textfiles/etext/AUTHORS/DOYLE/cardbox.txt

                                                                            
                                      1893                                  
                                                                            
                                SHERLOCK HOLMES                             
                                                                            
                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE CARDBOARD BOX                   
                                                                            
                           by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle                        

  In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable
mental qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have endeavoured, as      
far as possible, to select those which presented the minimum of             
sensationalism, while offering a fair field for his talents. It is,         
however, unfortunately impossible entirely to separate the sensational      
from the criminal, and a chronicler is left in the dilemma that he          
must either sacrifice details which are essential to his statement and      
so give a false impression of the problem, or he must use matter which      
chance, and not choice, has provided him with. With this short preface      
I shall turn to my notes of what proved to be a strange, though a           
peculiarly terrible, chain of events.                                       
  It was a blazing hot day in August. Baker Street was like an oven,        
and the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of the house        
across the road was painful to the eye. It was hard to believe that         
these were the same walls which loomed so gloomily through the fogs of      
winter. Our blinds were half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the          
sofa, reading and re-reading a letter which he had received by the          
morning post. For myself, my term of service in India had trained me        
to stand heat better than cold, and a thermometer at ninety was no          
hardship. But the morning paper was uninteresting. Parliament had           
risen. Everybody was out of town, and I yearned for the glades of           
the New Forest or the shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank account had      
caused me to postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither           
the country nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him.          
He loved to lie in the very centre of five millions of people, with         
his filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to        
every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of         
nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only change was         
when he turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town to track down        
his brother of the country.                                                 
  Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation I had tossed        
aside the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair I fell into a          
brown study. Suddenly my companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts:       
  "You are right, Watson," said he. "It does seem a most                    
preposterous way of settling a dispute."                                    
  "Most preposterous!" I exclaimed, and then suddenly realizing how he      
had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair and          
stared at him in blank amazement.                                           
  "What is this, Holmes?" I cried. "This is beyond anything which I         
could have imagined."                                                       
  He laughed heartily at my perplexity.                                     
  "You remember," said he, "that some little time ago when I read           
you the passage in one of Poe's sketches in which a close reasoner          
follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were inclined to        
treat the matter as a mere tour-de-force of the author. On my               
remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing the same thing        
you expressed incredulity."                                                 
  "Oh, no!"                                                                 
  "Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with         
your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter            
upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of        
reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof that         
I had been in rapport with you."                                            
  But I was still far from satisfied. "In the example which you read        
to me," said I, "the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of      
the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a heap      
of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. But I have been seated        
quietly in my chair, and what clues can I have given you?"                  
  "You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as           
the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are             
faithful servants."                                                         
  "Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my            
features?"                                                                  
  "Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot yourself      
recall how your reverie commenced?"                                         
  "No, I cannot."                                                           
  "Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was the      
action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute            
with a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your         
newly framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in      
your face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not          
lead very far. Your eyes flashed across to the unframed portrait of         
Henry Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books. Then you        
glanced up at the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious. You         
were thinking that if the portrait were framed it would just cover          
that bare space and correspond with Gordon's picture over there."           
  "You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.                          
  "So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts            
went back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were             
studying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to            
pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face was                 
thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I         
was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of the           
mission which he undertook on behalf of the North at the time of the        
Civil War, for I remember your expressing your passionate                   
indignation at the way in which he was received by the more                 
turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly about it that I knew you      
could not think of Beecher without thinking of that also. When a            
moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the picture, I suspected      
that your mind had now turned to the Civil War, and when I observed         
that your lips set, your eyes sparkled, and your hands clenched I           
was positive that you were indeed thinking of the gallantry which           
was shown by both sides in that desperate struggle. But then, again,        
your face grew sadder; you shook your head. You were dwelling upon the      
sadness and horror and useless waste of life. Your hand stole               
towards your own old wound and a smile quivered on your lips, which         
showed me that the ridiculous side of this method of settling               
international questions had forced itself upon your mind. At this           
point I agreed with you that it was preposterous and was glad to            
find that all my deductions had been correct."                              
