or eddy, it was marked with automatic
exactness by this human dial upon the surface. Holmes discreetly helped
Langdale to knowledge, and on occasion was helped in turn.

When I met my friend in his room early next morning, I was conscious
from his bearing that all was well, but none the less a most unpleasant
surprise was awaiting us. It took the shape of the following telegram:

"Please come out at once. Client's house burgled in the night. Police in
possession.

"SUTRO."

Holmes whistled. "The drama has come to a crisis, and quicker than I
had expected. There is a great driving-power at the back of this business,
Watson, which does not surprise me after what I have heard. This Sutro, of
course, is her lawyer. I made a mistake, I fear, in not asking you to spend
the night on guard. This fellow has clearly proved a broken reed. Well, there
is nothing for it but another journey to Harrow Weald."

We found The Three Gables a very different establishment to the orderly
household of the previous day. A small group of idlers had assembled at the
garden gate, while a couple of constables were examining the windows and

the geranium beds. Within we met a grey old gentleman, who introduced
himself as the lawyer, together with a bustling, rubicund Inspector, who
greeted Holmes as an old friend.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, no chance for you in this case, I'm afraid. Just a
common, ordinary burglary, and well within the capacity of the poor old
police. No experts need apply."

"I am sure the case is in very good hands," said Holmes. "Merely a
common burglary, you say?"

"Quite so. We know pretty well who the men are and where to find them.
It is that gang of Barney Stockdale, with the big nigger in it—they've been
seen about here."

"Excellent! What did they get?"

"Well, they don't seem to have got much. Mrs. Maberley was
chloroformed and the house was—— Ah! here is the lady herself."

Our friend of yesterday, looking very pale and ill, had entered the room,
leaning upon a little maid-servant.

"You gave me good advice, Mr. Holmes," said she, smiling ruefully.
"Alas, I did not take it! I did not wish to trouble Mr. Sutro, and so I was
unprotected."

"I only heard of it this morning," the lawyer explained.

"Mr. Holmes advised me to have some friend in the house. I neglected
his advice, and I have paid for it."

"You look wretchedly ill," said Holmes. "Perhaps you are hardly equal to
telling me what occurred."

"It is all here," said the Inspector, tapping a bulky notebook.

"Still, if the lady is not too exhausted——"

"There is really so little to tell. I have no doubt that wicked Susan had
planned an entrance for them. They must have known the house to an inch.
I was conscious for a moment of the chloroform rag which was thrust over
my mouth, but I have no notion how long I may have been senseless. When
I woke, one man was at the bedside and another was rising with a bundle in
his hand from among my son's baggage, which was partially opened and
littered over the floor. Before he could get away I sprang up and seized
him."

"You took a big risk," said the Inspector.

"I clung to him, but he shook me off, and the other may have struck me,
for I can remember no more. Mary the maid heard the noise and began
screaming out of the window. That brought the police, but the rascals had
got away."

"What did they take?"

"Well, I don't think there is anything of value missing. I am sure there
was nothing in my son's trunks."

"Did the men leave no clue?"

"There was one sheet of paper which I may have torn from the man that I
grasped. It was lying all crumpled on the floor. It is in my son's
handwriting."

"Which means that it is not of much use," said the Inspector. "Now if it
had been in the burglar's——"

"Exactly," said Holmes. "What rugged common sense! None the less, I
should be curious to see it."

The Inspector drew a folded sheet of foolscap from his pocket-book.

"I never pass anything, however trifling," said he, with some pomposity.
"That is my advice to you, Mr. Holmes. In twenty-five years' experience I

have learned my lesson. There is always the chance of finger-marks or
something."

Holmes inspected the sheet of paper.

"What do you make of it, Inspector?"

"Seems to be the end of some queer novel, so far as I can see."

"It may certainly prove to be the end of a queer tale," said Holmes. "You
have noticed the number on the top of the page. It is two hundred and forty-
five. Where are the odd two hundred and forty-four pages?"

"Well, I suppose the burglars got those. Much good may it do them!"

"It seems a queer thing to break into a house in order to steal such papers
as that. Does it suggest anything to you, Inspector?"

"Yes, sir; it suggests that in their hurry the rascals just grabbed at what
came first to hand. I wish them joy of what they got."

"Why should they go to my son's things?" asked Mrs. Maberley.

"Well, they found nothing valuable downstairs, so they tried their luck
upstairs. That is how I read it. What do you make of it, Mr. Holmes?"

"I must think it over, Inspector. Come to the window, Watson." Then, as
we stood together, he read over the fragment of paper. It began in the
middle of a sentence and ran like this:

"... face bled considerably from the cuts and blows, but it was nothing to
the bleeding of his heart as he saw that lovely face, the face for which he
had been prepared to sacrifice his very life, looking out at his agony and
humiliation. She smiled—yes, by Heaven! she smiled, like the heartless
fiend she was, as he looked up at her. It was at that moment that love died
and hate was born. Man must live for something. If it is not for your

embrace, my lady, then it shall surely be for your undoing and my complete
revenge."

"Queer grammar!" said Holmes, with a smile, as he handed the paper
back to the Inspector. "Did you notice how the 'he' suddenly changed to
'my.' The writer was so carried away by his own story that he imagined
himself at the supreme moment to be the hero."

"It seemed mighty poor stuff," said the Inspector, as he replaced it in his
book. "What! are you off, Mr. Holmes?"

"I don't think there is anything more for me to do now that the case is in
such capable hands. By the way, Mrs. Maberley, did you say you wished to
travel?"

"It has always been my dream, Mr. Holmes."

"Where would you like to go—Cairo, Madeira, the Riviera?"

"Oh! if I had the money I would go round the world."

"Quite so. Round the world. Well, good morning. I may drop you a line
in the evening." As we passed the window I caught a glimpse of the
Inspector's smile and shake of the head. "These clever fellows have always
a touch of madness." That was what I read in the Inspector's smile.

"Now, Watson, we are at the last lap of our little journey," said Holmes,
when we were back in the roar of Central London once more. "I think we
had best clear the matter up at once, and it would be well that you should
come with me, for it is safer to have a witness when you are dealing with
such a lady as Isadora Klein."

We had taken a cab and were speeding to some address in Grosvenor
Square. Holmes had been sunk in thought, but he roused himself suddenly.

"By the way, Watson, I suppose you see it all clearly?"

"No, I can't say that I do. I only gather that we are going to see the lady
who is behind all this mischief."

"Exactly! But does the name Isadora Klein convey nothing to you? She
was, of course, the celebrated beauty. There was never a woman to touch
her. She is pure Spanish, the real blood of the masterful Conquistadors, and
her people have been leaders in Pernambuco for generations. She married
the aged German sugar king, Klein, and presently found herself the richest
as well as the most lovely widow upon earth. Then there was an interval of
adventure when she pleased her own tastes. She had several lovers, and
Douglas Maberley, one of the most striking men in London, was one of
them. It was by all accounts more than an adventure with him. He was not a
Society butterfly, but a strong, proud man who gave and expected all. But
she is the 'belle dame sans merci' of fiction. When her caprice is satisfied,
the matter is ended, and if the other party in the matter can't take her word
for it, she knows how to bring it home to him."

"Then that was his own story——"

"Ah! you are piecing it together now. I hear that she is about to marry the
young Duke of Lomond, who might almost be her son. His Grace's ma
might overlook the age, but a big scandal would be a different matter, so it
is imperative—— Ah! here we are."

It was one of the finest corner-houses of the West End. A machine-like
footman took up our cards and returned with word that the lady was not at
home. "Then we shall wait until she is," said Holmes cheerfully.

The machine broke down.

"Not at home means not at home to you," said the footman.

"Good," Holmes answered. "That means that we shall not have to wait.
Kindly give this note to your mistress."

He scribbled three or four words upon a sheet of his notebook, folded it,
and handed it to the man.

"What did you say, Holmes?" I asked.

"I simply wrote 'Shall it be the police, then?' I think that should pass us
in."

It did—with amazing celerity. A minute later we were in an Arabian-
nights' drawing-room, vast and wonderful, in a half gloom, picked out with
an occasional pink electric light. The lady had come, I felt, to that time of
life when even the proudest beauty finds the half-light more welcome. She
rose from a settee as we entered: tall, queenly, a perfect figure, a lovely
mask-like face, with two wonderful Spanish eyes which looked murder at
us both.

"What is this intrusion—and this insulting message?" she asked, holding
up the slip of paper.

"I need not explain, madame. I have too much respect for your
intelligence to do so—though I confess that intelligence has been
surprisingly at fault of late."

"How so, sir?"

"By supposing that your hired bullies could frighten me from my work.
Surely no man would take up my profession if it were not that danger
attracts him. It was you, then, who forced me to examine the case of young
Maberley."

"I have no idea what you are talking about. What have I to do with hired
bullies?"

Holmes turned away wearily.

"Yes, I have underrated your intelligence. Well, good afternoon!"

"Stop! Where are you going?"

"To Scotland Yard."

We had not got half-way to the door before she had overtaken us and
was holding his arm. She had turned in a moment from steel to velvet.

"Come and sit down, gentlemen. Let us talk this matter over. I feel that I
may be frank with you, Mr. Holmes. You have the feelings of a gentleman.
How quick a woman's instinct is to find it out. I will treat you as a friend."

"I cannot promise to reciprocate, madame. I am not the law, but I
represent justice so far as my feeble powers go. I am ready to listen, and
then I will tell you how I will act."

"No doubt it was foolish of me to threaten a brave man like yourself."

"What was really foolish, madame, is that you have placed yourself in
the power of a band of rascals who may blackmail or give you away."

"No, no! I am not so simple. Since I have promised to be frank, I may
say that no one, save Barney Stockdale and Susan, his wife, have the least
idea who their employer is. As to them, well, it is not the first——" She
smiled and nodded, with a charming coquettish intimacy.

"I see. You've tested them before."

"They are good hounds who run silent."

"Such hounds have a way sooner or later of biting the hand that feeds
them. They will be arrested for this burglary. The police are already after
them."

"They will take what comes to them. That is what they are paid for. I
shall not appear in the matter."

"Unless I bring you into it."

"No, no; you would not. You are a gentleman. It is a woman's secret."

"In the first place you must give back this manuscript."

She broke into a ripple of laughter, and walked to the fireplace. There
was a calcined mass which she broke up with the poker. "Shall I give this
back?" she asked. So roguish and exquisite did she look as she stood before
us with a challenging smile that I felt of all Holmes's criminals this was the
one whom he would find it hardest to face. However, he was immune from
sentiment.

"That seals your fate," he said coldly. "You are very prompt in your
actions, madame, but you have overdone it on this occasion."

She threw the poker down with a clatter.

"How hard you are!" she cried. "May I tell you the whole story?"

"I fancy I could tell it to you."

"But you must look at it with my eyes, Mr. Holmes. You must realize it
from the point of view of a woman who sees all her life's ambition about to
be ruined at the last moment. Is such a woman to be blamed if she protects
herself?"

"The original sin was yours."

"Yes, yes! I admit it. He was a dear boy, Douglas, but it so chanced that
he could not fit into my plans. He wanted marriage—marriage, Mr. Holmes
—with a penniless commoner. Nothing less would serve him. Then he
became pertinacious. Because I had given he seemed to think that I still
must give, and to him only. It was intolerable. At last I had to make him
realize it."

"By hiring ruffians to beat him under your own window."

"You do indeed seem to know everything. Well, it is true. Barney and the
boys drove him away, and were, I admit, a little rough in doing so. But what
did he do then? Could I have believed that a gentleman would do such an
act? He wrote a book in which he described his own story. I, of course, was
the wolf; he the lamb. It was all there, under different names, of course; but

who in all London would have failed to recognize it? What do you say to
that, Mr. Holmes?"

"Well, he was within his rights."

"It was as if the air of Italy had got into his blood and brought with it the
old cruel Italian spirit. He wrote to me and sent me a copy of his book that I
might have the torture of anticipation. There were two copies, he said—one
for me, one for his publisher."

"How did you know the publisher's had not reached him?"

"I knew who his publisher was. It is not his only novel, you know. I
found out that he had not heard from Italy. Then came Douglas's sudden
death. So long as that other manuscript was in the world there was no safety
for me. Of course, it must be among his effects, and these would be
returned to his mother. I set the gang at work. One of them got into the
house as servant. I wanted to do the thing honestly. I really and truly did. I
was ready to buy the house and everything in it. I offered any price she
cared to ask. I only tried the other way when everything else had failed.
Now, Mr. Holmes, granting that I was too hard on Douglas—and, God
knows, I am sorry for it!—what else could I do with my whole future at
stake?"

Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, well," said he, "I suppose I shall have to compound a felony as
usual. How much does it cost to go round the world in first-class style?"

The lady stared in amazement.

"Could it be done on five thousand pounds?"

"Well, I should think so, indeed!"

"Very good. I think you will sign me a cheque for that, and I will see that
it comes to Mrs. Maberley. You owe her a little change of air. Meantime,

lady"—he wagged a cautionary forefinger—"have a care! Have a care! You
can't play with edged tools for ever without cutting those dainty hands."

V

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SUSSEX VAMPIRE

Holmes had read carefully a note which the last post had brought him.
Then, with the dry chuckle which was his nearest approach to a laugh, he
tossed it over to me.

"For a mixture of the modern and the mediæval, of the practical and of
the wildly fanciful, I think this is surely the limit," said he. "What do you
make of it, Watson?"

I read as follows:

46, OLD JEWRY, Nov. 19th.

Re Vampires.

SIR,—

Our client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and Muirhead, tea brokers,
of Mincing Lane, has made some inquiry from us in a communication of
even date concerning vampires. As our firm specializes entirely upon the
assessment of machinery the matter hardly comes within our purview, and
we have therefore recommended Mr. Ferguson to call upon you and lay the
matter before you. We have not forgotten your successful action in the case
of Matilda Briggs.

We are, Sir, Faithfully yours,
MORRISON, MORRISON, AND DODD.
per E. J. C.

"Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson," said
Holmes, in a reminiscent voice. "It was a ship which is associated with the
giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet prepared. But
what do we know about vampires? Does it come within our purview either?
Anything is better than stagnation, but really we seem to have been
switched on to a Grimm's fairy tale. Make a long arm, Watson, and see what
V has to say."

I leaned back and took down the great index volume to which he
referred. Holmes balanced it on his knee and his eyes moved slowly and
lovingly over the record of old cases, mixed with the accumulated
information of a lifetime.

"Voyage of the Gloria Scott," he read. "That was a bad business. I have
some recollection that you made a record of it, Watson, though I was unable
to congratulate you upon the result. Victor Lynch, the forger. Venomous
lizard or gila. Remarkable case, that! Vittoria, the circus belle. Vanderbilt
and the Yeggman. Vipers. Vigor, the Hammersmith wonder. Hullo! Hullo!
Good old index. You can't beat it. Listen to this, Watson. Vampirism in
Hungary. And again, Vampires in Transylvania." He turned over the pages
with eagerness, but after a short intent perusal he threw down the great
book with a snarl of disappointment.

"Rubbish, Watson, rubbish! What have we to do with walking corpses
who can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their hearts?
It's pure lunacy."

"But surely," said I, "the vampire was not necessarily a dead man? A
living person might have the habit. I have read, for example, of the old
sucking the blood of the young in order to retain their youth."

"You are right, Watson. It mentions the legend in one of these references.
But are we to give serious attention to such things? This Agency stands flat-
footed upon the ground, and there it must remain. The world is big enough
for us. No ghosts need apply. I fear that we cannot take Mr. Robert
Ferguson very seriously. Possibly this note may be from him, and may
throw some light upon what is worrying him."

He took up a second letter which had lain unnoticed upon the table
whilst he had been absorbed with the first. This he began to read with a
smile of amusement upon his face which gradually faded away into an
expression of intense interest and concentration. When he had finished he
sat for some little time lost in thought with the letter dangling from his
fingers. Finally, with a start, he aroused himself from his reverie.

"Cheeseman's, Lamberley. Where is Lamberley, Watson?"

"It is in Sussex, south of Horsham."

"Not very far, eh? And Cheeseman's?"

"I know that country, Holmes. It is full of old houses which are named
after the men who built them centuries ago. You get Odley's and Harvey's
and Carriton's—the folk are forgotten but their names live in their houses."

"Precisely," said Holmes coldly. It was one of the peculiarities of his
proud, self-contained nature that, though he docketed any fresh information
very quickly and accurately in his brain, he seldom made any
acknowledgment to the giver. "I rather fancy we shall know a good deal
more about Cheeseman's, Lamberley, before we are through. The letter is,
as I had hoped, from Robert Ferguson. By the way, he claims acquaintance
with you."

"With me!"

"You had better read it."

He handed the letter across. It was headed with the address quoted.

DEAR MR. HOLMES, (it said)—I have been recommended to you by my
lawyers, but indeed the matter is so extraordinarily delicate that it is most
difficult to discuss. It concerns a friend for whom I am acting. This
gentleman married some five years ago a Peruvian lady, the daughter of a
Peruvian merchant, whom he had met in connection with the importation of
nitrates. The lady was very beautiful, but the fact of her foreign birth and of
her alien religion always caused a separation of interests and of feelings
between husband and wife, so that after a time his love may have cooled
towards her and he may have come to regard their union as a mistake. He
felt there were sides of her character which he could never explore or
understand. This was the more painful as she was as loving a wife as a man
could have—to all appearance absolutely devoted.

Now for the point which I will make more plain when we meet. Indeed,
this note is merely to give you a general idea of the situation and to
ascertain whether you would care to interest yourself in the matter. The lady
began to show some curious traits quite alien to her ordinarily sweet and
gentle disposition. The gentleman had been married twice and he had one
son by the first wife. This boy was now fifteen, a very charming and
affectionate youth, though unhappily injured through an accident in
childhood. Twice the wife was caught in the act of assaulting this poor lad
in the most unprovoked way. Once she struck him with a stick and left a
great weal on his arm.

This was a small matter, however, compared with her conduct to her own
child, a dear boy just under one year of age. On one occasion about a month
ago this child had been left by its nurse for a few minutes. A loud cry from
the baby, as of pain, called the nurse back. As she ran into the room she saw
her employer, the lady, leaning over the baby and apparently biting his
neck. There was a small wound in the neck, from which a stream of blood
had escaped. The nurse was so horrified that she wished to call the husband,
but the lady implored her not to do so, and actually gave her five pounds as
a price for her silence. No explanation was ever given, and for the moment
the matter was passed over.

It left, however, a terrible impression upon the nurse's mind, and from
that time she began to watch her mistress closely, and to keep a closer guard
upon the baby, whom she tenderly loved. It seemed to her that even as she
watched the mother, so the mother watched her, and that every time she was
compelled to leave the baby alone the mother was waiting to get at it. Day
and night the nurse covered the child, and day and night the silent, watchful
mother seemed to be lying in wait as a wolf waits for a lamb. It must read
most incredible to you, and yet I beg you to take it seriously, for a child's
life and a man's sanity may depend upon it.

At last there came one dreadful day when the facts could no longer be
concealed from the husband. The nurse's nerve had given way; she could
stand the strain no longer, and she made a clean breast of it all to the man.
To him it seemed as wild a tale as it may now seem to you. He knew his
wife to be a loving wife, and, save for the assaults upon her stepson, a
loving mother. Why, then, should she wound her own dear little baby? He
told the nurse that she was dreaming, that her suspicions were those of a
lunatic, and that such libels upon her mistress were not to be tolerated.
Whilst they were talking, a sudden cry of pain was heard. Nurse and master
rushed together to the nursery. Imagine his feelings, Mr. Holmes, as he saw
his wife rise from a kneeling position beside the cot, and saw blood upon
the child's exposed neck and upon the sheet. With a cry of horror, he turned
his wife's face to the light and saw blood all round her lips. It was she—she
beyond all question—who had drunk the poor baby's blood.

So the matter stands. She is now confined to her room. There has been
no explanation. The husband is half demented. He knows, and I know, little
of Vampirism beyond the name. We had thought it was some wild tale of
foreign parts. And yet here in the very heart of the English Sussex—well,
all this can be discussed with you in the morning. Will you see me? Will
you use your great powers in aiding a distracted man? If so, kindly wire to
Ferguson, Cheeseman's, Lamberley, and I will be at your rooms by ten
o'clock.

Yours faithfully,
ROBERT FERGUSON.

PS.—I believe your friend Watson played Rugby for Blackheath when I
was three-quarter for Richmond. It is the only personal introduction which I
can give.

"Of course I remember him," said I, as I laid down the letter. "Big Bob
Ferguson, the finest three-quarter Richmond ever had. He was always a
good-natured chap. It's like him to be so concerned over a friend's case."

Holmes looked at me thoughtfully and shook his head.

"I never get your limits, Watson," said he. "There are unexplored
possibilities about you. Take a wire down, like a good fellow. 'Will examine
your case with pleasure.'"

"Your case!"

"We must not let him think that this Agency is a home for the weak-
minded. Of course it is his case. Send him that wire and let the matter rest
till morning."

Promptly at ten o'clock next morning Ferguson strode into our room. I
had remembered him as a long, slab-sided man with loose limbs and a fine
turn of speed, which had carried him round many an opposing back. There
is surely nothing in life more painful than to meet the wreck of a fine athlete
whom one has known in his prime. His great frame had fallen in, his flaxen
hair was scanty, and his shoulders were bowed. I fear that I roused
corresponding emotions in him.

"Hullo, Watson," said he, and his voice was still deep and hearty. "You
don't look quite the man you did when I threw you over the ropes into the
crowd at the Old Deer Park. I expect I have changed a bit also. But it's this
last day or two that has aged me. I see by your telegram, Mr. Holmes, that it
is no use my pretending to be anyone's deputy."

"It is simpler to deal direct," said Holmes.

"Of course it is. But you can imagine how difficult it is when you are
speaking of the one woman whom you are bound to protect and help. What
can I do? How am I to go to the police with such a story? And yet the
kiddies have got to be protected. Is it madness, Mr. Holmes? Is it something
in the blood? Have you any similar case in your experience? For God's
sake, give me some advice, for I am at my wits' end."

"Very naturally, Mr. Ferguson. Now sit here and pull yourself together
and give me a few clear answers. I can assure you that I am very far from
being at my wits' end, and that I am confident we shall find some solution.
First of all, tell me what steps you have taken. Is your wife still near the
children?"

"We had a dreadful scene. She is a most loving woman, Mr. Holmes. If
ever a woman loved a man with all her heart and soul, she loves me. She
was cut to the heart that I should have discovered this horrible, this
incredible, secret. She would not even speak. She gave no answer to my
reproaches, save to gaze at me with a sort of wild, despairing look in her
eyes. Then she rushed to her room and locked herself in. Since then she has
refused to see me. She has a maid who was with her before her marriage,
Dolores by name—a friend rather than a servant. She takes her food to her."

"Then the child is in no immediate danger?"

"Mrs. Mason, the nurse, has sworn that she will not leave it night or day.
I can absolutely trust her. I am more uneasy about poor little Jack, for, as I
told you in my note, he has twice been assaulted by her."

"But never wounded?"

"No; she struck him savagely. It is the more terrible as he is a poor little
inoffensive cripple." Ferguson's gaunt features softened as he spoke of his
boy. "You would think that the dear lad's condition would soften anyone's
heart. A fall in childhood and a twisted spine, Mr. Holmes. But the dearest,
most loving heart within."

Holmes had picked up the letter of yesterday and was reading it over.
"What other inmates are there in your house, Mr. Ferguson?"

"Two servants who have not been long with us. One stable-hand,
Michael, who sleeps in the house. My wife, myself, my boy Jack, baby,
Dolores, and Mrs. Mason. That is all."

"I gather that you did not know your wife well at the time of your
marriage?"

"I had only known her a few weeks."

"How long had this maid Dolores been with her?"

"Some years."

"Then your wife's character would really be better known by Dolores
than by you?"

"Yes, you may say so."

Holmes made a note.

"I fancy," said he, "that I may be of more use at Lamberley than here. It
is eminently a case for personal investigation. If the lady remains in her
room, our presence could not annoy or inconvenience her. Of course, we
would stay at the inn."

Ferguson gave a gesture of relief.

"It is what I hoped, Mr. Holmes. There is an excellent train at two from
Victoria, if you could come."

"Of course we could come. There is a lull at present. I can give you my
undivided energies. Watson, of course, comes with us. But there are one or
two points upon which I wish to be very sure before I start. This unhappy
lady, as I understand it, has appeared to assault both the children, her own
baby and your little son?"

"That is so."

"But the assaults take different forms, do they not? She has beaten your
son."

"Once with a stick and once very savagely with her hands."

"Did she give no explanation why she struck him?"

"None, save that she hated him. Again and again she said so."

"Well, that is not unknown among stepmothers. A posthumous jealousy,
we will say. Is the lady jealous by nature?"

"Yes, she is very jealous—jealous with all the strength of her fiery
tropical love."

"But the boy—he is fifteen, I understand, and probably very developed
in mind, since his body has been circumscribed in action. Did he give you
no explanation of these assaults?"

"No; he declared there was no reason."

"Were they good friends at other times?"

"No; there was never any love between them."

"Yet you say he is affectionate?"

"Never in the world could there be so devoted a son. My life is his life.
He is absorbed in what I say or do."

Once again Holmes made a note. For some time he sat lost in thought.

"No doubt you and the boy were great comrades before this second
marriage. You were thrown very close together, were you not?"

"Very much so."

"And the boy, having so affectionate a nature, was devoted, no doubt, to
the memory of his mother?"

"Most devoted."

"He would certainly seem to be a most interesting lad. There is one other
point about these assaults. Were the strange attacks upon the baby and the
assaults upon your son at the same period?"

"In the first case it was so. It was as if some frenzy had seized her, and
she had vented her rage upon both. In the second case it was only Jack who
suffered. Mrs. Mason had no complaint to make about the baby."

"That certainly complicates matters."

"I don't quite follow you, Mr. Holmes."

"Possibly not. One forms provisional theories and waits for time or fuller
knowledge to explode them. A bad habit, Mr. Ferguson; but human nature is
weak. I fear that your old friend here has given an exaggerated view of my
scientific methods. However, I will only say at the present stage that your
problem does not appear to me to be insoluble, and that you may expect to
find us at Victoria at two o'clock."

It was evening of a dull, foggy November day when, having left our bags
at the "Chequers," Lamberley, we drove through the Sussex clay of a long
winding lane, and finally reached the isolated and ancient farm-house in
which Ferguson dwelt. It was a large, straggling building, very old in the
centre, very new at the wings, with towering Tudor chimneys and a lichen-
spotted, high-pitched roof of Horsham slabs. The doorsteps were worn into
curves, and the ancient tiles which lined the porch were marked with the
rebus of a cheese and a man, after the original builder. Within, the ceilings
were corrugated with heavy oaken beams, and the uneven floors sagged
into sharp curves. An odour of age and decay pervaded the whole crumbling
building.

There was one very large central room, into which Ferguson led us.
Here, in a huge old-fashioned fireplace with an iron screen behind it dated
1670, there blazed and spluttered a splendid log fire.

The room, as I gazed round, was a most singular mixture of dates and of
places. The half-panelled walls may well have belonged to the original
yeoman farmer of the seventeenth century. They were ornamented,
however, on the lower part by a line of well-chosen modern water-colours;
while above, where yellow plaster took the place of oak, there was hung a
fine collection of South American utensils and weapons, which had been
brought, no doubt, by the Peruvian lady upstairs. Holmes rose, with that
quick curiosity which sprang from his eager mind, and examined them with
some care. He returned with his eyes full of thought.

"Hullo!" he cried. "Hullo!"

A spaniel had lain in a basket in the corner. It came slowly forward
towards its master, walking with difficulty. Its hind-legs moved irregularly
and its tail was on the ground. It licked Ferguson's hand.

"What is it, Mr. Holmes?"

"The dog. What's the matter with it?"

"That's what puzzled the vet. A sort of paralysis. Spinal meningitis, he
thought. But it is passing. He'll be all right soon—won't you, Carlo?"

A shiver of assent passed through the drooping tail. The dog's mournful
eyes passed from one of us to the other. He knew that we were discussing
his case.

"Did it come on suddenly?"

"In a single night."

"How long ago?"

"It may have been four months ago."

"Very remarkable. Very suggestive."

"What do you see in it, Mr. Holmes?"

"A confirmation of what I had already thought."

"For God's sake, what do you think, Mr. Holmes? It may be a mere
intellectual puzzle to you, but it is life and death to me! My wife a would-be
murderer—my child in constant danger! Don't play with me, Mr. Holmes. It
is too terribly serious."

The big Rugby three-quarter was trembling all over. Holmes put his
hand soothingly upon his arm.

"I fear that there is pain for you, Mr. Ferguson, whatever the solution
may be," said he. "I would spare you all I can. I cannot say more for the
instant, but before I leave this house I hope I may have something definite."

"Please God you may! If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will go up to
my wife's room and see if there has been any change."

He was away some minutes, during which Holmes resumed his
examination of the curiosities upon the wall. When our host returned it was
clear from his downcast face that he had made no progress. He brought with
him a tall, slim, brown-faced girl.

"The tea is ready, Dolores," said Ferguson. "See that your mistress has
everything she can wish."

"She verra ill," cried the girl, looking with indignant eyes at her master.
"She no ask for food. She verra ill. She need doctor. I frightened stay alone
with her without doctor."

Ferguson looked at me with a question in his eyes.

"I should be so glad if I could be of use."

"Would your mistress see Dr. Watson?"

"I take him. I no ask leave. She needs doctor."

"Then I'll come with you at once."

I followed the girl, who was quivering with strong emotion, up the
staircase and down an ancient corridor. At the end was an iron-clamped and
massive door. It struck me as I looked at it that if Ferguson tried to force his
way to his wife he would find it no easy matter. The girl drew a key from
her pocket, and the heavy oaken planks creaked upon their old hinges. I
passed in and she swiftly followed, fastening the door behind her.

On the bed a woman was lying who was clearly in a high fever. She was
only half conscious, but as I entered she raised a pair of frightened but
beautiful eyes and glared at me in apprehension. Seeing a stranger, she
appeared to be relieved, and sank back with a sigh upon the pillow. I
stepped up to her with a few reassuring words, and she lay still while I took
her pulse and temperature. Both were high, and yet my impression was that
the condition was rather that of mental and nervous excitement than of any
actual seizure.

"She lie like that one day, two day. I 'fraid she die," said the girl.

The woman turned her flushed and handsome face towards me.

"Where is my husband?"

"He is below, and would wish to see you."

"I will not see him. I will not see him." Then she seemed to wander off
into delirium. "A fiend! A fiend! Oh, what shall I do with this devil?"

"Can I help you in any way?"

"No. No one can help. It is finished. All is destroyed. Do what I will, all
is destroyed."

The woman must have some strange delusion. I could not see honest
Bob Ferguson in the character of fiend or devil.

"Madame," I said, "your husband loves you dearly. He is deeply grieved
at this happening."

Again she turned on me those glorious eyes.

"He loves me. Yes. But do I not love him? Do I not love him even to
sacrifice myself rather than break his dear heart. That is how I love him.
And yet he could think of me—he could speak of me so."

"He is full of grief, but he cannot understand.

"No, he cannot understand. But he should trust."

"Will you not see him?" I suggested.

"No, no; I cannot forget those terrible words nor the look upon his face. I
will not see him. Go now. You can do nothing for me. Tell him only one
thing. I want my child. I have a right to my child. That is the only message I
can send him." She turned her face to the wall and would say no more.

I returned to the room downstairs, where Ferguson and Holmes still sat
by the fire. Ferguson listened moodily to my account of the interview.

"How can I send her the child?" he said. "How do I know what strange
impulse might come upon her? How can I ever forget how she rose from
beside it with its blood upon her lips?" He shuddered at the recollection.
"The child is safe with Mrs. Mason, and there he must remain."

A smart maid, the only modern thing which we had seen in the house,
had brought in some tea. As she was serving it the door opened and a youth
entered the room. He was a remarkable lad, pale-faced and fair-haired, with
excitable light blue eyes which blazed into a sudden flame of emotion and
joy as they rested upon his father. He rushed forward and threw his arms
round his neck with the abandon of a loving girl.

"Oh, daddy," he cried, "I did not know that you were due yet. I should
have been here to meet you. Oh, I am so glad to see you!"

Ferguson gently disengaged himself from the embrace with some little
show of embarrassment.

"Dear old chap," said he, patting the flaxen head with a very tender hand.
"I came early because my friends, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, have been
persuaded to come down and spend an evening with us."

"Is that Mr. Holmes, the detective?"

"Yes."

The youth looked at us with a very penetrating and, as it seemed to me,
unfriendly gaze.

"What about your other child, Mr. Ferguson?" asked Holmes. "Might we
make the acquaintance of the baby?"

"Ask Mrs. Mason to bring baby down," said Ferguson. The boy went off
with a curious, shambling gait which told my surgical eyes that he was
suffering from a weak spine. Presently he returned, and behind him came a
tall, gaunt woman bearing in her arms a very beautiful child, dark-eyed,
golden-haired, a wonderful mixture of the Saxon and the Latin. Ferguson
was evidently devoted to it, for he took it into his arms and fondled it most
tenderly.

"Fancy anyone having the heart to hurt him," he muttered, as he glanced
down at the small, angry red pucker upon the cherub throat.

It was at this moment that I chanced to glance at Holmes, and saw a
most singular intentness in his expression. His face was as set as if it had
been carved out of old ivory, and his eyes, which had glanced for a moment
at father and child, were now fixed with eager curiosity upon something at
the other side of the room. Following his gaze I could only guess that he
was looking out through the window at the melancholy, dripping garden. It
is true that a shutter had half closed outside and obstructed the view, but
none the less it was certainly at the window that Holmes was fixing his
concentrated attention. Then he smiled, and his eyes came back to the baby.
On its chubby neck there was this small puckered mark. Without speaking,

Holmes examined it with care. Finally he shook one of the dimpled fists
which waved in front of him.

"Good-bye, little man. You have made a strange start in life. Nurse, I
should wish to have a word with you in private."

He took her aside and spoke earnestly for a few minutes. I only heard the
last words, which were: "Your anxiety will soon, I hope, be set at rest." The
woman, who seemed to be a sour, silent kind of creature, withdrew with the
child.

"What is Mrs. Mason like?" asked Holmes.

"Not very prepossessing externally, as you can see, but a heart of gold,
and devoted to the child."

"Do you like her, Jack?" Holmes turned suddenly upon the boy. His
expressive mobile face shadowed over, and he shook his head.

"Jacky has very strong likes and dislikes," said Ferguson, putting his arm
round the boy. "Luckily I am one of his likes."

The boy cooed and nestled his head upon his father's breast. Ferguson
gently disengaged him.

"Run away, little Jacky," said he, and he watched his son with loving
eyes until he disappeared. "Now, Mr. Holmes," he continued, when the boy
was gone, "I really feel that I have brought you on a fool's errand, for what
can you possibly do, save give me your sympathy? It must be an
exceedingly delicate and complex affair from your point of view."

"It is certainly delicate," said my friend, with an amused smile, "but I
have not been struck up to now with its complexity. It has been a case for
intellectual deduction, but when this original intellectual deduction is
confirmed point by point by quite a number of independent incidents, then
the subjective becomes objective and we can say confidently that we have
reached our goal. I had, in fact, reached it before we left Baker Street, and
the rest has merely been observation and confirmation."

Ferguson put his big hand to his furrowed forehead.

"For Heaven's sake, Holmes," he said hoarsely, "if you can see the truth
in this matter, do not keep me in suspense. How do I stand? What shall I
do? I care nothing as to how you have found your facts so long as you have
really got them."

"Certainly I owe you an explanation, and you shall have it. But you will
permit me to handle the matter in my own way? Is the lady capable of
seeing us, Watson?"

"She is ill, but she is quite rational."

"Very good. It is only in her presence that we can clear the matter up. Let
us go up to her."

"She will not see me," cried Ferguson.

"Oh, yes, she will," said Holmes. He scribbled a few lines upon a sheet
of paper. "You at least have the entrée, Watson. Will you have the goodness
to give the lady this note?"

I ascended again and handed the note to Dolores, who cautiously opened
the door. A minute later I heard a cry from within, a cry in which joy and
surprise seemed to be blended. Dolores looked out.

"She will see them. She will leesten," said she.

At my summons Ferguson and Holmes came up. As we entered the room
Ferguson took a step or two towards his wife, who had raised herself in the
bed, but she held out her hand to repulse him. He sank into an arm-chair,
while Holmes seated himself beside him, after bowing to the lady, who
looked at him with wide-eyed amazement.

"I think we can dispense with Dolores," said Holmes. "Oh, very well,
madame, if you would rather she stayed I can see no objection. Now, Mr.
Ferguson, I am a busy man with many calls, and my methods have to be
short and direct. The swiftest surgery is the least painful. Let me first say

what will ease your mind. Your wife is a very good, a very loving, and a
very ill-used woman."

Ferguson sat up with a cry of joy.

"Prove that, Mr. Holmes, and I am your debtor for ever."

"I will do so, but in doing so I must wound you deeply in another
direction."

"I care nothing so long as you clear my wife. Everything on earth is
insignificant compared to that."

"Let me tell you, then, the train of reasoning which passed through my
mind in Baker Street. The idea of a vampire was to me absurd. Such things
do not happen in criminal practice in England. And yet your observation
was precise. You had seen the lady rise from beside the child's cot with the
blood upon her lips."

"I did."

"Did it not occur to you that a bleeding wound may be sucked for some
other purpose than to draw the blood from it? Was there not a Queen in
English history who sucked such a wound to draw poison from it?"

"Poison!"

"A South American household. My instinct felt the presence of those
weapons upon the wall before my eyes ever saw them. It might have been
other poison, but that was what occurred to me. When I saw that little
empty quiver beside the small bird-bow, it was just what I expected to see.
If the child were pricked with one of those arrows dipped in curare or some
other devilish drug, it would mean death if the venom were not sucked out.

"And the dog! If one were to use such a poison, would one not try it first
in order to see that it had not lost its power? I did not foresee the dog, but at
least I understood him and he fitted into my reconstruction.

"Now do you understand? Your wife feared such an attack. She saw it
made and saved the child's life, and yet she shrank from telling you all the
truth, for she knew how you loved the boy and feared lest it break your
heart."

"Jacky!"

"I watched him as you fondled the child just now. His face was clearly
reflected in the glass of the window where the shutter formed a background.
I saw such jealousy, such cruel hatred, as I have seldom seen in a human
face."

"My Jacky!"

"You have to face it, Mr. Ferguson. It is the more painful because it is a
distorted love, a maniacal exaggerated love for you, and possibly for his
dead mother, which has prompted his action. His very soul is consumed

with hatred for this splendid child, whose health and beauty are a contrast to
his own weakness."

"Good God! It is incredible!"

"Have I spoken the truth, madame?"

The lady was sobbing, with her face buried in the pillows. Now she
turned to her husband.

"How could I tell you, Bob? I felt the blow it would be to you. It was
better that I should wait and that it should come from some other lips than
mine. When this gentleman, who seems to have powers of magic, wrote that
he knew all, I was glad."

"I think a year at sea would be my prescription for Master Jacky," said
Holmes, rising from his chair. "Only one thing is still clouded, madame. We
can quite understand your attacks upon Master Jacky. There is a limit to a
mother's patience. But how did you dare to leave the child these last two
days?"

"I had told Mrs. Mason. She knew."

"Exactly. So I imagined."

Ferguson was standing by the bed, choking, his hands outstretched and
quivering.

"This, I fancy, is the time for our exit, Watson," said Holmes in a
whisper. "If you will take one elbow of the too faithful Dolores, I will take
the other. There, now," he added, as he closed the door behind him, "I think
we may leave them to settle the rest among themselves."

I have only one further note of this case. It is the letter which Holmes
wrote in final answer to that with which the narrative begins. It ran thus:

BAKER STREET,
Nov. 21st.

Re Vampires.

SIR,—

Referring to your letter of the 19th, I beg to state that I have looked into
the inquiry of your client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and Muirhead,
tea brokers, of Mincing Lane, and that the matter has been brought to a
satisfactory conclusion. With thanks for your recommendation,

I am, Sir,
Faithfully yours,
SHERLOCK HOLMES.

VI

THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE GARRIDEBS

It may have been a comedy, or it may have been a tragedy. It cost one
man his reason, it cost me a blood-letting, and it cost yet another man the
penalties of the law. Yet there was certainly an element of comedy. Well,
you shall judge for yourselves.

I remember the date very well, for it was in the same month that Holmes
refused a knighthood for services which may perhaps some day be
described. I only refer to the matter in passing, for in my position of partner
and confidant I am obliged to be particularly careful to avoid any
indiscretion. I repeat, however, that this enables me to fix the date, which
was the latter end of June, 1902, shortly after the conclusion of the South
African War. Holmes had spent several days in bed, as was his habit from
time to time, but he emerged that morning with a long foolscap document in
his hand and a twinkle of amusement in his austere grey eyes.

"There is a chance for you to make some money, friend Watson," said he.
"Have you ever heard the name of Garrideb?"

I admitted that I had not.

"Well, if you can lay your hand upon a Garrideb, there's money in it."

"Why?"

"Ah, that's a long story—rather a whimsical one, too. I don't think in all
our explorations of human complexities we have ever come upon anything
more singular. The fellow will be here presently for cross-examination, so I
won't open the matter up till he comes. But meanwhile, that's the name we
want."

The telephone directory lay on the table beside me, and I turned over the
pages in a rather hopeless quest. But to my amazement there was this
strange name in its due place. I gave a cry of triumph.

"Here you are, Holmes! Here it is!"

Holmes took the book from my hand.

"'Garrideb, N.,'" he read, "'136 Little Ryder Street, W.' Sorry to
disappoint you, my dear Watson, but this is the man himself. That is the
address upon his letter. We want another to match him."

Mrs. Hudson had come in with a card upon a tray. I took it up and
glanced at it.

"Why, here it is!" I cried in amazement. "This is a different initial. John
Garrideb, Counsellor at Law, Moorville, Kansas, U.S.A."

Holmes smiled as he looked at the card. "I am afraid you must make yet
another effort, Watson," said he. "This gentleman is also in the plot already,
though I certainly did not expect to see him this morning. However, he is in
a position to tell us a good deal which I want to know."

A moment later he was in the room. Mr. John Garrideb, Counsellor at
Law, was a short, powerful man with the round, fresh, clean-shaven face
characteristic of so many American men of affairs. The general effect was
chubby and rather childlike, so that one received the impression of quite a
young man with a broad set smile upon his face. His eyes, however, were
arresting. Seldom in any human head have I seen a pair which bespoke a
more intense inward life, so bright were they, so alert, so responsive to
every change of thought. His accent was American, but was not
accompanied by any eccentricity of speech.

"Mr. Holmes?" he asked, glancing from one to the other. "Ah, yes! Your
pictures are not unlike you, sir, if I may say so. I believe you have had a
letter from my namesake, Mr. Nathan Garrideb, have you not?"

"Pray sit down," said Sherlock Holmes. "We shall, I fancy, have a good
deal to discuss." He took up his sheets of foolscap. "You are, of course, the
Mr. John Garrideb mentioned in this document. But surely you have been in
England some time?"

"Why do you say that, Mr. Holmes?" I seemed to read sudden suspicion
in those expressive eyes.

"Your whole outfit is English."

Mr. Garrideb forced a laugh. "I've read of your tricks, Mr. Holmes, but I
never thought I would be the subject of them. Where do you read that?"

"The shoulder cut of your coat, the toes of your boots—could anyone
doubt it?"

"Well, well, I had no idea I was so obvious a Britisher. But business
brought me over here some time ago, and so, as you say, my outfit is nearly
all London. However, I guess your time is of value, and we did not meet to
talk about the cut of my socks. What about getting down to that paper you
hold in your hand?"

Holmes had in some way ruffled our visitor, whose chubby face had
assumed a far less amiable expression.

"Patience! Patience, Mr. Garrideb!" said my friend in a soothing voice.
"Dr. Watson would tell you that these little digressions of mine sometimes
prove in the end to have some bearing on the matter. But why did Mr.
Nathan Garrideb not come with you?"

"Why did he ever drag you into it at all?" asked our visitor, with a
sudden outflame of anger. "What in thunder had you to do with it? Here
was a bit of professional business between two gentlemen, and one of them
must needs call in a detective! I saw him this morning, and he told me this
fool-trick he had played me, and that's why I am here. But I feel bad about
it, all the same."