  "Absolutely!" said I. "And now that you have explained it, I confess      
that I am as amazed as before."                                             
  "It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should not      
have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some                 
incredulity the other day. But I have in my hands here a little             
problem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than my small      
essay in thought reading. Have you observed in the paper a short            
paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet sent             
through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street Croydon?"                 
  "No, I saw nothing."                                                      
  "Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me. Here      
it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good enough to      
read it aloud."                                                             
  I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the         
paragraph indicated. It was headed, "A Gruesome Packet."                    
-                                                                           
   "Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been made      
the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly revolting               
practical joke unless some more sinister meaning should prove to be         
attached to the incident. At two o'clock yesterday afternoon a small        
packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in by the postman. A             
cardboard box was inside, which was filled with coarse salt. On             
emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to find two human ears,           
apparently quite freshly severed. The box had been sent by parcel post      
from Belfast upon the morning before. There is no indication as to the      
sender, and the matter is the more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who          
is a maiden lady of fifty, has led a most retired life, and has so few      
acquaintances or correspondents that it is a rare event for her to          
receive anything through the post. Some years ago, however, when she        
resided at Penge, she let apartments in her house to three young            
medical students, whom she was obliged to get rid of on account of          
their noisy and irregular habits. The police are of opinion that            
this outrage may have been perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by these           
youths, who owed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her by sending      
her these relics of the dissecting-rooms. Some probability is lent          
to the theory by the fact that one of these students came from the          
north of Ireland, and, to the best of Miss Cushing's belief, from           
Belfast. In the meantime, the matter is being actively investigated,        
Mr. Lestrade, one of the very smartest of our detective officers,           
being in charge of the case."                                               
-                                                                           
  "So much for the Daily Chronicle," said Holmes as I finished              
reading. "Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this           
morning, in which he says:                                                  
-                                                                           
  "I think that this case is very much in your line. We have every          
hope of clearing the matter up, but we find a little difficulty in          
getting anything to work upon. We have, of course, wired to the             
Belfast post-office, but a large number of parcels were handed in upon      
that day, and they have no means of identifying this particular one,        
or of remembering the sender. The box is a half-pound box of                
honeydew tobacco and does not help us in any way. The medical               
student theory still appears to me to be the most feasible, but if you      
should have a few hours to spare I should be very happy to see you out      
here. I shall be either at the house or in the police-station all day.      
-                                                                           
What say you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run down        
to Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?"            
  "I was longing for something to do."                                      
  "You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to order a      
cab. I'll be back in a moment when I have changed my dressing-gown and      
filled my cigar-case."                                                      
  A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat was        
far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent on a           
wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as ferret-like as           
ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of five minutes took        
us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.                             
  It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and             
prim, with whitened stone steps, and little groups of aproned women         
gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and tapped at a      
door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss Cushing was            
sitting in the front room, into which we were ushered. She was a            
placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes, and grizzled hair curving      
down over her temples on each side. A worked antimacassar lay upon her      
lap and a basket of coloured silks stood upon a stool beside her.           
  "They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things," said she as            
Lestrade entered. I wish that you would take them away altogether."         
  "So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my friend,         
Mr. Holmes, should have seen them in your presence."                        
  "Why in my presence, sir?"                                                
  "In case he wished to ask any questions."                                 
  "What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know            
nothing whatever about it?"                                                 
  "Quite so, madam," said Holmes in his soothing way. "I have no doubt      
that you have been annoyed more than enough already over this               
business."                                                                  
  "Indeed, I have, sir. I am a quiet woman and live a retired life. It      
is something new for me to see my name in the papers and to find the        
police in my house. I won't have those things in here, Mr. Lestrade.        
If you wish to see them you must go to the outhouse."                       
  It was a small shed in the narrow garden which ran behind the house.      
Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box, with a             
piece of brown paper and some string. There was a bench at the end          
of the path, and we all sat down while Holmes examined, one by one,         
the articles which Lestrade had handed to him.                              
  "The string is exceedingly interesting," he remarked, holding it          
up to the light and sniffing at it. "What do you make of this               
string, Lestrade?"                                                          
  "It has been tarred."                                                     
  "Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine. You have also, no              
doubt, remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with a scissors, as      
can be seen by the double fray on each side. This is of importance."        