"There was no reflection upon you, Mr. Garrideb. It was simply zeal
upon his part to gain your end—an end which is, I understand, equally vital
for both of you. He knew that I had means of getting information, and,
therefore, it was very natural that he should apply to me."

Our visitor's angry face gradually cleared.

"Well, that puts it different," said he. "When I went to see him this
morning and he told me he had sent to a detective, I just asked for your
address and came right away. I don't want police butting into a private
matter. But if you are content just to help us find the man, there can be no
harm in that."

"Well, that is just how it stands," said Holmes. "And now, sir, since you
are here, we had best have a clear account from your own lips. My friend
here knows nothing of the details."

Mr. Garrideb surveyed me with not too friendly a gaze.

"Need he know?" he asked.

"We usually work together."

"Well, there's no reason it should be kept a secret. I'll give you the facts
as short as I can make them. If you came from Kansas I would not need to
explain to you who Alexander Hamilton Garrideb was. He made his money

in real estate, and afterwards in the wheat pit at Chicago, but he spent it in
buying up as much land as would make one of your counties, lying along
the Arkansas River, west of Fort Dodge. It's grazing-land and lumber-land
and arable-land and mineralized-land, and just every sort of land that brings
dollars to the man that owns it.

"He had no kith nor kin—or, if he had, I never heard of it. But he took a
kind of pride in the queerness of his name. That was what brought us
together. I was in the law at Topeka, and one day I had a visit from the old
man, and he was tickled to death to meet another man with his own name. It
was his pet fad, and he was dead set to find out if there were any more
Garridebs in the world. 'Find me another!' said he. I told him I was a busy
man and could not spend my life hiking round the world in search of
Garridebs. 'None the less,' said he, 'that is just what you will do if things
pan out as I planned them.' I thought he was joking, but there was a
powerful lot of meaning in the words, as I was soon to discover.

"For he died within a year of saying them, and he left a will behind him.
It was the queerest will that has ever been filed in the State of Kansas. His
property was divided into three parts, and I was to have one on condition
that I found two Garridebs who would share the remainder. It's five million
dollars for each if it is a cent, but we can't lay a finger on it until we all
three stand in a row.

"It was so big a chance that I just let my legal practice slide and I set
forth looking for Garridebs. There is not one in the United States. I went
through it, sir, with a fine-toothed comb and never a Garrideb could I catch.
Then I tried the old country. Sure enough there was the name in the London
Telephone Directory. I went after him two days ago and explained the
whole matter to him. But he is a lone man, like myself, with some women
relations, but no men. It says three adult men in the will. So you see we still
have a vacancy, and if you can help to fill it we will be very ready to pay
your charges."

"Well, Watson," said Holmes, with a smile, "I said it was rather
whimsical, did I not? I should have thought, sir, that your obvious way was
to advertise in the agony columns of the papers."

"I have done that, Mr. Holmes. No replies."

"Dear me! Well, it is certainly a most curious little problem. I may take a
glance at it in my leisure. By the way, it is curious that you should have
come from Topeka. I used to have a correspondent—he is dead now—old
Dr. Lysander Starr, who was Mayor in 1890."

"Good old Dr. Starr!" said our visitor. "His name is still honoured. Well,
Mr. Holmes, I suppose all we can do is to report to you and let you know
how we progress. I reckon you will hear within a day or two." With this
assurance our American bowed and departed.

Holmes had lit his pipe, and he sat for some time with a curious smile
upon his face.

"Well?" I asked at last.

"I am wondering, Watson—just wondering!"

"At what?"

Holmes took his pipe from his lips.

"I was wondering, Watson, what on earth could be the object of this man
in telling us such a rigmarole of lies. I nearly asked him so—for there are
times when a brutal frontal attack is the best policy—but I judged it better
to let him think he had fooled us. Here is a man with an English coat frayed
at the elbow and trousers bagged at the knee with a year's wear, and yet by
this document and by his own account he is a provincial American lately
landed in London. There have been no advertisements in the agony
columns. You know that I miss nothing there. They are my favourite covert
for putting up a bird, and I would never have overlooked such a cock
pheasant as that. I never knew a Dr. Lysander Starr of Topeka. Touch him
where you would he was false. I think the fellow is really an American, but
he has worn his accent smooth with years of London. What is his game,
then, and what motive lies behind this preposterous search for Garridebs?
It's worth our attention, for, granting that the man is a rascal, he is certainly

a complex and ingenious one. We must now find out if our other
correspondent is a fraud also. Just ring him up, Watson."

I did so, and heard a thin, quavering voice at the other end of the line.

"Yes, yes, I am Mr. Nathan Garrideb. Is Mr. Holmes there? I should very
much like to have a word with Mr. Holmes."

My friend took the instrument and I heard the usual syncopated
dialogue.

"Yes, he has been here. I understand that you don't know him.... How
long? ... Only two days! ... Yes, yes, of course, it is a most captivating
prospect. Will you be at home this evening? I suppose your namesake will
not be there? ... Very good, we will come then, for I would rather have a
chat without him.... Dr. Watson will come with me.... I understood from
your note that you did not go out often.... Well, we shall be round about six.
You need not mention it to the American lawyer.... Very good. Good-bye!"

It was twilight of a lovely spring evening, and even Little Ryder Street,
one of the smaller offshoots from the Edgware Road, within a stone-cast of
old Tyburn Tree of evil memory, looked golden and wonderful in the
slanting rays of the setting sun. The particular house to which we were
directed was a large, old-fashioned, Early Georgian edifice with a flat brick
face broken only by two deep bay windows on the ground floor. It was on
this ground floor that our client lived, and, indeed, the low windows proved
to be the front of the huge room in which he spent his waking hours.
Holmes pointed as we passed to the small brass plate which bore the
curious name.

"Up some years, Watson," he remarked, indicating its discoloured
surface. "It's his real name, anyhow, and that is something to note."

The house had a common stair, and there were a number of names
painted in the hall some indicating offices and some private chambers. It
was not a collection of residential flats, but rather the abode of Bohemian
bachelors. Our client opened the door for us himself and apologized by
saying that the woman in charge left at four o'clock. Mr. Nathan Garrideb

proved to be a very tall, loose-jointed, round-backed person, gaunt and bald,
some sixty-odd years of age. He had a cadaverous face, with the dull dead
skin of a man to whom exercise was unknown. Large round spectacles and
a small projecting goat's beard combined with his stooping attitude to give
him an expression of peering curiosity. The general effect, however, was
amiable, though eccentric.

The room was as curious as its occupant. It looked like a small museum.
It was both broad and deep, with cupboards and cabinets all round, crowded
with specimens, geological and anatomical. Cases of butterflies and moths
flanked each side of the entrance. A large table in the centre was littered
with all sorts of debris, while the tall brass tube of a powerful microscope
bristled up amongst them. As I glanced round I was surprised at the
universality of the man's interests. Here was a case of ancient coins. There
was a cabinet of flint instruments. Behind his central table was a large
cupboard of fossil bones. Above was a line of plaster skulls with such
names as "Neanderthal," "Heidelberg," "Cromagnon" printed beneath them.
It was clear that he was a student of many subjects. As he stood in front of
us now, he held a piece of chamois leather in his right hand with which he
was polishing a coin.

"Syracusan—of the best period," he explained, holding it up. "They
degenerated greatly towards the end. At their best I hold them supreme,
though some prefer the Alexandrian school. You will find a chair here, Mr.
Holmes. Pray allow me to clear these bones. And you, sir—ah, yes, Dr.
Watson—if you would have the goodness to put the Japanese vase to one
side. You see round me my little interests in life. My doctor lectures me
about never going out, but why should I go out when I have so much to
hold me here? I can assure you that the adequate cataloguing of one of
those cabinets would take me three good months."

Holmes looked round him with curiosity.

"But do you tell me that you never go out?" he said

"Now and again I drive down to Sotheby's or Christie's. Otherwise I very
seldom leave my room. I am not too strong, and my researches are very
absorbing. But you can imagine, Mr. Holmes, what a terrific shock—

pleasant but terrific—it was for me when I heard of this unparalleled good
fortune. It only needs one more Garrideb to complete the matter, and surely
we can find one. I had a brother, but he is dead, and female relatives are
disqualified. But there must surely be others in the world. I had heard that
you handled strange cases, and that was why I sent to you. Of course, this
American gentleman is quite right, and I should have taken his advice first,
but I acted for the best."

"I think you acted very wisely indeed," said Holmes. "But are you really
anxious to acquire an estate in America?"

"Certainly not, sir. Nothing would induce me to leave my collection. But
this gentleman has assured me that he will buy me out as soon as we have
established our claim. Five million dollars was the sum named. There are a
dozen specimens in the market at the present moment which fill gaps in my
collection, and which I am unable to purchase for want of a few hundred
pounds. Just think what I could do with five million dollars. Why, I have the
nucleus of a national collection. I shall be the Hans Sloane of my age."

His eyes gleamed behind his great spectacles. It was very clear that no
pains would be spared by Mr. Nathan Garrideb in finding a namesake.

"I merely called to make your acquaintance, and there is no reason why I
should interrupt your studies," said Holmes. "I prefer to establish personal
touch with those with whom I do business. There are few questions I need
ask, for I have your very clear narrative in my pocket, and I filled up the
blanks when this American gentleman called. I understand that up to this
week you were unaware of his existence."

"That is so. He called last Tuesday."

"Did he tell you of our interview to-day?"

"Yes, he came straight back to me. He had been very angry."

"Why should he be angry?"

"He seemed to think it was some reflection on his honour. But he was
quite cheerful again when he returned."

"Did he suggest any course of action?"

"No, sir, he did not."

"Has he had, or asked for, any money from you?"

"No, sir, never!"

"You see no possible object he has in view?"

"None, except what he states."

"Did you tell him of our telephone appointment?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

Holmes was lost in thought. I could see that he was puzzled.

"Have you any articles of great value in your collection?"

"No, sir. I am not a rich man. It is a good collection, but not a very
valuable one."

"You have no fear of burglars?"

"Not the least."

"How long have you been in these rooms?"

"Nearly five years."

Holmes's cross-examination was interrupted by an imperative knocking
at the door. No sooner had our client unlatched it than the American lawyer
burst excitedly into the room.

"Here you are!" he cried, waving a paper over his head. "I thought I
should be in time to get you. Mr. Nathan Garrideb, my congratulations! You
are a rich man, sir. Our business is happily finished and all is well. As to
you, Mr. Holmes, we can only say we are sorry if we have given you any
useless trouble."

He handed over the paper to our client, who stood staring at a marked
advertisement. Holmes and I leaned forward and read it over his shoulder.
This is how it ran:

+-----------------------------------------------------+
| |
| HOWARD GARRIDEB. |
| |
| Constructor of Agricultural Machinery. |
| |
| Binders, reapers' steam and hand plows, drills, |
| harrows, farmers' carts, buckboards, and all other |
| appliances. |
| |
| Estimates for Artesian Wells. |
| |
| Apply Grosvenor Buildings, Aston. |
| |
+-----------------------------------------------------+

"Glorious!" gasped our host. "That makes our third man."

"I had opened up inquiries in Birmingham," said the American, "and my
agent there has sent me this advertisement from a local paper. We must
hustle and put the thing through. I have written to this man and told him
that you will see him in his office to-morrow afternoon at four o'clock."

"You want me to see him?"

"What do you say, Mr. Holmes? Don't you think it would be wiser? Here
am I, a wandering American with a wonderful tale. Why should he believe
what I tell him? But you are a Britisher with solid references, and he is
bound to take notice of what you say. I would go with you if you wished,

but I have a very busy day to-morrow, and I could always follow you if you
are in any trouble."

"Well, I have not made such a journey for years."

"It is nothing, Mr. Garrideb. I have figured out your connections. You
leave at twelve and should be there soon after two. Then you can be back
the same night. All you have to do is to see this man, explain the matter, and
get an affidavit of his existence. By the Lord!" he added hotly, "considering
I've come all the way from the centre of America, it is surely little enough if
you go a hundred miles in order to put this matter through."

"Quite so," said Holmes. "I think what this gentleman says is very true."

Mr. Nathan Garrideb shrugged his shoulders with a disconsolate air.
"Well, if you insist I shall go," said he. "It is certainly hard for me to refuse
you anything, considering the glory of hope that you have brought into my
life."

"Then that is agreed," said Holmes, "and no doubt you will let me have a
report as soon as you can."

"I'll see to that," said the American. "Well," he added, looking at his
watch, "I'll have to get on. I'll call to-morrow, Mr. Nathan, and see you off
to Birmingham. Coming my way, Mr. Holmes? Well, then, good-bye, and
we may have good news for you to-morrow night."

I noticed that my friend's face cleared when the American left the room,
and the look of thoughtful perplexity had vanished.

"I wish I could look over your collection, Mr. Garrideb," said he. "In my
profession all sorts of odd knowledge comes useful, and this room of yours
is a storehouse of it."

Our client shone with pleasure and his eyes gleamed from behind his big
glasses.

"I had always heard, sir, that you were a very intelligent man," said he. "I
could take you round now, if you have the time."

"Unfortunately, I have not. But these specimens are so well labelled and
classified that they hardly need your personal explanation. If I should be
able to look in to-morrow, I presume that there would be no objection to my
glancing over them?"

"None at all. You are most welcome. The place will, of course, be shut
up, but Mrs. Saunders is in the basement up to four o'clock and would let
you in with her key."

"Well, I happen to be clear to-morrow afternoon. If you would say a
word to Mrs. Saunders it would be quite in order. By the way, who is your
house-agent?"

Our client was amazed at the sudden question.

"Holloway and Steele, in the Edgware Road. But why?"

"I am a bit of an archæologist myself when it comes to houses," said
Holmes, laughing. "I was wondering if this was Queen Anne or Georgian."

"Georgian, beyond doubt."

"Really. I should have thought a little earlier. However, it is easily
ascertained. Well, good-bye, Mr. Garrideb, and may you have every success
in your Birmingham journey."

The house-agent's was close by, but we found that it was closed for the
day, so we made our way back to Baker Street. It was not till after dinner
that Holmes reverted to the subject.

"Our little problem draws to a close," said he. "No doubt you have
outlined the solution in your own mind."

"I can make neither head nor tail of it."

"The head is surely clear enough and the tail we should see to-morrow.
Did you notice nothing curious about that advertisement?"

"I saw that the word 'plough' was misspelt."

"Oh, you did notice that, did you? Come, Watson, you improve all the
time. Yes, it was bad English but good American. The printer had set it up
as received. Then the buckboards. That is American also. And artesian wells
are commoner with them than with us. It was a typical American
advertisement, but purporting to be from an English firm. What do you
make of that?"

"I can only suppose that this American lawyer put it in himself. What his
object was I fail to understand."

"Well, there are alternative explanations. Anyhow, he wanted to get this
good old fossil up to Birmingham. That is very clear. I might have told him
that he was clearly going on a wild-goose chase, but, on second thoughts, it
seemed better to clear the stage by letting him go. To-morrow, Watson—
well, to-morrow will speak for itself."

Holmes was up and out early. When he returned at lunch-time I noticed
that his face was very grave.

"This is a more serious matter than I had expected, Watson," said he. "It
is fair to tell you so, though I know it will only be an additional reason to
you for running your head into danger. I should know my Watson by now.
But there is danger, and you should know it."

"Well, it is not the first we have shared, Holmes. I hope it may not be the
last. What is the particular danger this time?"

"We are up against a very hard case. I have identified Mr. John Garrideb,
Counsellor at Law. He is none other than 'Killer' Evans, of sinister and
murderous reputation."

"I fear I am none the wiser."

"Ah, it is not part of your profession to carry about a portable Newgate
Calendar in your memory. I have been down to see friend Lestrade at the
Yard. There may be an occasional want of imaginative intuition down there,
but they lead the world for thoroughness and method. I had an idea that we
might get on the track of our American friend in their records. Sure enough,
I found his chubby face smiling up at me from the Rogues' Portrait Gallery.
James Winter, alias Morecroft, alias Killer Evans, was the inscription
below." Holmes drew an envelope from his pocket. "I scribbled down a few
points from his dossier. Aged forty-four. Native of Chicago. Known to have
shot three men in the States. Escaped from penitentiary through political
influence. Came to London in 1893. Shot a man over cards in a night club
in the Waterloo Road in January, 1895. Man died, but he was shown to have
been the aggressor in the row. Dead man was identified as Rodger Prescott,
famous as forger and coiner in Chicago. Killer Evans released in 1901. Has
been under police supervision since, but so far as known has led an honest
life. Very dangerous man, usually carries arms and is prepared to use them.
That is our bird, Watson—a sporting bird, as you must admit."

"But what is his game?"

"Well, it begins to define itself. I have been to the house-agents. Our
client, as he told us, has been there five years. It was unlet for a year before
then. The previous tenant was a gentleman at large named Waldron.
Waldron's appearance was well remembered at the office. He had suddenly
vanished and nothing more been heard of him. He was a tall, bearded man
with very dark features. Now, Prescott, the man whom Killer Evans had
shot, was, according to Scotland Yard, a tall, dark man with a beard. As a
working hypothesis, I think we may take it that Prescott, the American
criminal, used to live in the very room which our innocent friend now
devotes to his museum. So at last we get a link, you see."

"And the next link?"

"Well, we must go now and look for that."

He took a revolver from the drawer and handed it to me.

"I have my old favourite with me. If our Wild West friend tries to live up
to his nickname, we must be ready for him. I'll give you an hour for a siesta,
Watson, and then I think it will be time for our Ryder Street adventure."

It was just four o'clock when we reached the curious apartment of
Nathan Garrideb. Mrs. Saunders, the caretaker, was about to leave, but she
had no hesitation in admitting us, for the door shut with a spring lock and
Holmes promised to see that all was safe before we left. Shortly afterwards
the outer door closed, her bonnet passed the bow window, and we knew that
we were alone in the lower floor of the house. Holmes made a rapid
examination of the premises. There was one cupboard in a dark corner
which stood out a little from the wall. It was behind this that we eventually
crouched, while Holmes in a whisper outlined his intentions.

"He wanted to get our amiable friend out of his room—that is very clear,
and, as the collector never went out, it took some planning to do it. The
whole of this Garrideb invention was apparently for no other end. I must
say, Watson, that there is a certain devilish ingenuity about it, even if the
queer name of the tenant did give him an opening which he could hardly
have expected. He wove his plot with remarkable cunning."

"But what did he want?"

"Well, that is what we are here to find out. It has nothing whatever to do
with our client, so far as I can read the situation. It is something connected
with the man he murdered—the man who may have been his confederate in
crime. There is some guilty secret in the room. That is how I read it. At first
I thought our friend might have something in his collection more valuable
than he knew—something worth the attention of a big criminal. But the fact
that Rodger Prescott of evil memory inhabited these rooms points to some
deeper reason. Well, Watson, we can but possess our souls in patience and
see what the hour may bring."

That hour was not long in striking. We crouched closer in the shadow as
we heard the outer door open and shut. Then came the sharp, metallic snap
of a key, and the American was in the room. He closed the door softly
behind him, took a sharp glance around him to see that all was safe, threw
off his overcoat, and walked up to the central table with the brisk manner of

one who knows exactly what he has to do and how to do it. He pushed the
table to one side, tore up the square of carpet on which it rested, rolled it
completely back, and then, drawing a jemmy from his inside pocket, he
knelt down and worked vigorously upon the floor. Presently we heard the
sound of sliding boards, and an instant later a square had opened in the
planks. Killer Evans struck a match, lit a stump of candle, and vanished
from our view.

Clearly our moment had come. Holmes touched my wrist as a signal,
and together we stole across to the open trapdoor. Gently as we moved,
however, the old floor must have creaked under our feet, for the head of our
American, peering anxiously round, emerged suddenly from the open space.
His face turned upon us with a glare of baffled rage, which gradually
softened into a rather shamefaced grin as he realized that two pistols were
pointed at his head.

"Well, well!" said he, coolly, as he scrambled to the surface. "I guess you
have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my game, I
suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir, I hand it to
you; you have me beat and——"

In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had fired
two shots. I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to
my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came down on the man's
head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the floor with blood running
down his face while Holmes rummaged him for weapons. Then my friend's
wiry arms were round me and he was leading me to a chair.

"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"

It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to know the depth
of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes
were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and
only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All
my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment
of revelation.

"It's nothing, Holmes. It's a mere scratch."

He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.

"You are right," he cried, with an immense sigh of relief. "It is quite
superficial." His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was
sitting up with a dazed face. "By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had
killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive. Now, sir,
what have you to say for yourself?"

He had nothing to say for himself. He only lay and scowled. I leaned on
Holmes's arm, and together we looked down into the small cellar which had
been disclosed by the secret flap. It was still illuminated by the candle
which Evans had taken down with him. Our eyes fell upon a mass of rusted
machinery, great rolls of paper, a litter of bottles, and, neatly arranged upon
a small table, a number of neat little bundles.

"A printing press—a counterfeiter's outfit," said Holmes.

"Yes, sir," said our prisoner, staggering slowly to his feet and then
sinking into the chair. "The greatest counterfeiter London ever saw. That's
Prescott's machine, and those bundles on the table are two thousand of
Prescott's notes worth a hundred each and fit to pass anywhere. Help
yourselves, gentlemen. Call it a deal and let me beat it."

Holmes laughed.

"We don't do things like that, Mr. Evans. There is no bolt-hole for you in
this country. You shot this man Prescott, did you not?"

"Yes, sir, and got five years for it, though it was he who pulled on me.
Five years—when I should have had a medal the size of a soup plate. No
living man could tell a Prescott from a Bank of England, and if I hadn't put
him out he would have flooded London with them. I was the only one in the
world who knew where he made them. Can you wonder that I wanted to get
to the place? And can you wonder that when I found this crazy boob of a
bug-hunter with the queer name squatting right on the top of it, and never
quitting his room, I had to do the best I could to shift him? Maybe I would
have been wiser if I had put him away. It would have been easy enough, but
I'm a soft-hearted guy that can't begin shooting unless the other man has a

gun also. But say, Mr. Holmes, what have I done wrong, anyhow? I've not
used this plant. I've not hurt this old stiff. Where do you get me?"

"Only attempted murder, so far as I can see," said Holmes. "But that's
not our job. They take that at the next stage. What we wanted at present was
just your sweet self. Please give the Yard a call, Watson. It won't be entirely
unexpected."

So those were the facts about Killer Evans and his remarkable invention
of the three Garridebs. We heard later that our poor old friend never got
over the shock of his dissipated dreams. When his castle in the air fell
down, it buried him beneath the ruins. He was last heard of at a nursing-
home in Brixton. It was a glad day at the Yard when the Prescott outfit was
discovered, for, though they knew that it existed, they had never been able,
after the death of the man, to find out where it was. Evans had indeed done
great service and caused several worthy C.I.D. men to sleep the sounder, for
the counterfeiter stands in a class by himself as a public danger. They would
willingly have subscribed to that soup-plate medal of which the criminal
had spoken, but an unappreciative Bench took a less favourable view, and
the Killer returned to those shades from which he had just emerged.

VII

THE PROBLEM OF THOR BRIDGE

Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross,
there is a travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box with my name, John H.
Watson, M.D., Late Indian Army, painted upon the lid. It is crammed with
papers, nearly all of which are records of cases to illustrate the curious
problems which Mr. Sherlock Holmes had at various times to examine.
Some, and not the least interesting, were complete failures, and as such will
hardly bear narrating, since no final explanation is forthcoming. A problem
without a solution may interest the student, but can hardly fail to annoy the

casual reader. Among these unfinished tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore,
who, stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more
seen in this world. No less remarkable is that of the cutter Alicia, which
sailed one spring morning into a small patch of mist from where she never
again emerged, nor was anything further ever heard of herself and her crew.
A third case worthy of note is that of Isadora Persano, the well-known
journalist and duellist, who was found stark staring mad with a matchbox in
front of him which contained a remarkable worm, said to be unknown to
science. Apart from these unfathomed cases, there are some which involve
the secrets of private families to an extent which would mean consternation
in many exalted quarters if it were thought possible that they might find
their way into print. I need not say that such a breach of confidence is
unthinkable, and that these records will be separated and destroyed now that
my friend has time to turn his energies to the matter. There remain a
considerable residue of cases of greater or less interest which I might have
edited before had I not feared to give the public a surfeit which might react
upon the reputation of the man whom above all others I revere. In some I
was myself concerned and can speak as an eye-witness, while in others I
was either not present or played so small a part that they could only be told
as by a third person. The following narrative is drawn from my own
experience.

It was a wild morning in October, and I observed as I was dressing how
the last remaining leaves were being whirled from the solitary plane tree
which graces the yard behind our house. I descended to breakfast prepared
to find my companion in depressed spirits, for, like all great artists, he was
easily impressed by his surroundings. On the contrary, I found that he had
nearly finished his meal, and that his mood was particularly bright and
joyous, with that somewhat sinister cheerfulness which was characteristic
of his lighter moments.

"You have a case, Holmes?" I remarked.

"The faculty of deduction is certainly contagious, Watson," he answered.
"It has enabled you to probe my secret. Yes, I have a case. After a month of
trivialities and stagnation the wheels move once more."

"Might I share it?"

"There is little to share, but we may discuss it when you have consumed
the two hard-boiled eggs with which our new cook has favoured us. Their
condition may not be unconnected with the copy of the Family Herald
which I observed yesterday upon the hall-table. Even so trivial a matter as
cooking an egg demands an attention which is conscious of the passage of
time, and incompatible with the love romance in that excellent periodical."

A quarter of an hour later the table had been cleared and we were face to
face. He had drawn a letter from his pocket.

"You have heard of Neil Gibson, the Gold King?" he said.

"You mean the American Senator?"

"Well, he was once Senator for some Western State, but is better known
as the greatest gold-mining magnate in the world."

"Yes, I know of him. He has surely lived in England for some time. His
name is very familiar."

"Yes; he bought a considerable estate in Hampshire some five years ago.
Possibly you have already heard of the tragic end of his wife?"

"Of course. I remember it now. That is why the name is familiar. But I
really know nothing of the details."

Holmes waved his hand towards some papers on a chair. "I had no idea
that the case was coming my way or I should have had my extracts ready,"
said he. "The fact is that the problem, though exceedingly sensational,
appeared to present no difficulty. The interesting personality of the accused
does not obscure the clearness of the evidence. That was the view taken by
the coroner's jury and also in the police-court proceedings. It is now
referred to the Assizes at Winchester. I fear it is a thankless business. I can
discover facts, Watson, but I cannot change them. Unless some entirely new
and unexpected ones come to light I do not see what my client can hope
for."

"Your client?"

"Ah, I forgot I had not told you. I am getting into your involved habit,
Watson, of telling a story backwards. You had best read this first."

The letter which he handed to me, written in a bold, masterful hand, ran
as follows:

CLARIDGE'S HOTEL, October 3rd.

DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—

I can't see the best woman God ever made go to her death without doing
all that is possible to save her. I can't explain things—I can't even try to
explain them, but I know beyond all doubt that Miss Dunbar is innocent.
You know the facts—who doesn't? It has been the gossip of the country.
And never a voice raised for her! It's the damned injustice of it all that
makes me crazy. That woman has a heart that wouldn't let her kill a fly.
Well, I'll come at eleven to-morrow and see if you can get some ray of light
in the dark. Maybe I have a clue and don't know it. Anyhow, all I know and
all I have and all I am are for your use if only you can save her. If ever in
your life you showed your powers, put them now into this case.

Yours faithfully,
J. NEIL GIBSON.

"There you have it," said Sherlock Holmes, knocking out the ashes of his
after-breakfast pipe and slowly refilling it. "That is the gentleman I await.
As to the story, you have hardly time to master all these papers, so I must
give it to you in a nutshell if you are to take an intelligent interest in the
proceedings. This man is the greatest financial power in the world, and a
man, as I understand, of most violent and formidable character. He married
a wife, the victim of this tragedy, of whom I know nothing save that she
was past her prime, which was the more unfortunate as a very attractive
governess superintended the education of two young children. These are the
three people concerned, and the scene is a grand old manor-house, the

centre of an historical English estate. Then as to the tragedy. The wife was
found in the grounds nearly half a mile from the house, late at night, clad in
her dinner dress, with a shawl over her shoulders and a revolver bullet
through her brain. No weapon was found near her and there was no local
clue as to the murder. No weapon near her, Watson—mark that! The crime
seems to have been committed late in the evening, and the body was found
by a gamekeeper about eleven o'clock, when it was examined by the police
and by a doctor before being carried up to the house. Is this too condensed,
or can you follow it clearly?"

"It is all very clear. But why suspect the governess?"

"Well, in the first place there is some very direct evidence. A revolver
with one discharged chamber and a calibre which corresponded with the
bullet was found on the floor of her wardrobe." His eyes fixed and he
repeated in broken words, "On—the—floor—of—her—wardrobe." Then he
sank into silence, and I saw that some train of thought had been set moving
which I should be foolish to interrupt. Suddenly with a start he emerged into
brisk life once more. "Yes, Watson, it was found. Pretty damning, eh? So
the two juries thought. Then the dead woman had a note upon her making
an appointment at that very place and signed by the governess. How's that?
Finally, there is the motive. Senator Gibson is an attractive person. If his
wife dies, who more likely to succeed her than the young lady who had
already by all accounts received pressing attentions from her employer.
Love, fortune, power, all depending upon one middle-aged life. Ugly,
Watson—very ugly!"

"Yes, indeed, Holmes."

"Nor could she prove an alibi. On the contrary, she had to admit that she
was down near Thor Bridge—that was the scene of the tragedy—about that
hour. She couldn't deny it, for some passing villager had seen her there."

"That really seems final."

"And yet, Watson—and yet! This bridge—a single broad span of stone
with balustraded sides—carries the drive over the narrowest part of a long,
deep, reed-girt sheet of water. Thor Mere it is called. In the mouth of the

bridge lay the dead woman. Such are the main facts. But here, if I mistake
not, is our client, considerably before his time."

Billy had opened the door, but the name which he announced was an
unexpected one. Mr. Marlow Bates was a stranger to both of us. He was a
thin, nervous wisp of a man with frightened eyes, and a twitching,
hesitating manner—a man whom my own professional eye would judge to
be on the brink of an absolute nervous breakdown.

"You seem agitated, Mr. Bates," said Holmes. "Pray sit down. I fear I can
only give you a short time, for I have an appointment at eleven."

"I know you have," our visitor gasped, shooting out short sentences like
a man who is out of breath. "Mr. Gibson is coming. Mr. Gibson is my
employer. I am manager of his estate. Mr. Holmes, he is a villain—an
infernal villain."

"Strong language, Mr. Bates."

"I have to be emphatic, Mr. Holmes, for the time is so limited. I would
not have him find me here for the world. He is almost due now. But I was
so situated that I could not come earlier. His secretary, Mr. Ferguson, only
told me this morning of his appointment with you."

"And you are his manager?"

"I have given him notice. In a couple of weeks I shall have shaken off
his accursed slavery. A hard man, Mr. Holmes, hard to all about him. Those
public charities are a screen to cover his private iniquities. But his wife was
his chief victim. He was brutal to her—yes, sir, brutal! How she came by
her death I do not know, but I am sure that he had made her life a misery to
her. She was a creature of the Tropics, a Brazilian by birth, as no doubt you
know?"

"No; it had escaped me."

"Tropical by birth and tropical by nature. A child of the sun and of
passion. She had loved him as such women can love, but when her own

physical charms had faded—I am told that they once were great—there was
nothing to hold him. We all liked her and felt for her and hated him for the
way that he treated her. But he is plausible and cunning. That is all I have to
say to you. Don't take him at his face value. There is more behind. Now I'll
go. No, no, don't detain me! He is almost due."

With a frightened look at the clock our strange visitor literally ran to the
door and disappeared.

"Well! Well!" said Holmes, after an interval of silence. "Mr. Gibson
seems to have a nice loyal household. But the warning is a useful one, and
now we can only wait till the man himself appears."

Sharp at the hour we heard a heavy step upon the stairs and the famous
millionaire was shown into the room. As I looked upon him I understood
not only the fears and dislike of his manager, but also the execrations which
so many business rivals have heaped upon his head. If I were a sculptor and
desired to idealize the successful man of affairs, iron of nerve and leathery
of conscience, I should choose Mr. Neil Gibson as my model. His tall, gaunt
craggy figure had a suggestion of hunger and rapacity. An Abraham Lincoln
keyed to base uses instead of high ones would give some idea of the man.
His face might have been chiselled in granite, hard-set, craggy, remorseless,
with deep lines upon it, the scars of many a crisis. Cold grey eyes, looking
shrewdly out from under bristling brows, surveyed us each in turn. He
bowed in perfunctory fashion as Holmes mentioned my name, and then
with a masterful air of possession he drew a chair up to my companion and
seated himself with his bony knees almost touching him.

"Let me say right here, Mr. Holmes," he began, "that money is nothing to
me in this case. You can burn it if it's any use in lighting you to the truth.
This woman is innocent and this woman has to be cleared, and it's up to you
to do it. Name your figure!"

"My professional charges are upon a fixed scale," said Holmes coldly. "I
do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether."

"Well, if dollars make no difference to you, think of the reputation. If
you pull this off every paper in England and America will be booming you.

You'll be the talk of two continents."

"Thank you, Mr. Gibson, I do not think that I am in need of booming. It
may surprise you to know that I prefer to work anonymously, and that it is
the problem itself which attracts me. But we are wasting time. Let us get
down to the facts."

"I think that you will find all the main ones in the Press reports. I don't
know that I can add anything which will help you. But if there is anything
you would wish more light upon—well, I am here to give it."

"Well, there is just one point."

"What is it?"

"What were the exact relations between you and Miss Dunbar?"

The Gold King gave a violent start, and half rose from his chair. Then his
massive calm came back to him.

"I suppose you are within your rights—and maybe doing your duty—in
asking such a question, Mr. Holmes."

"We will agree to suppose so," said Holmes.

"Then I can assure you that our relations were entirely and always those
of an employer towards a young lady whom he never conversed with, or
ever saw, save when she was in the company of his children."

Holmes rose from his chair.

"I am a rather busy man, Mr. Gibson," said he, "and I have no time or
taste for aimless conversations. I wish you good morning."

Our visitor had risen also and his great loose figure towered above
Holmes. There was an angry gleam from under those bristling brows and a
tinge of colour in the sallow cheeks.

"What the devil do you mean by this, Mr. Holmes? Do you dismiss my
case?"

"Well, Mr. Gibson, at least I dismiss you. I should have thought my
words were plain."

"Plain enough, but what's at the back of it? Raising the price on me, or
afraid to tackle it, or what? I've a right to a plain answer."

"Well, perhaps you have," said Holmes. "I'll give you one. This case is
quite sufficiently complicated to start with, without the further difficulty of
false information."

"Meaning that I lie."

"Well, I was trying to express it as delicately as I could, but if you insist
upon the word I will not contradict you."

I sprang to my feet, for the expression upon the millionaire's face was
fiendish in its intensity, and he had raised his great knotted fist. Holmes
smiled languidly and reached his hand out for his pipe.

"Don't be noisy, Mr. Gibson. I find that after breakfast even the smallest
argument is unsettling. I suggest that a stroll in the morning air and a little
quiet thought will be greatly to your advantage."

With an effort the Gold King mastered his fury. I could not but admire
him, for by a supreme self-command he had turned in a minute from a hot
flame of anger to a frigid and contemptuous indifference.

"Well, it's your choice. I guess you know how to run your own business.
I can't make you touch the case against your will. You've done yourself no
good this morning, Mr. Holmes, for I have broken stronger men than you.
No man ever crossed me and was the better for it."

"So many have said so, and yet here I am," said Holmes, smiling. "Well,
good morning, Mr. Gibson. You have a good deal yet to learn."

Our visitor made a noisy exit, but Holmes smoked in imperturbable
silence with dreamy eyes fixed upon the ceiling.

"Any views, Watson?" he asked at last.

"Well, Holmes, I must confess that when I consider that this is a man
who would certainly brush any obstacle from his path, and when I
remember that his wife may have been an obstacle and an object of dislike,
as that man Bates plainly told us, it seems to me——"

"Exactly. And to me also."

"But what were his relations with the governess and how did you
discover them?"

"Bluff, Watson, bluff! When I considered the passionate, unconventional,
unbusinesslike tone of his letter, and contrasted it with his self-contained
manner and appearance, it was pretty clear that there was some deep
emotion which centred upon the accused woman rather than upon the
victim. We've got to understand the exact relations of those three people if
we are to reach the truth. You saw the frontal attack which I made upon him
and how imperturbably he received it. Then I bluffed him by giving him the
impression that I was absolutely certain, when in reality I was only
extremely suspicious.

"Perhaps he will come back?"

"He is sure to come back. He must come back. He can't leave it where it
is. Ha! isn't that a ring? Yes, there is his footstep. Well, Mr. Gibson, I was
just saying to Dr. Watson that you were somewhat overdue."

The Gold King had re-entered the room in a more chastened mood than
he had left it. His wounded pride still showed in his resentful eyes, but his
common sense had shown him that he must yield if he would attain his end.

"I've been thinking it over, Mr. Holmes, and I feel that I have been hasty
in taking your remarks amiss. You are justified in getting down to the facts,
whatever they may be, and I think the more of you for it. I can assure you,

however, that the relations between Miss Dunbar and me don't really touch
this case."

"That is for me to decide, is it not?"

"Yes, I guess that is so. You're like a surgeon who wants every symptom
before he can give his diagnosis."

"Exactly. That expresses it. And it is only a patient who has an object in
deceiving his surgeon who would conceal the facts of his case."

"That may be so, but you will admit, Mr. Holmes, that most men would
shy off a bit when they are asked point-blank what their relations with a
woman may be—if there is really some serious feeling in the case. I guess
most men have a little private reserve of their own in some corner of their
souls where they don't welcome intruders. And you burst suddenly into it.
But the object excuses you, since it was to try and save her. Well, the stakes
are down and the reserve open and you can explore where you will. What is
it you want?"

"The truth."

The Gold King paused for a moment as one who marshals his thoughts.
His grim, deep-lined face had become even sadder and more grave.

"I can give it to you in a very few words, Mr. Holmes," said he at last.
"There are some things that are painful as well as difficult to say, so I won't
go deeper than is needful. I met my wife when I was gold-hunting in Brazil.
Maria Pinto was the daughter of a Government official at Manaos, and she
was very beautiful. I was young and ardent in those days, but even now, as I
look back with colder blood and a more critical eye, I can see that she was
rare and wonderful in her beauty. It was a deep rich nature, too, passionate,
whole-hearted, tropical, ill-balanced, very different from the American
women whom I had known. Well, to make a long story short, I loved her
and I married her. It was only when the romance had passed—and it
lingered for years—that I realized that we had nothing—absolutely nothing
—in common. My love faded. If hers had faded also it might have been
easier. But you know the wonderful way of women! Do what I might

nothing could turn her from me. If I have been harsh to her, even brutal as
some have said, it has been because I knew that if I could kill her love, or if
it turned to hate, it would be easier for both of us. But nothing changed her.
She adored me in those English woods as she had adored me twenty years
ago on the banks of the Amazon. Do what I might, she was as devoted as
ever.

"Then came Miss Grace Dunbar. She answered our advertisement and
became governess to our two children. Perhaps you have seen her portrait in
the papers. The whole world has proclaimed that she also is a very beautiful
woman. Now, I make no pretence to be more moral than my neighbours,
and I will admit to you that I could not live under the same roof with such a
woman and in daily contact with her without feeling a passionate regard for
her. Do you blame me, Mr. Holmes?"

"I do not blame you for feeling it. I should blame you if you expressed it,
since this young lady was in a sense under your protection."

"Well, maybe so," said the millionaire, though for a moment the reproof
had brought the old angry gleam into his eyes. "I'm not pretending to be any
better than I am. I guess all my life I've been a man that reached out his
hand for what he wanted, and I never wanted anything more than the love
and possession of that woman. I told her so."

"Oh, you did, did you?"

Holmes could look very formidable when he was moved.

"I said to her that if I could marry her I would, but that it was out of my
power. I said that money was no object and that all I could do to make her
happy and comfortable would be done."

"Very generous, I am sure," said Holmes, with a sneer.

"See here, Mr. Holmes. I came to you on a question of evidence, not on a
question of morals. I'm not asking for your criticism."

"It is only for the young lady's sake that I touch your case at all," said
Holmes sternly. "I don't know that anything she is accused of is really worse
than what you have yourself admitted, that you have tried to ruin a
defenceless girl who was under your roof. Some of you rich men have to be
taught that all the world cannot be bribed into condoning your offences."

To my surprise the Gold King took the reproof with equanimity.

"That's how I feel myself about it now. I thank God that my plans did not
work out as I intended. She would have none of it, and she wanted to leave
the house instantly."

"Why did she not?"

"Well, in the first place, others were dependent upon her, and it was no
light matter for her to let them all down by sacrificing her living. When I
had sworn—as I did—that she should never be molested again, she
consented to remain. But there was another reason. She knew the influence
she had over me, and that it was stronger than any other influence in the
world. She wanted to use it for good."

"How?"

"Well, she knew something of my affairs. They are large, Mr. Holmes—
large beyond the belief of an ordinary man. I can make or break—and it is
usually break. It wasn't individuals only. It was communities, cities, even
nations. Business is a hard game, and the weak go to the wall. I played the
game for all it was worth. I never squealed myself and I never cared if the
other fellow squealed. But she saw it different. I guess she was right. She
believed and said that a fortune for one man that was more than he needed
should not be built on ten thousand ruined men who were left without the
means of life. That was how she saw it, and I guess she could see past the
dollars to something that was more lasting. She found that I listened to what
she said, and she believed she was serving the world by influencing my
actions. So she stayed—and then this came along."

"Can you throw any light upon that?"

The Gold King paused for a minute or more, his head sunk in his hands,
lost in deep thought.

"It's very black against her. I can't deny that. And women lead an inward
life and may do things beyond the judgment of a man. At first I was so
rattled and taken aback that I was ready to think she had been led away in
some extraordinary fashion that was clean against her usual nature. One
explanation came into my head. I give it to you, Mr. Holmes, for what it is
worth. There is no doubt that my wife was bitterly jealous. There is a soul-
jealousy that can be as frantic as any body-jealousy, and though my wife
had no cause—and I think she understood this—for the latter, she was
aware that this English girl exerted an influence upon my mind and my acts
that she herself never had. It was an influence for good, but that did not
mend the matter. She was crazy with hatred, and the heat of the Amazon
was always in her blood. She might have planned to murder Miss Dunbar—
or we will say to threaten her with a gun and so frighten her into leaving us.
Then there might have been a scuffle and the gun gone off and shot the
woman who held it."

"That possibility had already occurred to me," said Holmes. "Indeed, it is
the only obvious alternative to deliberate murder."

"But she utterly denies it."

"Well, that is not final—is it? One can understand that a woman placed
in so awful a position might hurry home still in her bewilderment holding
the revolver. She might even throw it down among her clothes, hardly
knowing what she was doing, and when it was found she might try to lie her
way out by a total denial, since all explanation was impossible. What is
against such a supposition?"

"Miss Dunbar herself."

"Well, perhaps."

Holmes looked at his watch. "I have no doubt we can get the necessary
permits this morning and reach Winchester by the evening train. When I
have seen this young lady, it is very possible that I may be of more use to

you in the matter, though I cannot promise that my conclusions will
necessarily be such as you desire."

There was some delay in the official pass, and instead of reaching
Winchester that day we went down to Thor Place, the Hampshire estate of
Mr. Neil Gibson. He did not accompany us himself, but we had the address
of Sergeant Coventry, of the local police, who had first examined into the
affair. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous man, with a secretive and mysterious
manner, which conveyed the idea that he knew or suspected a very great
deal more than he dared say. He had a trick, too, of suddenly sinking his
voice to a whisper as if he had come upon something of vital importance,
though the information was usually commonplace enough. Behind these
tricks of manner he soon showed himself to be a decent, honest fellow who
was not too proud to admit that he was out of his depth and would welcome
any help.

"Anyhow, I'd rather have you than Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes," said he.
"If the Yard gets called into a case, then the local loses all credit for success
and may be blamed for failure. Now, you play straight, so I've heard."

"I need not appear in the matter at all," said Holmes, to the evident relief
of our melancholy acquaintance. "If I can clear it up I don't ask to have my
name mentioned."

"Well, it's very handsome of you, I am sure. And your friend, Dr.
Watson, can be trusted, I know. Now, Mr. Holmes, as we walk down to the
place there is one question I should like to ask you. I'd breathe it to no soul
but you." He looked round as though he hardly dare utter the words. "Don't
you think there might be a case against Mr. Neil Gibson himself?"