  "I cannot see the importance," said Lestrade.                             
  "The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact, and        
that this knot is of a peculiar character."                                 
  "It is very neatly tied. I had already made a note to that effect"        
said Lestrade complacently.                                                 
  "So much for the string, then," said Holmes, smiling, "now for the        
box wrapper. Brown paper, with a distinct smell of coffee. What did         
you not observe it? I think there can be no doubt of it. Address            
printed in rather straggling characters: 'Miss S. Cushing, Cross            
Street, Croydon.' Done with a broad-pointed pen, probably a J and with      
very inferior ink. The word 'Croydon' has been originally spelled with      
an 'i,' which has been changed to 'y.' The parcel was directed,             
then, by a man- the printing is distinctly masculine- of limited            
education and unacquainted with the town of Croydon. So far, so             
good! The box is a yellow, half-pound honeydew box, with nothing            
distinctive save two thumb marks at the left bottom corner. It is           
filled with rough salt of the quality used for preserving hides and         
other of the coarser commercial purposes. And embedded in it are these      
very singular enclosures."                                                  
  He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board across           
his knee he examined them minutely, while Lestrade and I, bending           
forward on each side of him, glanced alternately at these dreadful          
relics and at the thoughtful, eager face of our companion. Finally          
he returned them to the box once more and sat for a while in deep           
meditation.                                                                 
  "You have observed, of course," said he at last, "that the ears           
are not a pair."                                                            
  "Yes, I have noticed that. But if this were the practical joke of         
some students from the dissecting-rooms, it would be as easy for            
them to send two odd ears as a pair.                                        
  "Precisely. But this is not a practical joke."                            
  "You are sure of it?"                                                     
  "The presumption is strongly against it. Bodies in the                    
dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. These ears bear      
no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have been cut off with a        
blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a student had done           
it. Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would be the preservatives         
which would suggest themselves to the medical mind, certainly not           
rough salt. I repeat that there is no practical joke here, but that we      
are investigating a serious crime."                                         
  A vague thrill ran through me as I listened to my companion's             
words and saw the stern gravity which had hardened his features.            
This brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange and             
inexplicable horror in the background. Lestrade, however, shook his         
head like a man who is only half convinced.                                 
  "There are objections to the joke theory, no doubt" said he, "but         
there are much stronger reasons against the other. We know that this        
woman has led a most quiet and respectable life at Penge and here           
for the last twenty years. She has hardly been away from her home           
for a day during that time. Why on earth, then, should any criminal         
send her the proofs of his guilt, especially as, unless she is a            
most consummate actress, she understands quite as little of the matter      
as we do?"                                                                  
  "That is the problem which we have to solve," Holmes answered,            
"and for my part I shall set about it by presuming that my reasoning        
is correct and that a double murder has been committed. One of these        
ears is a woman's, small, finely formed, and pierced for an earring.        
The other is a man's, sun-burned, discoloured, and also pierced for an      
earring. These two people are presumably dead, or we should have heard      
their story before now. To-day is Friday. The packet was posted on          
Thursday morning. The tragedy, then, occurred on Wednesday or Tuesday,      
or earlier. If the two people were murdered, who but their murderer         
would have sent this sign of his work to Miss Cushing? We may take          
it that the sender of the packet is the man whom we want. But he            
must have some strong reason for sending Miss Cushing this packet.          
What reason then? It must have been to tell her that the deed was           
done! or to pain her, perhaps. But in that case she knows who it is.        
Does she know? I doubt it. If she knew, why should she call the police      
in? She might have buried the ears, and no one would have been the          
wiser. That is what she would have done if she had wished to shield         
the criminal. But if she does not wish to shield him she would give         
his name. There is a tangle here which needs straightening out." He         
had been talking in a high, quick voice, staring blankly up over the        
garden fence, but now he sprang briskly to his feet and walked towards      
the house.                                                                  
  "I have a few questions to ask Miss Cushing," said he.                    
  "In that case I may leave you here" said Lestrade, "for I have            
another small business on hand. I think that I have nothing further to      
learn from Miss Cushing. You will find me at the police-station."           
  "We shall look in on our way to the train," answered Holmes. A            
moment later he and I were back in the front room, where the impassive      
lady was still quietly working away at her antimacassar. She put it         
down on her lap as we entered and looked at us with her frank,              
searching blue eyes.                                                        
  "I am convinced, sir," she said, "that this matter is a mistake, and      
that the parcel was never meant for me at all. I have said this             
several times to the gentleman from Scotland Yard, but he simply            
laughs at me. I have not an enemy in the world, as far as I know, so        
why should anyone play me such a trick?"                                    
  "I am coming to be of the same opinion, Miss Cushing," said               
Holmes, taking a seat beside her. "I think that it is more than             
probable-" he paused, and I was surprised, on glancing round to see         
that he was staring with singular intentness at the lady's profile.         
Surprise and satisfaction were both for an instant to be read upon his      
eager face, though when she glanced round to find out the cause of his      
silence he had become as demure as ever. I stared hard myself at her        
flat, grizzled hair, her trim cap, her little gilt earrings, her            
placid features; but I could see nothing which could account for my         
companion's evident excitement.                                             
  "There were one or two questions-"                                        
  "Oh, I am weary of questions!" cried Miss Cushing impatiently.            
  "You have two sisters, I believe."                                        
  "How could you know that?"                                                
  "I observed the very instant that I entered the room that you have a      
portrait group of three ladies upon the mantelpiece, one of whom is         
undoubtedly yourself, while the others are so exceedingly like you          
that there could be no doubt of the relationship."                          
  "Yes, you are quite right. Those are my sisters, Sarah and Mary."         
  "And here at my elbow is another portrait taken at Liverpool, of          
your younger sister, in the company of a man who appears to be a            
steward by his uniform. I observe that she was unmarried at the time."      
  "You are very quick at observing."                                        
  "That is my trade."                                                       
  "Well, you are quite right. But she was married to Mr. Browner a few      
days afterwards. He was on the South American line when that was            
taken, but he was so fond of her that he couldn't abide to leave her        
for so long, and he got into the Liverpool and London boats."               
  "Ah, the Conqueror, perhaps?"                                             
  "No, the May Day, when last I heard. Jim came down here to see me         
once. That was before he broke the pledge, but afterwards he would          
always take drink when he was ashore, and a little drink would send         
him stark, staring mad. Ah! it was a bad day that ever he took a glass      
in his hand again. First he dropped me, then he quarrelled with Sarah,      
and now that Mary has stopped writing we don't know how things are          
going with them."                                                           
  It was evident that Miss Cushing had come upon a subject on which         
she felt very deeply. Like most people who lead a lonely life, she was      
shy at first, but ended by becoming extremely communicative. She            
told us many details about her brother-in-law the steward, and then         
wandering off on the subject of her former lodgers, the medical             
students, she gave us a long account of their delinquencies, with           
their names and those of their hospitals. Holmes listened                   
attentively to everything, throwing in a question from time to time.        
  "About your second sister, Sarah," said he. "I wonder, since you are      
both maiden ladies, that you do not keep house together."                   
  "Ah! you don't know Sarah's temper or you would wonder no more. I         
tried it when I came to Croydon, and we kept on until about two months      
ago, when we had to part. I don't want to say a word against my own         
sister, but she was always meddlesome and hard to please, was Sarah."       
  "You say that she quarrelled with your Liverpool relations."              
  "Yes, and they were the best of friends at one time. Why, she went        
up there to live in order to be near them. And now she has no word          
hard enough for Jim Browner. The last six months that she was here she      
would speak of nothing but his drinking and his ways. He had caught         
her meddling, I suspect, and given her a bit of his mind, and that was      
the start of it."                                                           
  "Thank you, Miss Cushing," said Holmes, rising and bowing. "Your          
sister Sarah lives, I think you said, at New Street, Wallington?            
Good-bye, and I am very sorry that you have been troubled over a            
case with which, as you say, you have nothing whatever to do."              
  There was a cab passing as we came out, and Holmes hailed it.             