"I have been considering that."

"You've not seen Miss Dunbar. She is a wonderful fine woman in every
way. He may well have wished his wife out of the road. And these
Americans are readier with pistols than our folk are. It was his pistol, you
know."

"Was that clearly made out?"

"Yes, sir. It was one of a pair that he had."

"One of a pair? Where is the other?"

"Well, the gentleman has a lot of fire-arms of one sort and another. We
never quite matched that particular pistol—but the box was made for two."

"If it was one of a pair you should surely be able to match it."

"Well, we have them all laid out at the house if you would care to look
them over."

"Later, perhaps. I think we will walk down together and have a look at
the scene of the tragedy."

This conversation had taken place in the little front room of Sergeant
Coventry's humble cottage which served as the local police-station. A walk
of half a mile or so across a wind-swept heath, all gold and bronze with the
fading ferns, brought us to a side-gate opening into the grounds of the Thor
Place estate. A path led us through the pheasant preserves, and then from a
clearing we saw the wide-spread, half-timbered house, half Tudor and half
Georgian, upon the crest of the hill. Beside us there was a long, reedy pool,
constricted in the centre where the main carriage drive passed over a stone
bridge, but swelling into small lakes on either side. Our guide paused at the
mouth of this bridge, and he pointed to the ground.

"That was where Mrs. Gibson's body lay. I marked it by that stone."

"I understand that you were there before it was moved?"

"Yes; they sent for me at once."

"Who did?"

"Mr. Gibson himself. The moment the alarm was given and he had
rushed down with others from the house, he insisted that nothing should be
moved until the police should arrive."

"That was sensible. I gathered from the newspaper report that the shot
was fired from close quarters."

"Yes, sir, very close."

"Near the right temple?"

"Just behind it, sir."

"How did the body lie?"

"On the back, sir. No trace of a struggle. No marks. No weapon. The
short note from Miss Dunbar was clutched in her left hand."

"Clutched, you say?"

"Yes, sir; we could hardly open the fingers."

"That is of great importance. It excludes the idea that anyone could have
placed the note there after death in order to furnish a false clue. Dear me!
The note, as I remember, was quite short. 'I will be at Thor Bridge at nine
o'clock.—G. Dunbar.' Was that not so?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did Miss Dunbar admit writing it?"

"Yes, sir."

"What was her explanation?"

"Her defence was reserved for the Assizes. She would say nothing."

"The problem is certainly a very interesting one. The point of the letter is
very obscure, is it not?"

"Well, sir," said the guide, "it seemed, if I may be so bold as to say so,
the only really clear point in the whole case."

Holmes shook his head.

"Granting that the letter is genuine and was really written, it was
certainly received some time before—say one hour or two. Why, then, was
this lady still clasping it in her left hand? Why should she carry it so
carefully? She did not need to refer to it in the interview. Does it not seem
remarkable?"

"Well, sir, as you put it, perhaps it does."

"I think I should like to sit quietly for a few minutes and think it out." He
seated himself upon the stone ledge of the bridge, and I could see his quick
grey eyes darting their questioning glances in every direction. Suddenly he
sprang up again and ran across to the opposite parapet, whipped his lens
from his pocket, and began to examine the stonework.

"This is curious," said he.

"Yes, sir; we saw the chip on the ledge. I expect it's been done by some
passer-by."

The stonework was grey, but at this one point it showed white for a
space not larger than a sixpence. When examined closely one could see that
the surface was chipped as by a sharp blow.

"It took some violence to do that," said Holmes thoughtfully. With his
cane he struck the ledge several times without leaving a mark. "Yes, it was a
hard knock. In a curious place, too. It was not from above but from below,
for you see that it is on the lower edge of the parapet."

"But it is at least fifteen feet from the body."

"Yes, it is fifteen feet from the body. It may have nothing to do with the
matter, but it is a point worth noting. I do not think that we have anything
more to learn here. There were no footsteps, you say?"

"The ground was iron hard, sir. There were no traces at all."

"Then we can go. We will go up to the house first and look over these
weapons of which you speak. Then we shall get on to Winchester, for I
should desire to see Miss Dunbar before we go farther."

Mr. Neil Gibson had not returned from town, but we saw in the house
the neurotic Mr. Bates who had called upon us in the morning. He showed
us with a sinister relish the formidable array of fire-arms of various shapes
and sizes which his employer had accumulated in the course of an
adventurous life.

"Mr. Gibson has his enemies, as anyone would expect who knew him
and his methods," said he. "He sleeps with a loaded revolver in the drawer
beside his bed. He is a man of violence, sir, and there are times when all of
us are afraid of him. I am sure that the poor lady who has passed was often
terrified."

"Did you ever witness physical violence towards her?"

"No, I cannot say that. But I have heard words which were nearly as bad
—words of cold, cutting contempt, even before the servants."

"Our millionaire does not seem to shine in private life," remarked
Holmes, as we made our way to the station. "Well, Watson, we have come
on a good many facts, some of them new ones, and yet I seem some way
from my conclusion. In spite of the very evident dislike which Mr. Bates
has to his employer, I gather from him that when the alarm came he was
undoubtedly in his library. Dinner was over at eight-thirty and all was
normal up to then. It is true that the alarm was somewhat late in the
evening, but the tragedy certainly occurred about the hour named in the
note. There is no evidence at all that Mr. Gibson had been out of doors since
his return from town at five o'clock. On the other hand, Miss Dunbar, as I
understand it, admits that she had made an appointment to meet Mrs.
Gibson at the bridge. Beyond this she would say nothing, as her lawyer had
advised her to reserve her defence. We have several very vital questions to
ask that young lady, and my mind will not be easy until we have seen her. I
must confess that the case would seem to me to be very black against her if
it were not for one thing."

"And what is that, Holmes?"

"The finding of the pistol in her wardrobe."

"Dear me, Holmes!" I cried, "that seemed to me to be the most damning
incident of all."

"Not so, Watson. It had struck me even at my first perfunctory reading as
very strange, and now that I am in closer touch with the case it is my only
firm ground for hope. We must look for consistency. Where there is a want
of it we must suspect deception."

"I hardly follow you."

"Well now, Watson, suppose for a moment that we visualize you in the
character of a woman who, in a cold, premeditated fashion, is about to get
rid of a rival. You have planned it. A note has been written. The victim has
come. You have your weapon. The crime is done. It has been workman-like
and complete. Do you tell me that after carrying out so crafty a crime you
would now ruin your reputation as a criminal by forgetting to fling your
weapon into those adjacent reed-beds which would for ever cover it, but
you must needs carry it carefully home and put it in your own wardrobe, the
very first place that would be searched? Your best friends would hardly call
you a schemer, Watson, and yet I could not picture you doing anything so
crude as that."

"In the excitement of the moment——"

"No, no, Watson, I will not admit that it is possible. Where a crime is
coolly premeditated, then the means of covering it are coolly premeditated
also. I hope, therefore, that we are in the presence of a serious
misconception."

"But there is so much to explain."

"Well, we shall set about explaining it. When once your point of view is
changed, the very thing which was so damning becomes a clue to the truth.
For example, there is this revolver. Miss Dunbar disclaims all knowledge of

it. On our new theory she is speaking truth when she says so. Therefore, it
was placed in her wardrobe. Who placed it there? Someone who wished to
incriminate her. Was not that person the actual criminal? You see how we
come at once upon a most fruitful line of inquiry."

We were compelled to spend the night at Winchester, as the formalities
had not yet been completed, but next morning, in the company of Mr. Joyce
Cummings, the rising barrister who was entrusted with the defence, we
were allowed to see the young lady in her cell. I had expected from all that
we had heard to see a beautiful woman, but I can never forget the effect
which Miss Dunbar produced upon me. It was no wonder that even the
masterful millionaire had found in her something more powerful than
himself—something which could control and guide him. One felt, too, as
one looked at that strong, clear-cut, and yet sensitive face, that even should
she be capable of some impetuous deed, none the less there was an innate
nobility of character which would make her influence always for the good.
She was a brunette, tall, with a noble figure and commanding presence, but
her dark eyes had in them the appealing, helpless expression of the hunted
creature who feels the nets around it, but can see no way out from the toils.
Now, as she realized the presence and the help of my famous friend, there
came a touch of colour in her wan cheeks and a light of hope began to
glimmer in the glance which she turned upon us.

"Perhaps Mr. Neil Gibson has told you something of what occurred
between us?" she asked, in a low, agitated voice.

"Yes," Holmes answered; "you need not pain yourself by entering into
that part of the story. After seeing you, I am prepared to accept Mr. Gibson's
statement both as to the influence which you had over him and as to the
innocence of your relations with him. But why was the whole situation not
brought out in court?"

"It seemed to me incredible that such a charge could be sustained. I
thought that if we waited the whole thing must clear itself up without our
being compelled to enter into painful details of the inner life of the family.
But I understand that far from clearing it has become even more serious."

"My dear young lady," cried Holmes earnestly, "I beg you to have no
illusions upon the point. Mr. Cummings here would assure you that all the
cards are at present against us, and that we must do everything that is
possible if we are to win clear. It would be a cruel deception to pretend that
you are not in very great danger. Give me all the help you can, then, to get
at the truth."

"I will conceal nothing."

"Tell us, then, of your true relations with Mr. Gibson's wife."

"She hated me, Mr. Holmes. She hated me with all the fervour of her
tropical nature. She was a woman who would do nothing by halves, and the
measure of her love for her husband was the measure also of her hatred for
me. It is probable that she misunderstood our relations. I would not wish to
wrong her, but she loved so vividly in a physical sense that she could hardly
understand the mental, and even spiritual, tie which held her husband to me,
or imagine that it was only my desire to influence his power to good ends
which kept me under his roof. I can see now that I was wrong. Nothing
could justify me in remaining where I was a cause of unhappiness, and yet
it is certain that the unhappiness would have remained even if I had left the
house."

"Now, Miss Dunbar," said Holmes, "I beg you to tell us exactly what
occurred that evening."

"I can tell you the truth so far as I know it, Mr. Holmes, but I am in a
position to prove nothing, and there are points—the most vital points—
which I can neither explain nor can I imagine any explanation."

"If you will find the facts, perhaps others may find the explanation."

"With regard, then, to my presence at Thor Bridge that night, I received a
note from Mrs. Gibson in the morning. It lay on the table of the
schoolroom, and it may have been left there by her own hand. It implored
me to see her there after dinner, said she had something important to say to
me, and asked me to leave an answer on the sundial in the garden, as she
desired no one to be in our confidence. I saw no reason for such secrecy, but

I did as she asked, accepting the appointment. She asked me to destroy her
note and I burned it in the schoolroom grate. She was very much afraid of
her husband, who treated her with a harshness for which I frequently
reproached him, and I could only imagine that she acted in this way because
she did not wish him to know of our interview."

"Yet she kept your reply very carefully?"

"Yes. I was surprised to hear that she had it in her hand when she died."

"Well, what happened then?"

"I went down as I had promised. When I reached the bridge she was
waiting for me. Never did I realize till that moment how this poor creature
hated me. She was like a mad woman—indeed, I think she was a mad
woman, subtly mad with the deep power of deception which insane people
may have. How else could she have met me with unconcern every day and
yet had so raging a hatred of me in her heart? I will not say what she said.
She poured her whole wild fury out in burning and horrible words. I did not
even answer—I could not. It was dreadful to see her. I put my hands to my
ears and rushed away. When I left her she was standing still shrieking out
her curses at me, in the mouth of the bridge."

"Where she was afterwards found?"

"Within a few yards from the spot."

"And yet, presuming that she met her death shortly after you left her, you
heard no shot?"

"No, I heard nothing. But, indeed, Mr. Holmes, I was so agitated and
horrified by this terrible outbreak that I rushed to get back to the peace of
my own room, and I was incapable of noticing anything which happened."

"You say that you returned to your room. Did you leave it again before
next morning?"

"Yes; when the alarm came that the poor creature had met her death I ran
out with the others."

"Did you see Mr. Gibson?"

"Yes; he had just returned from the bridge when I saw him. He had sent
for the doctor and the police."

"Did he seem to you much perturbed?"

"Mr. Gibson is a very strong, self-contained man. I do not think that he
would ever show his emotions on the surface. But I, who knew him so well,
could see that he was deeply concerned."

"Then we come to the all-important point. This pistol that was found in
your room. Had you ever seen it before?"

"Never, I swear it."

"When was it found?"

"Next morning, when the police made their search."

"Among your clothes?"

"Yes; on the floor of my wardrobe under my dresses."

"You could not guess how long it had been there?"

"It had not been there the morning before."

"How do you know?"

"Because I tidied out the wardrobe."

"That is final. Then someone came into your room and placed the pistol
there in order to inculpate you."

"It must have been so."

"And when?"

"It could only have been at meal-time, or else at the hours when I would
be in the schoolroom with the children."

"As you were when you got the note?"

"Yes; from that time onwards for the whole morning."

"Thank you, Miss Dunbar. Is there any other point which could help me
in the investigation?"

"I can think of none."

"There was some sign of violence on the stonework of the bridge—a
perfectly fresh chip just opposite the body. Could you suggest any possible
explanation of that?"

"Surely it must be a mere coincidence."

"Curious, Miss Dunbar, very curious. Why should it appear at the very
time of the tragedy and why at the very place?"

"But what could have caused it? Only great violence could have such an
effect."

Holmes did not answer. His pale, eager face had suddenly assumed that
tense, far-away expression which I had learned to associate with the
supreme manifestations of his genius. So evident was the crisis in his mind
that none of us dared to speak, and we sat, barrister, prisoner, and myself,
watching him in a concentrated and absorbed silence. Suddenly he sprang
from his chair, vibrating with nervous energy and the pressing need for
action.

"Come, Watson, come!" he cried.

"What is it, Mr. Holmes?"

"Never mind, my dear lady. You will hear from me, Mr. Cummings.
With the help of the God of justice I will give you a case which will make
England ring. You will get news by to-morrow, Miss Dunbar, and
meanwhile take my assurance that the clouds are lifting and that I have
every hope that the light of truth is breaking through."

It was not a long journey from Winchester to Thor Place, but it was long
to me in my impatience, while for Holmes it was evident that it seemed
endless; for, in his nervous restlessness, he could not sit still, but paced the
carriage or drummed with his long, sensitive fingers upon the cushions
beside him. Suddenly, however, as we neared our destination he seated
himself opposite to me—we had a first-class carriage to ourselves—and
laying a hand upon each of my knees he looked into my eyes with the
peculiarly mischievous gaze which was characteristic of his more imp-like
moods.

"Watson," said he, "I have some recollection that you go armed upon
these excursions of ours."

It was as well for him that I did so, for he took little care for his own
safety when his mind was once absorbed by a problem, so that more than
once my revolver had been a good friend in need. I reminded him of the
fact.

"Yes, yes, I am a little absent-minded in such matters. But have you your
revolver on you?"

I produced it from my hip-pocket, a short, handy, but very serviceable
little weapon. He undid the catch, shook out the cartridges, and examined it
with care.

"It's heavy—remarkably heavy," said he.

"Yes, it is a solid bit of work."

He mused over it for a minute.

"Do you know, Watson," said he, "I believe your revolver is going to
have a very intimate connection with the mystery which we are
investigating."

"My dear Holmes, you are joking."

"No, Watson, I am very serious. There is a test before us. If the test
comes off, all will be clear. And the test will depend upon the conduct of
this little weapon. One cartridge out. Now we will replace the other five and
put on the safety-catch. So! That increases the weight and makes it a better
reproduction."

I had no glimmer of what was in his mind nor did he enlighten me, but
sat lost in thought until we pulled up in the little Hampshire station. We
secured a ramshackle trap, and in a quarter of an hour were at the house of
our confidential friend, the sergeant.

"A clue, Mr. Holmes? What is it?"

"It all depends upon the behaviour of Dr. Watson's revolver," said my
friend. "Here it is. Now, officer, can you give me ten yards of string?"

The village shop provided a ball of stout twine.

"I think that this is all we will need," said Holmes. "Now, if you please,
we will get off on what I hope is the last stage of our journey."

The sun was setting and turning the rolling Hampshire moor into a
wonderful autumnal panorama. The sergeant, with many critical and
incredulous glances, which showed his deep doubts of the sanity of my
companion, lurched along beside us. As we approached the scene of the
crime I could see that my friend under all his habitual coolness was in truth
deeply agitated.

"Yes," he said, in answer to my remark, "you have seen me miss my
mark before, Watson. I have an instinct for such things, and yet it has
sometimes played me false. It seemed a certainty when first it flashed
across my mind in the cell at Winchester, but one drawback of an active

mind is that one can always conceive alternative explanations which would
make our scent a false one. And yet—and yet—— Well, Watson, we can but
try."

As he walked he had firmly tied one end of the string to the handle of the
revolver. We had now reached the scene of the tragedy. With great care he
marked out under the guidance of the policeman the exact spot where the
body had been stretched. He then hunted among the heather and the ferns
until he found a considerable stone. This he secured to the other end of his
line of string, and he hung it over the parapet of the bridge so that it swung
clear above the water. He then stood on the fatal spot, some distance from
the edge of the bridge, with my revolver in his hand, the string being taut
between the weapon and the heavy stone on the farther side.

"Now for it!" he cried.

At the words he raised the pistol to his head, and then let go his grip. In
an instant it had been whisked away by the weight of the stone, had struck
with a sharp crack against the parapet, and had vanished over the side into
the water. It had hardly gone before Holmes was kneeling beside the
stonework, and a joyous cry showed that he had found what he expected.

"Was there ever a more exact demonstration?" he cried. "See, Watson,
your revolver has solved the problem!" As he spoke he pointed to a second
chip of the exact size and shape of the first which had appeared on the
under edge of the stone balustrade.

"We'll stay at the inn to-night," he continued, as he rose and faced the
astonished sergeant. "You will, of course, get a grappling-hook and you will
easily restore my friend's revolver. You will also find beside it the revolver,
string and weight with which this vindictive woman attempted to disguise
her own crime and to fasten a charge of murder upon an innocent victim.
You can let Mr. Gibson know that I will see him in the morning, when steps
can be taken for Miss Dunbar's vindication."

Late that evening, as we sat together smoking our pipes in the village
inn, Holmes gave me a brief review of what had passed.

"I fear, Watson," said he, "that you will not improve any reputation
which I may have acquired by adding the Case of the Thor Bridge Mystery
to your annals. I have been sluggish in mind and wanting in that mixture of
imagination and reality which is the basis of my art. I confess that the chip
in the stonework was a sufficient clue to suggest the true solution, and that I
blame myself for not having attained it sooner.

"It must be admitted that the workings of this unhappy woman's mind
were deep and subtle, so that it was no very simple matter to unravel her
plot. I do not think that in our adventures we have ever come across a
stranger example of what perverted love can bring about. Whether Miss
Dunbar was her rival in a physical or in a merely mental sense seems to
have been equally unforgivable in her eyes. No doubt she blamed this
innocent lady for all those harsh dealings and unkind words with which her
husband tried to repel her too demonstrative affection. Her first resolution
was to end her own life. Her second was to do it in such a way as to involve
her victim in a fate which was worse far than any sudden death could be.

"We can follow the various steps quite clearly, and they show a
remarkable subtlety of mind. A note was extracted very cleverly from Miss
Dunbar which would make it appear that she had chosen the scene of the
crime. In her anxiety that it should be discovered she somewhat overdid it,
by holding it in her hand to the last. This alone should have excited my
suspicions earlier than it did.

"Then she took one of her husband's revolvers—there was, as you saw,
an arsenal in the house—and kept it for her own use. A similar one she
concealed that morning in Miss Dunbar's wardrobe after discharging one
barrel, which she could easily do in the woods without attracting attention.
She then went down to the bridge where she had contrived this exceedingly
ingenious method for getting rid of her weapon. When Miss Dunbar
appeared she used her last breath in pouring out her hatred, and then, when
she was out of hearing, carried out her terrible purpose. Every link is now in
its place and the chain is complete. The papers may ask why the mere was
not dragged in the first instance, but it is easy to be wise after the event, and

in any case the expanse of a reed-filled lake is no easy matter to drag unless
you have a clear perception of what you are looking for and where. Well,
Watson, we have helped a remarkable woman, and also a formidable man.
Should they in the future join their forces, as seems not unlikely, the
financial world may find that Mr. Neil Gibson has learned something in that
schoolroom of Sorrow where our earthly lessons are taught."

VIII

THE ADVENTURE OF THE CREEPING MAN

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was always of opinion that I should publish the
singular facts connected with Professor Presbury, if only to dispel once for
all the ugly rumours which some twenty years ago agitated the University
and were echoed in the learned societies of London. There were, however,
certain obstacles in the way, and the true history of this curious case
remained entombed in the tin box which contains so many records of my
friend's adventures. Now we have at last obtained permission to ventilate
the facts which formed one of the very last cases handled by Holmes before
his retirement from practice. Even now a certain reticence and discretion
have to be observed in laying the matter before the public.

It was one Sunday evening early in September of the year 1903 that I
received one of Holmes's laconic messages: "Come at once if convenient—
if inconvenient come all the same.—S.H." The relations between us in those
latter days were peculiar. He was a man of habits, narrow and concentrated
habits, and I had become one of them. As an institution I was like the violin,
the shag tobacco, the old black pipe, the index books, and others perhaps
less excusable. When it was a case of active work and a comrade was
needed upon whose nerve he could place some reliance, my role was
obvious. But apart from this I had uses. I was a whetstone for his mind. I

stimulated him. He liked to think aloud in my presence. His remarks could
hardly be said to be made to me—many of them would have been as
appropriately addressed to his bedstead—but none the less, having formed
the habit, it had become in some way helpful that I should register and
interject. If I irritated him by a certain methodical slowness in my mentality,
that irritation served only to make his own flame-like intuitions and
impressions flash up the more vividly and swiftly. Such was my humble
role in our alliance.

When I arrived at Baker Street I found him huddled up in his arm-chair
with updrawn knees, his pipe in his mouth and his brow furrowed with
thought. It was clear that he was in the throes of some vexatious problem.
With a wave of his hand he indicated my old arm-chair, but otherwise for
half an hour he gave no sign that he was aware of my presence. Then with a
start he seemed to come from his reverie, and, with his usual whimsical
smile, he greeted me back to what had once been my home.

"You will excuse a certain abstraction of mind, my dear Watson," said
he. "Some curious facts have been submitted to me within the last twenty-
four hours, and they in turn have given rise to some speculations of a more
general character. I have serious thoughts of writing a small monograph
upon the uses of dogs in the work of the detective."

"But surely, Holmes, this has been explored," said I. "Bloodhounds—
sleuth-hounds——"

"No, no, Watson; that side of the matter is, of course, obvious. But there
is another which is far more subtle. You may recollect that in the case which
you, in your sensational way, coupled with the Copper Beeches, I was able,
by watching the mind of the child, to form a deduction as to the criminal
habits of the very smug and respectable father."

"Yes, I remember it well."

"My line of thoughts about dogs is analogous. A dog reflects the family
life. Whoever saw a frisky dog in a gloomy family, or a sad dog in a happy
one? Snarling people have snarling dogs, dangerous people have dangerous
ones. And their passing moods may reflect the passing moods of others."

I shook my head. "Surely, Holmes, this is a little far-fetched," said I.

He had refilled his pipe and resumed his seat, taking no notice of my
comment.

"The practical application of what I have said is very close to the
problem which I am investigating. It is a tangled skein, you understand, and
I am looking for a loose end. One possible loose end lies in the question:
Why does Professor Presbury's faithful wolf-hound, Roy, endeavour to bite
him?"

I sank back in my chair in some disappointment. Was it for so trivial a
question as this that I had been summoned from my work? Holmes glanced
across at me.

"The same old Watson!" said he. "You never learn that the gravest issues
may depend upon the smallest things. But is it not on the face of it strange
that a staid, elderly philosopher—you've heard of Presbury, of course, the
famous Camford physiologist?—that such a man, whose friend has been his
devoted wolf-hound, should now have been twice attacked by his own dog?
What do you make of it?"

"The dog is ill."

"Well, that has to be considered. But he attacks no one else, nor does he
apparently molest his master, save on very special occasions. Curious,
Watson—very curious. But young Mr. Bennett is before his time, if that is
his ring. I had hoped to have a longer chat with you before he came."

There was a quick step on the stairs, a sharp tap at the door, and a
moment later the new client presented himself. He was a tall, handsome
youth about thirty, well dressed and elegant, but with something in his
bearing which suggested the shyness of the student rather than the self-
possession of the man of the world. He shook hands with Holmes, and then
looked with some surprise at me.

"This matter is very delicate, Mr. Holmes," he said. "Consider the
relation in which I stand to Professor Presbury, both privately and publicly.

I really can hardly justify myself if I speak before any third person."

"Have no fear, Mr. Bennett. Dr. Watson is the very soul of discretion,
and I can assure you that this is a matter in which I am very likely to need
an assistant."

"As you like, Mr. Holmes. You will, I am sure, understand my having
some reserves in the matter."

"You will appreciate it, Watson, when I tell you that this gentleman, Mr.
Trevor Bennett, is professional assistant to the great scientist, lives under
his roof, and is engaged to his only daughter. Certainly we must agree that
the Professor has every claim upon his loyalty and devotion. But it may best
be shown by taking the necessary steps to clear up this strange mystery."

"I hope so, Mr. Holmes. That is my one object. Does Dr. Watson know
the situation?"

"I have not had time to explain it."

"Then perhaps I had better go over the ground again before explaining
some fresh developments."

"I will do so myself," said Holmes, "in order to show that I have the
events in their due order. The Professor, Watson, is a man of European
reputation. His life has been academic. There has never been a breath of
scandal. He is a widower with one daughter, Edith. He is, I gather, a man of
very virile and positive, one might almost say combative, character. So the
matter stood until a very few months ago.

"Then the current of his life was broken. He is sixty-one years of age,
but he became engaged to the daughter of Professor Morphy, his colleague
in the chair of Comparative Anatomy. It was not, as I understand, the
reasoned courting of an elderly man, but rather the passionate frenzy of
youth, for no one could have shown himself a more devoted lover. The lady,
Alice Morphy, was a very perfect girl both in mind and body, so that there
was every excuse for the Professor's infatuation. Nonetheless, it did not
meet with full approval in his own family."

"We thought it rather excessive," said our visitor.

"Exactly. Excessive and a little violent and unnatural. Professor Presbury
was rich, however, and there was no objection upon the part of the father.
The daughter, however, had other views, and there were already several
candidates for her hand, who, if they were less eligible from a worldly point
of view, were at least more of an age. The girl seemed to like the Professor
in spite of his eccentricities. It was only age which stood in the way.

"About this time a little mystery suddenly clouded the normal routine of
the Professor's life. He did what he had never done before. He left home
and gave no indication where he was going. He was away a fortnight, and
returned looking rather travel-worn. He made no allusion to where he had
been, although he was usually the frankest of men. It chanced, however,
that our client here, Mr. Bennett, received a letter from a fellow-student in
Prague, who said that he was glad to have seen Professor Presbury there,
although he had not been able to talk to him. Only in this way did his own
household learn where he had been.

"Now comes the point. From that time onwards a curious change came
over the Professor. He became furtive and sly. Those around him had
always the feeling that he was not the man that they had known, but that he
was under some shadow which had darkened his higher qualities. His
intellect was not affected. His lectures were as brilliant as ever. But always
there was something new, something sinister and unexpected. His daughter,
who was devoted to him, tried again and again to resume the old relations
and to penetrate this mask which her father seemed to have put on. You, sir,
as I understand, did the same—but all was in vain. And now, Mr. Bennett,
tell in your own words the incident of the letters."

"You must understand, Dr. Watson, that the Professor had no secrets
from me. If I were his son or his younger brother, I could not have more
completely enjoyed his confidence. As his secretary I handled every paper
which came to him, and I opened and subdivided his letters. Shortly after
his return all this was changed. He told me that certain letters might come to
him from London which would be marked by a cross under the stamp.
These were to be set aside for his own eyes only. I may say that several of
these did pass through my hands, that they had the E.C. mark, and were in

an illiterate handwriting. If he answered them at all the answers did not pass
through my hands nor into the letter-basket in which our correspondence
was collected."

"And the box," said Holmes.

"Ah, yes, the box. The Professor brought back a little wooden box from
his travels. It was the one thing which suggested a Continental tour, for it
was one of those quaint carved things which one associates with Germany.
This he placed in his instrument cupboard. One day, in looking for a
cannula, I took up the box. To my surprise he was very angry, and reproved
me in words which were quite savage for my curiosity. It was the first time
such a thing had happened and I was deeply hurt. I endeavoured to explain
that it was a mere accident that I had touched the box, but all the evening I
was conscious that he looked at me harshly and that the incident was
rankling in his mind." Mr. Bennett drew a little diary book from his pocket.
"That was on July 2," said he.

"You are certainly an admirable witness," said Holmes. "I may need
some of these dates which you have noted."

"I learned method among other things from my great teacher. From the
time that I observed abnormality in his behaviour I felt that it was my duty
to study his case. Thus I have it here that it was on that very day, July 2, that
Roy attacked the Professor, as he came from his study into the hall. Again
on July 11, there was a scene of the same sort and then I have a note of yet
another upon July 20. After that we had to banish Roy to the stables. He
was a dear, affectionate animal—but I fear I weary you."

Mr. Bennett spoke in a tone of reproach, for it was very clear that
Holmes was not listening. His face was rigid and his eyes gazed
abstractedly at the ceiling. With an effort he recovered himself.

"Singular! Most singular!" he murmured. "These details were new to me,
Mr. Bennett. I think we have now fairly gone over the old ground, have we
not? But you spoke of some fresh developments."

The pleasant, open face of our visitor clouded over, shadowed by some
grim remembrance. "What I speak of occurred the night before last," said
he. "I was lying awake about two in the morning, when I was aware of a
dull muffled sound coming from the passage. I opened my door and peeped
out. I should explain that the Professor sleeps at the end of the passage
——"

"The date being——?" asked Holmes.

Our visitor was clearly annoyed at so irrelevant an interruption.

"I have said, sir, that it was the night before last—that is, September 4."

Holmes nodded and smiled.

"Pray continue," said he.

"He sleeps at the end of the passage, and would have to pass my door in
order to reach the staircase. It was a really terrifying experience, Mr.
Holmes. I think that I am as strong-nerved as my neighbours, but I was
shaken by what I saw. The passage was dark save that one window half-way
along it threw a patch of light. I could see that something was coming along
the passage, something dark and crouching. Then suddenly it emerged into
the light, and I saw that it was he. He was crawling, Mr. Holmes—crawling!
He was not quite on his hands and knees. I should rather say on his hands
and feet, with his face sunk between his hands. Yet he seemed to move with
ease. I was so paralysed by the sight that it was not until he had reached my
door that I was able to step forward and ask if I could assist him. His
answer was extraordinary. He sprang up, spat out some atrocious word at
me, and hurried on past me, and down the staircase. I waited about for an
hour, but he did not come back. It must have been daylight before he
regained his room."

"Well, Watson, what make you of that?" asked Holmes, with the air of
the pathologist who presents a rare specimen.

"Lumbago, possibly. I have known a severe attack make a man walk in
just such a way, and nothing would be more trying to the temper."

"Good, Watson! You always keep us flat-footed on the ground. But we
can hardly accept lumbago, since he was able to stand erect in a moment."

"He was never better in health," said Bennett. "In fact, he is stronger
than I have known him for years. But there are the facts, Mr. Holmes. It is
not a case in which we can consult the police, and yet we are utterly at our
wits' end as to what to do, and we feel in some strange way that we are
drifting towards disaster. Edith—Miss Presbury—feels as I do, that we
cannot wait passively any longer."

"It is certainly a very curious and suggestive case. What do you think,
Watson?"

"Speaking as a medical man," said I, "it appears to be a case for an
alienist. The old gentleman's cerebral processes were disturbed by the love
affair. He made a journey abroad in the hope of breaking himself of the
passion. His letters and the box may be connected with some other private
transaction—a loan, perhaps, or share certificates, which are in the box."

"And the wolf-hound no doubt disapproved of the financial bargain. No,
no, Watson, there is more in it than this. Now, I can only suggest——"

What Sherlock Holmes was about to suggest will never be known, for at
this moment the door opened and a young lady was shown into the room.
As she appeared Mr. Bennett sprang up with a cry and ran forward with his
hands out to meet those which she had herself outstretched.

"Edith, dear! Nothing the matter, I hope?"

"I felt I must follow you. Oh, Jack, I have been so dreadfully frightened!
It is awful to be there alone."

"Mr. Holmes, this is the young lady I spoke of. This is my fiancée."

"We were gradually coming to that conclusion, were we not, Watson?"
Holmes answered, with a smile. "I take it, Miss Presbury, that there is some
fresh development in the case, and that you thought we should know?"

Our new visitor, a bright, handsome girl of a conventional English type,
smiled back at Holmes as she seated herself beside Mr. Bennett.

"When I found Mr. Bennett had left his hotel I thought I should probably
find him here. Of course, he had told me that he would consult you. But, oh,
Mr. Holmes, can you do nothing for my poor father?"

"I have hopes, Miss Presbury, but the case is still obscure. Perhaps what
you have to say may throw some fresh light upon it."

"It was last night, Mr. Holmes. He had been very strange all day. I am
sure that there are times when he has no recollection of what he does. He
lives as in a strange dream. Yesterday was such a day. It was not my father
with whom I lived. His outward shell was there, but it was not really he."

"Tell me what happened."

"I was awakened in the night by the dog barking most furiously. Poor
Roy, he is chained now near the stable. I may say that I always sleep with
my door locked; for, as Jack—as Mr. Bennett—will tell you, we all have a
feeling of impending danger. My room is on the second floor. It happened
that the blind was up in my window, and there was bright moonlight
outside. As I lay with my eyes fixed upon the square of light, listening to
the frenzied barkings of the dog, I was amazed to see my father's face
looking in at me. Mr. Holmes, I nearly died of surprise and horror. There it
was pressed against the window-pane, and one hand seemed to be raised as
if to push up the window. If that window had opened, I think I should have
gone mad. It was no delusion, Mr. Holmes. Don't deceive yourself by
thinking so. I dare say it was twenty seconds or so that I lay paralysed and
watched the face. Then it vanished, but I could not—I could not spring out
of bed and look out after it. I lay cold and shivering till morning. At
breakfast he was sharp and fierce in manner, and made no allusion to the
adventure of the night. Neither did I, but I gave an excuse for coming to
town—and here I am."

Holmes looked thoroughly surprised at Miss Presbury's narrative.

"My dear young lady, you say that your room is on the second floor. Is
there a long ladder in the garden?"

"No, Mr. Holmes; that is the amazing part of it. There is no possible way
of reaching the window—and yet he was there."

"The date being September 5," said Holmes. "That certainly complicates
matters."

It was the young lady's turn to look surprised. "This is the second time
that you have alluded to the date, Mr. Holmes," said Bennett. "Is it possible
that it has any bearing upon the case?"

"It is possible—very possible—and yet I have not my full material at
present."

"Possibly you are thinking of the connection between insanity and
phases of the moon?"

"No, I assure you. It was quite a different line of thought. Possibly you
can leave your notebook with me and I will check the dates. Now I think,
Watson, that our line of action is perfectly clear. This young lady has
informed us—and I have the greatest confidence in her intuition—that her
father remembers little or nothing which occurs upon certain dates. We will
therefore call upon him as if he had given us an appointment upon such a
date. He will put it down to his own lack of memory. Thus we will open our
campaign by having a good close view of him."

"That is excellent," said Mr. Bennett. "I warn you, however, that the
Professor is irascible and violent at times."

Holmes smiled. "There are reasons why we should come at once—very
cogent reasons if my theories hold good. To-morrow, Mr. Bennett, will
certainly see us in Camford. There is, if I remember right, an inn called the
'Chequers' where the port used to be above mediocrity, and the linen was
above reproach. I think, Watson, that our lot for the next few days might lie
in less pleasant places."

Monday morning found us on our way to the famous University town—
an easy effort on the part of Holmes, who had no roots to pull up, but one
which involved frantic planning and hurrying on my part, as my practice
was by this time not inconsiderable. Holmes made no allusion to the case
until after we had deposited our suit-cases at the ancient hostel of which he
had spoken.

"I think, Watson, that we can catch the Professor just before lunch. He
lectures at eleven, and should have an interval at home."

"What possible excuse have we for calling?"

Holmes glanced at his notebook.

"There was a period of excitement upon August 26. We will assume that
he is a little hazy as to what he does at such times. If we insist that we are
there by appointment I think he will hardly venture to contradict us. Have
you the effrontery necessary to put it through?"

"We can but try."

"Excellent, Watson! Compound of the Busy Bee and Excelsior. We can
but try—the motto of the firm. A friendly native will surely guide us."

Such a one on the back of a smart hansom swept us past a row of ancient
colleges, and finally turning into a tree-lined drive pulled up at the door of a
charming house, girt round with lawns and covered with purple wistaria.
Professor Presbury was certainly surrounded with every sign not only of
comfort but of luxury. Even as we pulled up a grizzled head appeared at the
front window, and we were aware of a pair of keen eyes from under shaggy
brows which surveyed us through large horn glasses. A moment later we
were actually in his sanctum, and the mysterious scientist, whose vagaries
had brought us from London, was standing before us. There was certainly
no sign of eccentricity either in his manner or appearance, for he was a
portly, large-featured man, grave, tall, and frock-coated, with the dignity of
bearing which a lecturer needs. His eyes were his most remarkable feature,
keen, observant, and clever to the verge of cunning.

He looked at our cards. "Pray sit down, gentlemen. What can I do for
you?"

Mr. Holmes smiled amiably.

"It was the question which I was about to put to you, Professor."

"To me, sir!"

"Possibly there is some mistake. I heard through a second person that
Professor Presbury of Camford had need of my services."

"Oh, indeed!" It seemed to me that there was a malicious sparkle in the
intense grey eyes. "You heard that, did you? May I ask the name of your
informant?"

"I am sorry, Professor, but the matter was rather confidential. If I have
made a mistake there is no harm done. I can only express my regret."

"Not at all. I should wish to go further into this matter. It interests me.
Have you any scrap of writing, any letter or telegram, to bear out your
assertion?"

"No, I have not."

"I presume that you do not go so far as to assert that I summoned you?"

"I would rather answer no questions," said Holmes.

"No, I dare say not," said the Professor, with asperity. "However, that
particular one can be answered very easily without your aid."

He walked across the room to the bell. Our London friend, Mr. Bennett,
answered the call.

"Come in, Mr. Bennett. These two gentlemen have come from London
under the impression that they have been summoned. You handle all my
correspondence. Have you a note of anything going to a person named
Holmes?"

"No, sir," Bennett answered, with a flush.

"That is conclusive," said the Professor, glaring angrily at my
companion. "Now, sir"—he leaned forward with his two hands upon the
table—"it seems to me that your position is a very questionable one."

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"I can only repeat that I am sorry that we have made a needless
intrusion."

"Hardly enough, Mr. Holmes!" the old man cried, in a high screaming
voice, with extraordinary malignancy upon his face. He got between us and
the door as he spoke, and he shook his two hands at us with furious passion.
"You can hardly get out of it so easily as that." His face was convulsed and
he grinned and gibbered at us in his senseless rage. I am convinced that we
should have had to fight our way out of the room if Mr. Bennett had not
intervened.

"My dear Professor," he cried, "consider your position! Consider the
scandal at the University! Mr. Holmes is a well-known man. You cannot
possibly treat him with such discourtesy."

Sulkily our host—if I may call him so—cleared the path to the door. We
were glad to find ourselves outside the house, and in the quiet of the tree-
lined drive. Holmes seemed greatly amused by the episode.

"Our learned friend's nerves are somewhat out of order," said he.
"Perhaps our intrusion was a little crude, and yet we have gained that
personal contact which I desired. But, dear me, Watson, he is surely at our
heels. The villain still pursues us."

There were the sounds of running feet behind, but it was, to my relief,
not the formidable Professor but his assistant who appeared round the curve
of the drive. He came panting up to us.

"I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes. I wished to apologize."

"My dear sir, there is no need. It is all in the way of professional
experience."

"I have never seen him in a more dangerous mood. But he grows more
sinister. You can understand now why his daughter and I are alarmed. And
yet his mind is perfectly clear."

"Too clear!" said Holmes. "That was my miscalculation. It is evident that
his memory is much more reliable than I had thought. By the way, can we,
before we go, see the window of Miss Presbury's room?"

Mr. Bennett pushed his way through some shrubs and we had a view of
the side of the house.

"It is there. The second on the left."

"Dear me, it seems hardly accessible. And yet you will observe that there
is a creeper below and a water-pipe above which give some foothold."

"I could not climb it myself," said Mr. Bennett.

"Very likely. It would certainly be a dangerous exploit for any normal
man."

"There was one other thing I wished to tell you, Mr. Holmes. I have the
address of the man in London to whom the Professor writes. He seems to
have written this morning and I got it from his blotting-paper. It is an
ignoble position for a trusted secretary, but what else can I do?"

Holmes glanced at the paper and put it into his pocket.

"Dorak—a curious name. Slavonic, I imagine. Well, it is an important
link in the chain. We return to London this afternoon, Mr. Bennett. I see no
good purpose to be served by our remaining. We cannot arrest the Professor,
because he has done no crime, nor can we place him under constraint, for
he cannot be proved to be mad. No action is as yet possible."

"Then what on earth are we to do?"

"A little patience, Mr. Bennett. Things will soon develop. Unless I am
mistaken next Tuesday may mark a crisis. Certainly we shall be in Camford
on that day. Meanwhile, the general position is undeniably unpleasant, and
if Miss Presbury can prolong her visit——"

"That is easy."

"Then let her stay till we can assure her that all danger is past.
Meanwhile, let him have his way and do not cross him. So long as he is in a
good humour all is well."

"There he is!" said Bennett, in a startled whisper. Looking between the
branches we saw the tall, erect figure emerge from the hall door and look
around him. He stood leaning forward, his hands swinging straight before
him, his head turning from side to side. The secretary with a last wave
slipped off among the trees, and we saw him presently rejoin his employer,
the two entering the house together in what seemed to be animated and even
excited conversation.

"I expect the old gentleman has been putting two and two together," said
Holmes, as we walked hotelwards. "He struck me as having a particularly
clear and logical brain, from the little I saw of him. Explosive, no doubt, but
then from his point of view he has something to explode about if detectives
are put on his track and he suspects his own household of doing it. I rather
fancy that friend Bennett is in for an uncomfortable time."

Holmes stopped at a post office and sent off a telegram on our way. The
answer reached us in the evening, and he tossed it across to me. "Have
visited the Commercial Road and seen Dorak. Suave person, Bohemian,
elderly. Keeps large general store.—Mercer."

"Mercer is since your time," said Holmes. "He is my general utility man
who looks up routine business. It was important to know something of the
man with whom our Professor was so secretly corresponding. His
nationality connects up with the Prague visit."

"Thank goodness that something connects with something," said I. "At
present we seem to be faced by a long series of inexplicable incidents with

no bearing upon each other. For example, what possible connection can
there be between an angry wolf-hound and a visit to Bohemia, or either of
them with a man crawling down a passage at night? As to your dates, that is
the biggest mystification of all."

Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands. We were, I may say, seated in the
old sitting-room of the ancient hotel, with a bottle of the famous vintage of
which Holmes had spoken on the table between us.

"Well, now, let us take the dates first," said he, his finger-tips together
and his manner as if he were addressing a class. "This excellent young
man's diary shows that there was trouble upon July 2, and from then
onwards it seems to have been at nine-day intervals, with, so far as I
remember, only one exception. Thus the last outbreak upon Friday was on
September 3, which also falls into the series, as did August 26, which
preceded it. The thing is beyond coincidence."

I was forced to agree.

"Let us, then, form the provisional theory that every nine days the
Professor takes some strong drug which has a passing but highly poisonous
effect. His naturally violent nature is intensified by it. He learned to take
this drug while he was in Prague, and is now supplied with it by a
Bohemian intermediary in London. This all hangs together, Watson!"

"But the dog, the face at the window, the creeping man in the passage?"

"Well, well, we have made a beginning. I should not expect any fresh
developments until next Tuesday. In the meantime we can only keep in
touch with friend Bennett and enjoy the amenities of this charming town."