  "How far to Wallington?" he asked.                                        
  "Only about a mile, sir."                                                 
  "Very good. jump in, Watson. We must strike while the iron is hot.        
Simple as the case is, there have been one or two very instructive          
details in connection with it. Just pull up at a telegraph office as        
you pass, cabby."                                                           
  Holmes sent off a short wire and for the rest of the drive lay            
back in the cab, with his hat tilted over his nose to keep the sun          
from his face. Our driver pulled up at a house which was not unlike         
the one which we had just quitted. My companion ordered him to wait,        
and had his hand upon the knocker, when the door opened and a grave         
young gentleman in black, with a very shiny hat, appeared on the step.      
  "Is Miss Cushing at home?" asked Holmes.                                  
  "Miss Sarah Cushing is extremely ill," said he. "She has been             
suffering since yesterday from brain symptoms of great severity. As         
her medical adviser, I cannot possibly take the responsibility of           
allowing anyone to see her. I should recommend you to call again in         
ten days." He drew on his gloves, closed the door, and marched off          
down the street.                                                            
  "Well, if we can't we can't," said Holmes, cheerfully.                    
  "Perhaps she could not or would not have told you much."                  
  "I did not wish her to tell me anything. I only wanted to look at         
her. However, I think that I have got all that I want. Drive us to          
some decent hotel, cabby, where we may have some lunch, and afterwards      
we shall drop down upon friend Lestrade at the police-station."             
  We had a pleasant little meal together, during which Holmes would         
talk about nothing but violins, narrating with great exultation how he      
had purchased his own Stradivarius, which was worth at least five           
hundred guineas, at a Jew broker's in Tottenham Court Road for              
fifty-five shillings. This led him to Paganini, and we sat for an hour      
over a bottle of claret while he told me anecdote after anecdote of         
that extraordinary man. The afternoon was far advanced and the hot          
glare had softened into a mellow glow before we found ourselves at the      
police-station. Lestrade was waiting for us at the door.                    
  "A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes," said he.                                
  "Ha! It is the answer!" He tore it open, glanced his eyes over it,        
and crumpled it into his pocket. "That's all right" said he.                
  "Have you found out anything?"                                            
  "I have found out everything!"                                            
  "What!" Lestrade stared at him in amazement. "You are joking."            
  "I was never more serious in my life. A shocking crime has been           
committed, and I think I have now laid bare every detail of it."            
  "And the criminal?"                                                       
  Holmes scribbled a few words upon the back of one of his visiting         
cards and threw it over to Lestrade.                                        
  "That is the name," he said. "You cannot effect an arrest until           
to-morrow night at the earliest. I should prefer that you do not            
mention my name at all in connection with the case, as I choose to          
be only associated with those crimes which present some difficulty          
in their solution. Come on, Watson." We strode off together to the          
station, leaving Lestrade still staring with a delighted face at the        
card which Holmes had thrown him.                                           
-                                                                           
  "The case," said Sherlock Holmes as we chatted over our cigars            
that night in our rooms at Baker Street, "is one where, as in the           
investigations which you have chronicled under the names of 'A Study        
in Scarlet' and of 'The Sign of Four,' we have been compelled to            
reason backward from effects to causes. I have written to Lestrade          
asking him to supply us with the details which are now wanting, and         
which he will only get after he has secured his man. That he may be         
safely trusted to do, for although he is absolutely devoid of               
reason, he is as tenacious as a bulldog when he once understands            
what he has to do, and, indeed, it is just this tenacity which has          
brought him to the top at Scotland Yard."                                   
  "Your case is not complete, then?" I asked.                               
  "It is fairly complete in essentials. We know who the author of           
the revolting business is, although one of the victims still escapes        
us. Of course, you have formed your own conclusions."                       
  "I presume that this Jim Browner, the steward of a Liverpool boat,        
is the man whom you suspect?"                                               
  "Oh! it is more than a suspicion."                                        
  "And yet I cannot see anything save very vague indications."              