In the morning Mr. Bennett slipped round to bring us the latest report. As
Holmes had imagined, times had not been easy with him. Without exactly
accusing him of being responsible for our presence, the Professor had been
very rough and rude in his speech, and evidently felt some strong grievance.
This morning he was quite himself again, however, and had delivered his

usual brilliant lecture to a crowded class. "Apart from his queer fits," said
Bennett, "he has actually more energy and vitality than I can ever
remember, nor was his brain ever clearer. But it's not he—it's never the man
whom we have known."

"I don't think you have anything to fear now for a week at least," Holmes
answered. "I am a busy man, and Dr. Watson has his patients to attend to.
Let us agree that we meet here at this hour next Tuesday, and I shall be
surprised if before we leave you again we are not able to explain, even if we
cannot perhaps put an end to, your troubles. Meanwhile, keep us posted in
what occurs."

I saw nothing of my friend for the next few days, but on the following
Monday evening I had a short note asking me to meet him next day at the
train. From what he told me as we travelled up to Camford all was well, the
peace of the Professor's house had been unruffled, and his own conduct
perfectly normal. This also was the report which was given us by Mr.
Bennett himself when he called upon us that evening at our old quarters in
the "Chequers." "He heard from his London correspondent to-day. There
was a letter and there was a small packet, each with the cross under the
stamp which warned me not to touch them. There has been nothing else."

"That may prove quite enough," said Holmes grimly. "Now, Mr. Bennett,
we shall, I think, come to some conclusion to-night. If my deductions are
correct we should have an opportunity of bringing matters to a head. In
order to do so it is necessary to hold the Professor under observation. I
would suggest, therefore, that you remain awake and on the look out.
Should you hear him pass your door do not interrupt him, but follow him as
discreetly as you can. Dr. Watson and I will not be far off. By the way,
where is the key of that little box of which you spoke?"

"Upon his watch-chain."

"I fancy our researches must lie in that direction. At the worst the lock
should not be very formidable. Have you any other able-bodied man on the
premises?"

"There is the coachman, Macphail."

"Where does he sleep?"

"Over the stables."

"We might possibly want him. Well, we can do no more until we see
how things develop. Good-bye—but I expect that we shall see you before
morning."

It was nearly midnight before we took our station among some bushes
immediately opposite the hall door of the Professor. It was a fine night, but
chilly, and we were glad of our warm overcoats. There was a breeze, and
clouds were scudding across the sky, obscuring from time to time the half-
moon. It would have been a dismal vigil were it not for the expectation and
excitement which carried us along, and the assurance of my comrade that
we had probably reached the end of the strange sequence of events which
had engaged our attention.

"If the cycle of nine days holds good then we shall have the Professor at
his worst to-night," said Holmes. "The fact that these strange symptoms
began after his visit to Prague, that he is in secret correspondence with a
Bohemian dealer in London, who presumably represents someone in
Prague, and that he received a packet from him this very day, all point in
one direction. What he takes and why he takes it are still beyond our ken,
but that it emanates in some way from Prague is clear enough. He takes it
under definite directions which regulate this ninth-day system, which was
the first point which attracted my attention. But his symptoms are most
remarkable. Did you observe his knuckles?"

I had to confess that I did not.

"Thick and horny in a way which is quite new in my experience. Always
look at the hands first, Watson. Then cuffs, trouser-knees, and boots. Very
curious knuckles which can only be explained by the mode of progression
observed by——" Holmes paused, and suddenly clapped his hand to his
forehead. "Oh, Watson, Watson, what a fool I have been! It seems
incredible, and yet it must be true. All points in one direction. How could I

miss seeing the connection of ideas? Those knuckles—how could I have
passed those knuckles? And the dog! And the ivy! It's surely time that I
disappeared into that little farm of my dreams. Look out, Watson! Here he
is! We shall have the chance of seeing for ourselves."

The hall door had slowly opened, and against the lamp-lit background
we saw the tall figure of Professor Presbury. He was clad in his dressing-
gown. As he stood outlined in the doorway he was erect but leaning forward
with dangling arms, as when we saw him last.

Now he stepped forward into the drive, and an extraordinary change
came over him. He sank down into a crouching position, and moved along
upon his hands and feet, skipping every now and then as if he were
overflowing with energy and vitality. He moved along the face of the house
and then round the corner. As he disappeared Bennett slipped through the
hall door and softly followed him.

"Come, Watson, come!" cried Holmes, and we stole as softly as we
could through the bushes until we had gained a spot whence we could see
the other side of the house, which was bathed in the light of the half-moon.
The Professor was clearly visible crouching at the foot of the ivy-covered
wall. As we watched him he suddenly began with incredible agility to
ascend it. From branch to branch he sprang, sure of foot and firm of grasp,
climbing apparently in mere joy at his own powers, with no definite object
in view. With his dressing-gown flapping on each side of him he looked like
some huge bat glued against the side of his own house, a great square dark
patch upon the moonlit wall. Presently he tired of this amusement, and,
dropping from branch to branch, he squatted down into the old attitude and
moved towards the stables, creeping along in the same strange way as
before. The wolf-hound was out now, barking furiously, and more excited
than ever when it actually caught sight of its master. It was straining on its
chain, and quivering with eagerness and rage. The Professor squatted down
very deliberately just out of reach of the hound, and began to provoke it in
every possible way. He took handfuls of pebbles from the drive and threw
them in the dog's face, prodded him with a stick which he had picked up,
flicked his hands about only a few inches from the gaping mouth, and
endeavoured in every way to increase the animal's fury, which was already

beyond all control. In all our adventures I do not know that I have ever seen
a more strange sight than this impassive and still dignified figure crouching
frog-like upon the ground and goading to a wilder exhibition of passion the
maddened hound, which ramped and raged in front of him, by all manner of
ingenious and calculated cruelty.

And then in a moment it happened! It was not the chain that broke, but it
was the collar that slipped, for it had been made for a thick-necked
Newfoundland. We heard the rattle of falling metal, and the next instant dog
and man were rolling on the ground together, the one roaring in rage, the
other screaming in a strange shrill falsetto of terror. It was a very narrow
thing for the Professor's life. The savage creature had him fairly by the
throat, its fangs had bitten deep, and he was senseless before we could reach
them and drag the two apart. It might have been a dangerous task for us, but
Bennett's voice and presence brought the great wolf-hound instantly to
reason. The uproar had brought the sleepy and astonished coachman from
his room above the stables. "I'm not surprised," said he, shaking his head.
"I've seen him at it before. I knew the dog would get him sooner or later."

The hound was secured, and together we carried the Professor up to his
room, where Bennett, who had a medical degree, helped me to dress his
torn throat. The sharp teeth had passed dangerously near the carotid artery,
and the hemorrhage was serious. In half an hour the danger was past, I had
given the patient an injection of morphia, and he had sunk into deep sleep.
Then, and only then, were we able to look at each other and to take stock of
the situation.

"I think a first-class surgeon should see him," said I.

"For God's sake, no!" cried Bennett. "At present the scandal is confined
to our own household. It is safe with us. If it gets beyond these walls it will
never stop. Consider his position at the University, his European reputation,
the feelings of his daughter."

"Quite so," said Holmes. "I think it may be quite possible to keep the
matter to ourselves, and also to prevent its recurrence now that we have a
free hand. The key from the watch-chain, Mr. Bennett. Macphail will guard

the patient and let us know if there is any change. Let us see what we can
find in the Professor's mysterious box."

There was not much, but there was enough—an empty phial, another
nearly full, a hypodermic syringe, several letters in a crabbed, foreign hand.
The marks on the envelopes showed that they were those which had
disturbed the routine of the secretary, and each was dated from the
Commercial Road and signed "A. Dorak." They were mere invoices to say
that a fresh bottle was being sent to Professor Presbury, or receipts to
acknowledge money. There was one other envelope, however, in a more
educated hand and bearing the Austrian stamp with the postmark of Prague.
"Here we have our material!" cried Holmes, as he tore out the enclosure.

"HONOURED COLLEAGUE," it ran. "Since your esteemed visit I have
thought much of your case, and though in your circumstances there are
some special reasons for the treatment, I would none the less enjoin caution,
as my results have shown that it is not without danger of a kind.

"It is possible that the Serum of Anthropoid would have been better. I
have, as I explained to you, used black-faced Langur because a specimen
was accessible. Langur is, of course, a crawler and climber, while
Anthropoid walks erect, and is in all ways nearer.

"I beg you to take every possible precaution that there be no premature
revelation of the process. I have one other client in England, and Dorak is
my agent for both.

"Weekly reports will oblige.

"Yours with high esteem,
"H. LOWENSTEIN."

Lowenstein! The name brought back to me the memory of some snippet
from a newspaper which spoke of an obscure scientist who was striving in

some unknown way for the secret of rejuvenescence and the elixir of life.
Lowenstein of Prague! Lowenstein with the wondrous strength-giving
serum, tabooed by the profession because he refused to reveal its source. In
a few words I said what I remembered. Bennett had taken a manual of
Zoology from the shelves. "'Langur,'" he read, "'the great black-faced
monkey of the Himalayan slopes, biggest and most human of climbing
monkeys.' Many details are added. Well, thanks to you, Mr. Holmes, it is
very clear that we have traced the evil to its source."

"The real source," said Holmes, "lies, of course, in that untimely love
affair which gave our impetuous Professor the idea that he could only gain
his wish by turning himself into a younger man. When one tries to rise
above Nature one is liable to fall below it. The highest type of man may
revert to the animal if he leaves the straight road of destiny." He sat musing
for a little with the phial in his hand, looking at the clear liquid within.
"When I have written to this man and told him that I hold him criminally
responsible for the poisons which he circulates, we will have no more
trouble. But it may recur. Others may find a better way. There is danger
there—a very real danger to humanity. Consider, Watson, that the material,
the sensual, the worldly would all prolong their worthless lives. The
spiritual would not avoid the call to something higher. It would be the
survival of the least fit. What sort of cesspool may not our poor world
become?" Suddenly the dreamer disappeared, and Holmes, the man of
action, sprang from his chair. "I think there is nothing more to be said, Mr.
Bennett. The various incidents will now fit themselves easily into the
general scheme. The dog, of course, was aware of the change far more
quickly than you. His smell would ensure that. It was the monkey, not the
Professor, whom Roy attacked, just as it was the monkey who teased Roy.
Climbing was a joy to the creature, and it was a mere chance, I take it, that
the pastime brought him to the young lady's window. There is an early train
to town, Watson, but I think we shall just have time for a cup of tea at the
'Chequers' before we catch it."

IX

THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION'S MANE

It is a most singular thing that a problem which was certainly as abstruse
and unusual as any which I have faced in my long professional career
should have come to me after my retirement; and be brought, as it were, to
my very door. It occurred after my withdrawal to my little Sussex home,
when I had given myself up entirely to that soothing life of Nature for
which I had so often yearned during the long years spent amid the gloom of
London. At this period of my life the good Watson had passed almost
beyond my ken. An occasional week-end visit was the most that I ever saw
of him. Thus I must act as my own chronicler. Ah! had he but been with me,
how much he might have made of so wonderful a happening and of my
eventual triumph against every difficulty! As it is, however, I must needs
tell my tale in my own plain way, showing by my words each step upon the
difficult road which lay before me as I searched for the mystery of the
Lion's Mane.

My villa is situated upon the southern slope of the Downs, commanding
a great view of the Channel. At this point the coast-line is entirely of chalk
cliffs, which can only be descended by a single, long, tortuous path, which
is steep and slippery. At the bottom of the path lie a hundred yards of
pebbles and shingle, even when the tide is at full. Here and there, however,
there are curves and hollows which make splendid swimming-pools filled
afresh with each flow. This admirable beach extends for some miles in each
direction, save only at one point where the little cove and village of
Fulworth break the line.

My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the estate
all to ourselves. Half a mile off, however, is Harold Stackhurst's well-
known coaching establishment. The Gables, quite a large place, which
contains some score of young fellows preparing for various professions,
with a staff of several masters. Stackhurst himself was a well-known rowing
Blue in his day, and an excellent all-round scholar. He and I were always
friendly from the day I came to the coast, and he was the one man who was

on such terms with me that we could drop in on each other in the evenings
without an invitation.

Towards the end of July, 1907, there was a severe gale, the wind blowing
up-Channel, heaping the seas to the base of the cliffs, and leaving a lagoon
at the turn of the tide. On the morning of which I speak the wind had
abated, and all Nature was newly washed and fresh. It was impossible to
work upon so delightful a day, and I strolled out before breakfast to enjoy
the exquisite air. I walked along the cliff path which led to the steep descent
to the beach. As I walked I heard a shout behind me, and there was Harold
Stackhurst waving his hand in cheery greeting.

"What a morning, Mr. Holmes! I thought I should see you out."

"Going for a swim, I see."

"At your old tricks again," he laughed, patting his bulging pocket. "Yes.
McPherson started early, and I expect I may find him there."

Fitzroy McPherson was the science master, a fine upstanding young
fellow whose life had been crippled by heart trouble following rheumatic
fever. He was a natural athlete, however, and excelled in every game which
did not throw too great a strain upon him. Summer and winter he went for
his swim, and, as I am a swimmer myself, I have often joined him.

At this moment we saw the man himself. His head showed above the
edge of the cliff where the path ends. Then his whole figure appeared at the
top, staggering like a drunken man. The next instant he threw up his hands,
and, with a terrible cry, fell upon his face. Stackhurst and I rushed forward
—it may have been fifty yards—and turned him on his back. He was
obviously dying. Those glazed sunken eyes and dreadful livid cheeks could
mean nothing else. One glimmer of life came into his face for an instant,
and he uttered two or three words with an eager air of warning. They were
slurred and indistinct, but to my ear the last of them, which burst in a shriek
from his lips, were "the lion's mane." It was utterly irrelevant and
unintelligible, and yet I could twist the sound into no other sense. Then he
half raised himself from the ground, threw his arms into the air and fell
forward on his side. He was dead.

My companion was paralysed by the sudden horror of it, but I, as may
well be imagined, had every sense on the alert. And I had need, for it was
speedily evident that we were in the presence of an extraordinary case. The
man was dressed only in his Burberry overcoat, his trousers, and an unlaced
pair of canvas shoes. As he fell over, his Burberry, which had been simply
thrown round his shoulders, slipped off, exposing his trunk. We stared at it
in amazement. His back was covered with dark red lines as though he had
been terribly flogged by a thin wire scourge. The instrument with which this
punishment had been inflicted was clearly flexible, for the long, angry
weals curved round his shoulders and ribs. There was blood dripping down
his chin, for he had bitten through his lower lip in the paroxysm of his
agony. His drawn and distorted face told how terrible that agony had been.

I was kneeling and Stackhurst standing by the body when a shadow fell
across us, and we found that Ian Murdoch was by our side. Murdoch was
the mathematical coach at the establishment, a tall, dark, thin man, so
taciturn and aloof that none can be said to have been his friend. He seemed
to live in some high, abstract region of surds and conic sections with little to
connect him with ordinary life. He was looked upon as an oddity by the
students, and would have been their butt, but there was some strange
outlandish blood in the man, which showed itself not only in his coal-black
eyes and swarthy face, but also in occasional outbreaks of temper, which
could only be described as ferocious. On one occasion, being plagued by a
little dog belonging to McPherson, he had caught the creature up and hurled
it through the plate-glass window, an action for which Stackhurst would
certainly have given him his dismissal had he not been a very valuable
teacher. Such was the strange, complex man who now appeared beside us.
He seemed to be honestly shocked at the sight before him, though the
incident of the dog may show that there was no great sympathy between the
dead man and himself.

"Poor fellow! Poor fellow! What can I do? How can I help?"

"Were you with him? Can you tell us what has happened?"

"No, no, I was late this morning. I was not on the beach at all. I have
come straight from The Gables. What can I do?"

"You can hurry to the police-station at Fulworth. Report the matter at
once."

Without a word he made off at top speed, and I proceeded to take the
matter in hand, while Stackhurst, dazed at this tragedy, remained by the
body. My first task naturally was to note who was on the beach. From the
top of the path I could see the whole sweep of it, and it was absolutely
deserted save that two or three dark figures could be seen far away moving
towards the village of Fulworth. Having satisfied myself upon this point, I
walked slowly down the path. There was clay or soft marl mixed with the
chalk, and every here and there I saw the same footstep, both ascending and
descending. No one else had gone down to the beach by this track that
morning. At one place I observed the print of an open hand with the fingers
towards the incline. This could only mean that poor McPherson had fallen
as he ascended. There were rounded depressions, too, which suggested that
he had come down upon his knees more than once. At the bottom of the
path was the considerable lagoon left by the retreating tide. At the side of it
McPherson had undressed, for there lay his towel on a rock. It was folded
and dry, so that it would seem that after all he had never entered the water.
Once or twice as I hunted round amid the hard shingle I came on little
patches of sand where the print of his canvas shoe, and also of his naked
foot, could be seen. The latter fact proved that he had made all ready to
bathe, though the towel indicated that he had not actually done so.

And here was the problem clearly defined—as strange a one as had ever
confronted me. The man had not been on the beach more than a quarter of
an hour at the most. Stackhurst had followed him from The Gables, so there
could be no doubt about that. He had gone to bathe and had stripped, as the
naked footsteps showed. Then he had suddenly huddled on his clothes again
—they were all dishevelled and unfastened—and he had returned without
bathing, or at any rate without drying himself. And the reason for his
change of purpose had been that he had been scourged in some savage,
inhuman fashion, tortured until he bit his lip through in his agony, and was
left with only strength enough to crawl away and to die. Who had done this
barbarous deed? There were, it is true, small grottos and caves in the base of
the cliffs, but the low sun shone directly into them, and there was no place
for concealment. Then, again, there were those distant figures on the beach.

They seemed too far away to have been connected with the crime, and the
broad lagoon in which McPherson had intended to bathe lay between him
and them, lapping up to the rocks. On the sea two or three fishing-boats
were at no great distance. Their occupants might be examined at our leisure.
There were several roads for inquiry, but none which led to any very
obvious goal.

When I at last returned to the body I found that a little group of
wandering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was, of course, still there,
and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Anderson, the village constable, a
big, ginger-moustached man of the slow, solid Sussex breed—a breed
which covers much good sense under a heavy, silent exterior. He listened to
everything, took note of all we said, and finally drew me aside.

"I'd be glad of your advice, Mr. Holmes. This is a big thing for me to
handle, and I'll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong."

I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and for a doctor; also
to allow nothing to be moved, and as few fresh footmarks as possible to be
made, until they came. In the meantime I searched the dead man's pockets.
There were his handkerchief, a large knife, and a small folding card-case.
From this projected a slip of paper, which I unfolded and handed to the
constable. There was written on it in a scrawling, feminine hand: "I will be
there, you may be sure.—Maudie." It read like a love affair, an assignation,
though when and where were a blank. The constable replaced it in the card-
case and returned it with the other things to the pockets of the Burberry.
Then, as nothing more suggested itself, I walked back to my house for
breakfast, having first arranged that the base of the cliffs should be
thoroughly searched.

Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the body had been
removed to The Gables, where the inquest would be held. He brought with
him some serious and definite news. As I expected, nothing had been found
in the small caves below the cliff, but he had examined the papers in
McPherson's desk, and there were several which showed an intimate

correspondence with a certain Miss Maud Bellamy, of Fulworth. We had
then established the identity of the writer of the note.

"The police have the letters," he explained. "I could not bring them. But
there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair. I see no reason, however,
to connect it with that horrible happening save, indeed, that the lady had
made an appointment with him."

"But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habit of
using," I remarked.

"It is mere chance," said he, "that several of the students were not with
McPherson."

"Was it mere chance?"

Stackhurst knit his brows in thought.

"Ian Murdoch held them back," said he; "he would insist upon some
algebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he is dreadfully cut up
about it all."

"And yet I gather that they were not friends."

"At one time they were not. But for a year or more Murdoch has been as
near to McPherson as he ever could be to anyone. He is not of a very
sympathetic disposition by nature."

"So I understand. I seem to remember your telling me once about a
quarrel over the ill-usage of a dog."

"That blew over all right."

"But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps."

"No, no; I am sure they were real friends."

"Well, then, we must explore the matter of the girl. Do you know her?"

"Everyone knows her. She is the beauty of the neighbourhood—a real
beauty, Holmes, who would draw attention everywhere. I knew that
McPherson was attracted by her, but I had no notion that it had gone so far
as these letters would seem to indicate."

"But who is she?"

"She is the daughter of old Tom Bellamy, who owns all the boats and
bathing-cots at Fulworth. He was a fisherman to start with, but is now a
man of some substance. He and his son William run the business."

"Shall we walk into Fulworth and see them?"

"On what pretext?"

"Oh, we can easily find a pretext. After all, this poor man did not ill-use
himself in this outrageous way. Some human hand was on the handle of that
scourge, if indeed it was a scourge which inflicted the injuries. His circle of
acquaintances in this lonely place was surely limited. Let us follow it up in
every direction and we can hardly fail to come upon the motive, which in
turn should lead us to the criminal."

It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scented Downs had
our minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we had witnessed. The village
of Fulworth lies in a hollow curving in a semicircle round the bay. Behind
the old-fashioned hamlet several modern houses have been built upon the
rising ground. It was to one of these that Stackhurst guided me.

"That's The Haven, as Bellamy called it. The one with the corner tower
and slate roof. Not bad for a man who started with nothing but—— By
Jove, look at that!"

The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man had emerged.
There was no mistaking that tall, angular, straggling figure. It was Ian
Murdoch, the mathematician. A moment later we confronted him upon the
road.

"Hullo!" said Stackhurst. The man nodded, gave us a sideways glance
from his curious dark eyes, and would have passed us, but his principal
pulled him up.

"What were you doing there?" he asked.

Murdoch's face flushed with anger. "I am your subordinate, sir, under
your roof. I am not aware that I owe you any account of my private
actions."

Stackhurst's nerves were near the surface after all he had endured.
Otherwise, perhaps, he would have waited. Now he lost his temper
completely.

"In the circumstances your answer is pure impertinence, Mr. Murdoch."

"Your own question might perhaps come under the same heading."

"This is not the first time that I have had to overlook your insubordinate
ways. It will certainly be the last. You will kindly make fresh arrangements
for your future as speedily as you can."

"I had intended to do so. I have lost to-day the only person who made
The Gables habitable."

He strode off upon his way, while Stackhurst, with angry eyes, stood
glaring after him. "Is he not an impossible, intolerable man?" he cried.

The one thing that impressed itself forcibly upon my mind was that Mr.
Ian Murdoch was taking the first chance to open a path of escape from the
scene of the crime. Suspicion, vague and nebulous, was now beginning to
take outline in my mind. Perhaps the visit to the Bellamys might throw
some further light upon the matter. Stackhurst pulled himself together and
we went forward to the house.

Mr. Bellamy proved to be a middle-aged man with a flaming red beard.
He seemed to be in a very angry mood, and his face was soon as florid as
his hair.

"No, sir, I do not desire any particulars. My son here"—indicating a
powerful young man, with a heavy, sullen face, in the corner of the sitting-
room—"is of one mind with me that Mr. McPherson's attentions to Maud
were insulting. Yes, sir, the word 'marriage' was never mentioned, and yet
there were letters and meetings, and a great deal more of which neither of
us could approve. She has no mother, and we are her only guardians. We are
determined——"

But the words were taken from his mouth by the appearance of the lady
herself. There was no gainsaying that she would have graced any assembly
in the world. Who could have imagined that so rare a flower would grow
from such a root and in such an atmosphere? Women have seldom been an
attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my heart, but I could not
look upon her perfect clear-cut face, with all the soft freshness of the
Downlands in her delicate colouring, without realizing that no young man
would cross her path unscathed. Such was the girl who had pushed open the
door and stood now, wide-eyed and intense, in front of Harold Stackhurst.

"I know already that Fitzroy is dead," she said. "Do not be afraid to tell
me the particulars."

"This other gentleman of yours let us know the news," explained the
father.

"There is no reason why my sister should be brought into the matter,"
growled the younger man. The sister turned a sharp, fierce look upon him.
"This is my business, William. Kindly leave me to manage it in my own
way. By all accounts there has been a crime committed. If I can help to
show who did it, it is the least I can do for him who is gone."

She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composed
concentration which showed me that she possessed strong character as well
as great beauty. Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory as a most
complete and remarkable woman. It seems that she already knew me by
sight, for she turned to me at the end.

"Bring them to justice, Mr. Holmes. You have my sympathy and my
help, whoever they may be." It seemed to me that she glanced defiantly at

her father and brother as she spoke.

"Thank you," said I. "I value a woman's instinct in such matters. You use
the word 'they.' You think that more than one was concerned?"

"I knew Mr. McPherson well enough to be aware that he was a brave and
a strong man. No single person could ever have inflicted such an outrage
upon him."

"Might I have one word with you alone?"

"I tell you, Maud, not to mix yourself up in the matter," cried her father
angrily.

She looked at me helplessly. "What can I do?"

"The whole world will know the facts presently, so there can be no harm
if I discuss them here," said I. "I should have preferred privacy, but if your
father will not allow it, he must share the deliberations." Then I spoke of the
note which had been found in the dead man's pocket. "It is sure to be
produced at the inquest. May I ask you to throw any light upon it that you
can?"

"I see no reason for mystery," she answered. "We were engaged to be
married, and we only kept it secret because Fitzroy's uncle, who is very old
and said to be dying, might have disinherited him if he had married against
his wish. There was no other reason."

"You could have told us," growled Mr. Bellamy.

"So I would, father, if you had ever shown sympathy."

"I object to my girl picking up with men outside her own station."

"It was your prejudice against him which prevented us from telling you.
As to this appointment"—she fumbled in her dress and produced a
crumpled note—"it was in answer to this."

"DEAREST," ran the message: "The old place on the beach just after
sunset on Tuesday. It is the only time I can get away.—F.M."

"Tuesday was to-day, and I had meant to meet him to-night."

I turned over the paper. "This never came by post. How did you get it?"

"I would rather not answer that question. It has really nothing to do with
the matter which you are investigating. But anything which bears upon that
I will most freely answer."

She was as good as her word, but there was nothing which was helpful in
our investigation. She had no reason to think that her fiancé had any hidden
enemy, but she admitted that she had had several warm admirers.

"May I ask if Mr. Ian Murdoch was one of them?"

She blushed and seemed confused.

"There was a time when I thought he was. But that was all changed
when he understood the relations between Fitzroy and myself."

Again the shadow round this strange man seemed to me to be taking
more definite shape. His record must be examined. His rooms must be
privately searched. Stackhurst was a willing collaborator, for in his mind
also suspicions were forming. We returned from our visit to The Haven with
the hope that one free end of this tangled skein was already in our hands.

A week passed. The inquest had thrown no light upon the matter and had
been adjourned for further evidence. Stackhurst had made discreet inquiry
about his subordinate, and there had been a superficial search of his room,
but without result. Personally, I had gone over the whole ground again, both
physically and mentally, but with no new conclusions. In all my chronicles
the reader will find no case which brought me so completely to the limit of

my powers. Even my imagination could conceive no solution to the
mystery. And then there came the incident of the dog.

It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strange wireless
by which such people collect the news of the country-side.

"Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson's dog," said she one evening.

I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my
attention.

"What of Mr. McPherson's dog?"

"Dead, sir. Died of grief for its master."

"Who told you this?"

"Why, sir, everyone is talking of it. It took on terrible, and has eaten
nothing for a week. Then to-day two of the young gentlemen from The
Gables found it dead—down on the beach, sir, at the very place where its
master met his end."

"At the very place." The words stood out clear in my memory. Some dim
perception that the matter was vital rose in my mind. That the dog should
die was after the beautiful, faithful nature of dogs. But 'in the very place'!
Why should this lonely beach be fatal to it? Was it possible that it also, had
been sacrificed to some revengeful feud? Was it possible——? Yes, the
perception was dim, but already something was building up in my mind. In
a few minutes I was on my way to The Gables, where I found Stackhurst in
his study. At my request he sent for Sudbury and Blount, the two students
who had found the dog.

"Yes, it lay on the very edge of the pool," said one of them. "It must have
followed the trail of its dead master."

I saw the faithful little creature, an Airedale terrier, laid out upon the mat
in the hall. The body was stiff and rigid, the eyes projecting, and the limbs
contorted. There was agony in every line of it.

From The Gables I walked down to the bathing-pool. The sun had sunk
and the shadow of the great cliff lay black across the water, which
glimmered dully like a sheet of lead, The place was deserted and there was
no sign of life save for two sea-birds circling and screaming overhead. In
the fading light I could dimly make out the little dog's spoor upon the sand
round the very rock on which his master's towel had been laid. For a long
time I stood in deep meditation while the shadows grew darker around me.
My mind was filled with racing thoughts. You have known what it was to
be in a nightmare in which you feel that there is some all-important thing
for which you search and which you know is there, though it remains for
ever just beyond your reach. That was how I felt that evening as I stood
alone by that place of death. Then at last I turned and walked slowly
homewards. I had just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Like
a flash, I remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and vainly
grasped. You will know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a vast
store of out-of-the-way knowledge, without scientific system, but very
available for the needs of my work. My mind is like a crowded box-room
with packets of all sorts stowed away therein—so many that I may well
have but a vague perception of what was there. I had known that there was
something which might bear upon this matter. It was still vague, but at least
I knew how I could make it clear. It was monstrous, incredible, and yet it
was always a possibility. I would test it to the full. There is a great garret in
my little house which is stuffed with books. It was into this that I plunged
and rummaged for an hour. At the end of that time I emerged with a little
chocolate and silver volume. Eagerly I turned up the chapter of which I had
a dim remembrance. Yes, it was indeed a far-fetched and unlikely
proposition, and yet I could not be at rest until I had made sure if it might,
indeed, be so. It was late when I retired, with my mind eagerly awaiting the
work of the morrow.

But that work met with an annoying interruption. I had hardly swallowed
my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach when I had a call from
Inspector Bardie of the Sussex Constabulary—a steady, solid, bovine man
with thoughtful eyes, which looked at me now with a very troubled
expression.

"I know your immense experience, sir," said he. "This is quite unofficial,
of course, and need go no farther. But I am fairly up against it in this
McPherson case. The question is, shall I make an arrest, or shall I not?"

"Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?"

"Yes, sir. There is really no one else when you come to think of it. That's
the advantage of this solitude. We narrow it down to a very small compass.
If he did not do it, then who did?"

"What have you against him?"

He had gleaned along the same furrows as I had. There was Murdoch's
character and the mystery which seemed to hang round the man. His furious
bursts of temper, as shown in the incident of the dog. The fact that he had
quarrelled with McPherson in the past, and that there was some reason to
think that he might have resented his attentions to Miss Bellamy. He had all
my points, but no fresh ones, save that Murdoch seemed to be making every
preparation for departure.

"What would my position be if I let him slip away with all this evidence
against him?" The burly, phlegmatic man was sorely troubled in his mind.

"Consider," I said, "all the essential gaps in your case. On the morning of
the crime he can surely prove an alibi. He had been with his scholars till the
last moment, and within a few minutes of McPherson's appearance he came
upon us from behind. Then bear in mind the absolute impossibility that he
could single-handed have inflicted this outrage upon a man quite as strong
as himself. Finally, there is this question of the instrument with which these
injuries were inflicted."

"What could it be but a scourge or flexible whip of some sort?"

"Have you examined the marks?" I asked.

"I have seen them. So has the doctor."

"But I have examined them very carefully with a lens. They have
peculiarities."

"What are they, Mr. Holmes?"

I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photograph. "This is
my method in such cases," I explained.

"You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes."

"I should hardly be what I am if I did not. Now let us consider this weal
which extends round the right shoulder. Do you observe nothing
remarkable?"

"I can't say I do."

"Surely it is evident that it is unequal in its intensity. There is a dot of
extravasated blood, here, and another there. There are similar indications in
this other weal down here. What can that mean?"

"I have no idea. Have you?"

"Perhaps I have. Perhaps I haven't. I may be able to say more soon.
Anything which will define what made that mark will bring us a long way
towards the criminal."

"It is, of course, an absurd idea," said the policeman, "but if a red-hot net
of wire had been laid across the back, then these better-marked points
would represent where the meshes crossed each other."

"A most ingenious comparison. Or shall we say a very stiff cat-o'-nine-
tails with small hard knots upon it?"

"By Jove, Mr. Holmes, I think you have hit it."

"Or there may be some very different cause, Mr. Bardie. But your case is
far too weak for an arrest. Besides, we have those last words—'Lion's
Mane.'"

"I have wondered whether Ian——"

"Yes, I have considered that. If the second word had borne any
resemblance to Murdoch—but it did not. He gave it almost in a shriek. I am
sure that it was 'Mane.'"

"Have you no alternative, Mr. Holmes?"

"Perhaps I have. But I do not care to discuss it until there is something
more solid to discuss."

"And when will that be?"

"In an hour—possibly less."

The Inspector rubbed his chin and looked at me with dubious eyes.

"I wish I could see what was in your mind, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps it's
those fishing-boats."

"No, no; they were too far out."

"Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his? They were not too
sweet upon Mr. McPherson. Could they have done him a mischief?"

"No, no; you won't draw me until I am ready," said I with a smile. "Now,
Inspector, we each have our own work to do. Perhaps if you were to meet
me here at midday——?"

So far we had got when there came the tremendous interruption which
was the beginning of the end. My outer door was flung open, there were
blundering footsteps in the passage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the
room, pallid, dishevelled, his clothes in wild disorder, clawing with his
bony hands at the furniture to hold himself erect. "Brandy! Brandy!" he
gasped, and fell groaning upon the sofa.

He was not alone. Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless and panting,
almost as distrait as his companion.

"Yes, yes, brandy!" he cried. "The man is at his last gasp. It was all I
could do to bring him here. He fainted twice upon the way."

Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a wondrous change. He
pushed himself up on one arm and swung his coat from off his shoulders.
"For God's sake! oil, opium, morphia!" he cried. "Anything to ease this
infernal agony!"

The Inspector and I cried out at the sight. There, criss-crossed upon the
man's naked shoulder, was the same strange reticulated pattern of red,
inflamed lines which had been the death-mark of Fitzroy McPherson.

The pain was evidently terrible and was more than local, for the
sufferer's breathing would stop for a time, his face would turn black, and
then with loud gasps he would clap his hand to his heart, while his brow
dropped beads of sweat. At any moment he might die. More and more
brandy was poured down his throat, each fresh dose bringing him back to
life. Pads of cotton-wool soaked in salad-oil seemed to take the agony from
the strange wounds. At last his head fell heavily upon the cushion.
Exhausted Nature had taken refuge in its last storehouse of vitality. It was
half a sleep and half a faint, but at least it was ease from pain.

To question him had been impossible, but the moment we were assured
of his condition Stackhurst turned upon me.

"My God!" he cried, "what is it, Holmes? What is it?"

"Where did you find him?"

"Down on the beach. Exactly where poor McPherson met his end. If this
man's heart had been weak as McPherson's was, he would not be here now.
More than once I thought he was gone as I brought him up. It was too far to
The Gables, so I made for you."

"Did you see him on the beach?"

"I was walking on the cliff when I heard his cry. He was at the edge of
the water, reeling about like a drunken man. I ran down, threw some clothes

about him, and brought him up. For Heaven's sake, Holmes, use all the
powers you have and spare no pains to lift the curse from this place, for life
is becoming unendurable. Can you, with all your world-wide reputation, do
nothing for us?"

"I think I can, Stackhurst. Come with me now! And you, Inspector, come
along! We will see if we cannot deliver this murderer into your hands."

Leaving the unconscious man in the charge of my housekeeper, we all
three went down to the deadly lagoon. On the shingle there was piled a little
heap of towels and clothes, left by the stricken man. Slowly I walked round
the edge of the water, my comrades in Indian file behind me. Most of the
pool was quite shallow, but under the cliff where the beach was hollowed
out it was four or five feet deep. It was to this part that a swimmer would
naturally go, for it formed a beautiful pellucid green pool as clear as crystal.
A line of rocks lay above it at the base of the cliff, and along this I led the
way, peering eagerly into the depths beneath me. I had reached the deepest
and stillest pool when my eyes caught that for which they were searching,
and I burst into a shout of triumph.

"Cyanea!" I cried. "Cyanea! Behold the Lion's Mane!"

The strange object at which I pointed did indeed look like a tangled mass
torn from the mane of a lion. It lay upon a rocky shelf some three feet under
the water, a curious waving, vibrating, hairy creature with streaks of silver
among its yellow tresses. It pulsated with a slow, heavy dilation and
contraction.

"It has done mischief enough. Its day is over!" I cried. "Help me,
Stackhurst! Let us end the murderer for ever."

There was a big boulder just above the ledge, and we pushed it until it
fell with a tremendous splash into the water. When the ripples had cleared
we saw that it had settled upon the ledge below. One flapping edge of
yellow membrane showed that our victim was beneath it. A thick oily scum
oozed out from below the stone and stained the water round, rising slowly
to the surface.

"Well, this gets me!" cried the Inspector. "What was it, Mr. Holmes? I'm
born and bred in these parts, but I never saw such a thing. It don't belong to
Sussex."

"Just as well for Sussex," I remarked. "It may have been the south-west
gale that brought it up. Come back to my house, both of you, and I will give
you the terrible experience of one who has good reason to remember his
own meeting with the same peril of the seas."

When we reached my study, we found that Murdoch was so far
recovered that he could sit up. He was dazed in mind, and every now and
then was shaken by a paroxysm of pain. In broken words he explained that
he had no notion what had occurred to him, save that terrific pangs had
suddenly shot through him, and that it had taken all his fortitude to reach
the bank.

"Here is a book," I said, taking up the little volume, "which first brought
light into what might have been for ever dark. It is Out of Doors, by the
famous observer J. G. Wood. Wood himself very nearly perished from
contact with this vile creature, so he wrote with a very full knowledge.
Cyanea Capillata is the miscreant's full name, and he can be as dangerous
to life as, and far more painful than, the bite of the cobra. Let me briefly
give this extract.

"'If the bather should see a loose roundish mass of tawny membranes and
fibres, something like very large handfuls of lion's mane and silver paper,
let him beware, for this is the fearful stinger, Cyanea Capillata.' Could our
sinister acquaintance be more clearly described?

"He goes on to tell his own encounter with one when swimming off the
coast of Kent. He found that the creature radiated almost invisible filaments
to the distance of fifty feet, and that anyone within that circumference from
the deadly centre was in danger of death. Even at a distance the effect upon
Wood was almost fatal. 'The multitudinous threads caused light scarlet lines
upon the skin which on closer examination resolved into minute dots or

pustules, each dot charged as it were with a red-hot needle making its way
through the nerves.'

"The local pain was, as he explains, the least part of the exquisite
torment. 'Pangs shot through the chest, causing me to fall as if struck by a
bullet. The pulsation would cease, and then the heart would give six or
seven leaps as if it would force its way through the chest.'

"It nearly killed him, although he had only been exposed to it in the
disturbed ocean and not in the narrow calm waters of a bathing-pool. He
says that he could hardly recognize himself afterwards, so white, wrinkled
and shrivelled was his face. He gulped down brandy, a whole bottleful, and
it seems to have saved his life. There is the book, Inspector. I leave it with
you, and you cannot doubt that it contains a full explanation of the tragedy
of poor McPherson."

"And incidentally exonerates me," remarked Ian Murdoch with a wry
smile. "I do not blame you, Inspector, nor you, Mr. Holmes, for your
suspicions were natural. I feel that on the very eve of my arrest I have only
cleared myself by sharing the fate of my poor friend."

"No, Mr. Murdoch. I was already upon the track, and had I been out as
early as I intended I might well have saved you from this terrific
experience."

"But how did you know, Mr. Holmes?"

"I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for
trifles. That phrase 'Lion's Mane' haunted my mind. I knew that I had seen it
somewhere in an unexpected context. You have seen that it does describe
the creature. I have no doubt that it was floating on the water when
McPherson saw it, and that this phrase was the only one by which he could
convey to us a warning as to the creature which had been his death."

"Then I, at least, am cleared," said Murdoch, rising slowly to his feet.
"There are one or two words of explanation which I should give, for I know
the direction in which your inquiries have run. It is true that I loved this
lady, but from the day when she chose my friend McPherson my one desire

was to help her to happiness. I was well content to stand aside and act as
their go-between. Often I carried their messages, and it was because I was
in their confidence and because she was so dear to me that I hastened to tell
her of my friend's death, lest someone should forestall me in a more sudden
and heartless manner. She would not tell you, sir, of our relations lest you
should disapprove and I might suffer. But with your leave I must try to get
back to The Gables, for my bed will be very welcome."

Stackhurst held out his hand. "Our nerves have all been at concert-
pitch," said he. "Forgive what is past, Murdoch. We shall understand each
other better in the future." They passed out together with their arms linked
in friendly fashion. The Inspector remained, staring at me in silence with his
ox-like eyes.

"Well, you've done it!" he cried at last. "I had read of you, but I never
believed it. It's wonderful!"

I was forced to shake my head. To accept such praise was to lower one's
own standards.

"I was slow at the outset—culpably slow. Had the body been found in
the water I could hardly have missed it. It was the towel which misled me.
The poor fellow had never thought to dry himself, and so I in turn was led
to believe that he had never been in the water. Why, then, should the attack
of any water creature suggest itself to me? That was where I went astray.
Well, well, Inspector, I often ventured to chaff you gentlemen of the police
force, but Cyanea Capillata very nearly avenged Scotland Yard."

X

THE ADVENTURE OF THE VEILED LODGER

When one considers that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was in active practice for
twenty-three years, and that during seventeen of these I was allowed to co-
operate with him and to keep notes of his doings, it will be clear that I have
a mass of material at my command. The problem has always been, not to
find, but to choose. There is the long row of year-books which fill a shelf,
and there are the dispatch-cases filled with documents, a perfect quarry for
the student, not only of crime, but of the social and official scandals of the
late Victorian era. Concerning these latter, I may say that the writers of
agonized letters, who beg that the honour of their families or the reputation
of famous forbears may not be touched, have nothing to fear. The discretion
and high sense of professional honour which have always distinguished my
friend are still at work in the choice of these memoirs, and no confidence
will be abused. I deprecate, however, in the strongest way the attempts
which have been made lately to get at and to destroy these papers. The
source of these outrages is known, and if they are repeated I have Mr.
Holmes's authority for saying that the whole story concerning the politician,
the lighthouse and the trained cormorant will be given to the public. There
is at least one reader who will understand.

It is not reasonable to suppose that every one of these cases gave Holmes
the opportunity of showing those curious gifts of instinct and observation
which I have endeavoured to set forth in these memoirs. Sometimes he had
with much effort to pick the fruit, sometimes it fell easily into his lap. But
the most terrible human tragedies were often involved in these cases which
brought him the fewest personal opportunities, and it is one of these which I
now desire to record. In telling it, I have made a slight change of name and
place, but otherwise the facts are as stated.

One forenoon—it was late in 1896—I received a hurried note from
Holmes asking for my attendance. When I arrived, I found him seated in a
smoke-laden atmosphere, with an elderly, motherly woman of the buxom
landlady type in the corresponding chair in front of him.

"This is Mrs. Merrilow, of South Brixton," said my friend, with a wave
of the hand. "Mrs. Merrilow does not object to tobacco, Watson, if you wish
to indulge your filthy habits. Mrs. Merrilow has an interesting story to tell

which may well lead to further developments in which your presence may
be useful."

"Anything I can do——"

"You will understand, Mrs. Merrilow, that if I come to Mrs. Ronder I
should prefer to have a witness. You will make her understand that before
we arrive."

"Lord bless you, Mr. Holmes," said our visitor, "she is that anxious to
see you that you might bring the whole parish at your heels!"

"Then we shall come early in the afternoon. Let us see that we have our
facts correct before we start. If we go over them it will help Dr. Watson to
understand the situation. You say that Mrs. Ronder has been your lodger for
seven years and that you have only once seen her face."

"And I wish to God I had not!" said Mrs. Merrilow.

"It was, I understand, terribly mutilated."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, you would hardly say it was a face at all. That's how
it looked. Our milkman got a glimpse of her once peeping out of the upper
window, and he dropped his tin and the milk all over the front garden. That
is the kind of face it is. When I saw her—I happened on her unawares—she
covered up quick, and then she said, 'Now, Mrs. Merrilow, you know at last
why it is that I never raise my veil.'"

"Do you know anything about her history?"

"Nothing at all."

"Did she give references when she came?"

"No, sir, but she gave hard cash, and plenty of it. A quarter's rent right
down on the table in advance and no arguing about terms. In these times a
poor woman like me can't afford to turn down a chance like that."

"Did she give any reason for choosing your house?"