  "On the contrary, to my mind nothing could be more clear. Let me run      
over the principal steps. We approached the case, you remember, with        
an absolutely blank mind, which is always an advantage. We had              
formed no theories. We were simply there to observe and to draw             
inferences from our observations. What did we see first? A very placid      
and respectable lady, who seemed quite innocent of any secret, and a        
portrait which showed me that she had two younger sisters. It               
instantly flashed across my mind that the box might have been meant         
for one of these. I set the idea aside as one which could be disproved      
or confirmed at our leisure. Then we went to the garden, as you             
remember, and we saw the very singular contents of the little yellow        
box.                                                                        
  "The string was of the quality which is used by sailmakers aboard         
ship, and at once a whiff of the sea was perceptible in our                 
investigation. When I observed that the knot was one which is               
popular with sailors, that the parcel had been posted at a port, and        
that the male ear was pierced for an earring which is so much more          
common among sailors than landsmen, I was quite certain that an the         
actors in the tragedy were to be found among our seafaring classes.         
  "When I came to examine the address of the packet I observed that it      
was to Miss S. Cushing. Now, the oldest sister would, of course, be         
Miss Cushing, and although her initial was 'S' it might belong to           
one of the others as well. In that case we should have to commence our      
investigation from a fresh basis altogether. I therefore went into the      
house with the intention of clearing up this point. I was about to          
assure Miss Cushing that I was convinced that a mistake had been            
made when you may remember that I came suddenly to a stop. The fact         
was that I had just seen something which filled me with surprise and        
at the same time narrowed the field of our inquiry immensely.               
  "As a medical man, you are aware, Watson, that there is no part of        
the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as a            
rule quite distinctive and differs from all other ones. In last             
years Anthropological Journal you will find two short monographs            
from my pen upon the subject. I had, therefore, examined the ears in        
the box with the eyes of an expert and had carefully noted their            
anatomical peculiarities. Imagine my surprise, then, when on looking        
at Miss Cushing I perceived that her ear corresponded exactly with the      
female ear which I had just inspected. The matter was entirely              
beyond coincidence. There was the same shortening of the pinna, the         
same broad curve of the upper lobe, the same convolution of the             
inner cartilage. In all essentials it was the same ear.                     
  "Of course I at once saw the enormous importance of the observation.      
It was evident that the victim was a blood relation, and probably a         
very close one. I began to talk to her about her family, and you            
remember that she at once gave us some exceedingly valuable details.        
  "In the first place, her sisters name was Sarah, and her address had      
until recently been the same, so that it was quite obvious how the          
mistake had occurred and for whom the packet was meant. Then we             
heard of this steward, married to the third sister, and learned that        
he had at one time been so intimate with Miss Sarah that she had            
actually gone up to Liverpool to be near the Browners, but a quarrel        
had afterwards divided them. This quarrel had put a stop to all             
communications for some months, so that if Browner had occasion to          
address a packet to Miss Sarah, he would undoubtedly have done so to        
her old address.                                                            
  "And now the matter had begun to straighten itself out                    
wonderfully. We had learned of the existence of this steward, an            
impulsive man, of strong passions- you remember that he threw up            
what must have been a very superior berth in order to be nearer to his      
wife- subject, too, to occasional fits of hard drinking. We had reason      
to believe that his wife had been murdered, and that a man- presumably      
a seafaring man- had been murdered at the same time. Jealousy, of           
course, at once suggests itself as the motive for the crime. And why        
should these proofs of the deed be sent to Miss Sarah Cushing?              
Probably because during her residence in Liverpool she had some hand        
in bringing about the events which led to the tragedy. You will             
observe that this line of boats calls at Belfast Dublin, and                
Waterford; so that, presuming that Browner had committed the deed           
and had embarked at once upon his steamer, the May Day, Belfast             
would be the first place at which he could post his terrible packet.        
  "A second solution was at this stage obviously possible, and              
although I thought it exceedingly unlikely, I was determined to             
elucidate it before going further. An unsuccessful lover might have         
killed Mr. and Mrs. Browner, and the male ear might have belonged to        
the husband. There were many grave objections to this theory, but it        
was conceivable. I therefore sent off a telegram to my friend Algar,        
of the Liverpool force, and asked him to find out if Mrs. Browner were      
at home, and if Browner had departed in the May Day. Then we went on        
to Wallington to visit Miss Sarah.                                          
  "I was curious, in the first place, to see how far the family ear         
had been reproduced in her. Then, of course, she might give us very         
important information, but I was not sanguine that she would. She must      
have heard of the business the day before, since all Croydon was            
ringing with it, and she alone could have understood for whom the           
packet was meant. If she had been willing to help justice she would         
probably have communicated with the police already. However, it was         
clearly our duty to see her, so we went. We found that the news of the      
arrival of the packet- for her illness dated from that time- had            
such an effect upon her as to bring on brain fever. It was clearer          
than ever that she understood its full significance, but equally clear      
that we should have to wait some time for any assistance from her.          
  "However, we were really independent of her help. Our answers were        
waiting for us at the police-station, where I had directed Algar to         
send them. Nothing could be more conclusive. Mrs. Browner's house           
had been closed for more than three days, and the neighbours were of        
opinion that she had gone south to see her relatives. It had been           
ascertained at the shipping offices that Browner had left aboard of         
the May Day, and I calculate that she is due in the Thames tomorrow         
night. When he arrives he will be met by the obtuse but resolute            
Lestrade, and I have no doubt that we shall have all our details            
filled in."                                                                 
  Sherlock Holmes was not disappointed in his expectations. Two days        
later he received a bulky envelope, which contained a short note            
from the detective, and a typewritten document which covered several        
pages of foolscap.                                                          
  "Lestrade has got him all right," said Holmes, glancing up at me.         
"Perhaps it would interest you to hear what he says.                        
-                                                                           
My Dear Holmes:                                                             
  "In accordance with the scheme which we had formed in order to            
test our theories" ["the 'we' is rather fine, Watson, is it not?"]          
"I went down to the Albert Dock yesterday at 6 P.M., and boarded the        
S.S. May Day, belonging to the Liverpool, Dublin, and London Steam          
Packet Company. On inquiry, I found that there was a steward on             
board of the name of James Browner and that he had acted during the         
voyage in such an extraordinary manner that the captain had been            
compelled to relieve him of his duties. On descending to his berth,         
I found him seated upon a chest with his head sunk upon his hands,          
rocking himself to and fro. He is a big, powerful chap,                     
clean-shaven, and very swarthy- something like Aldridge, who helped us      
in the bogus laundry affair. He jumped up when he heard my business,        
and I had my whistle to my lips to call a couple of river police,           
who were round the corner, but he seemed to have no heart in him,           
and he held out his hands quietly enough for the darbies. We brought        
him along to the cells, and his box as well for we thought there might      
be something incriminating; but, bar a big sharp knife such as most         
sailors have, we got nothing for our trouble. However, we find that we      
shall want no more evidence, for on being brought before the inspector      
at the station he asked leave to make a statement which was, of             
course, taken down, just as he made it, by our shorthand man. We had        
three copies typewritten, one of which I enclose. The affair proves,        
as I always thought it would, to be an extremely simple one, but I          
am obliged to you for assisting me in my investigation. With kind           
regards,                                                                    
                                       "Yours very truly,                   
                                             "G. LESTRADE.                  
-                                                                           
  "Hum! The investigation really was a very simple one," remarked           
Holmes, "but I don't think it struck him in that light when he first        
called us in. However, let us see what Jim Browner has to say for           
himself. This is his statement as made before Inspector Montgomery          
at the Shadwell Police Station, and it has the advantage of being           
verbatim."                                                                  
-                                                                           
  "'Have I anything to say? Yes, I have a deal to say. I have to            
make a clean breast of it all. You can hang me, or you can leave me         
alone. I don't care a plug which you do. I tell you I've not shut an        
eye in sleep since I did it, and I don't believe I ever will again          
until I get past all waking. Sometimes it's his face, but most              
generally it's hers. I'm never without one or the other before me.          
He looks frowning and black-like, but she has a kind o' surprise            
upon her face. Ay, the white lamb, she might well be surprised when         
she read death on a face that had seldom looked anything but love upon      
her before.                                                                 
  "'But it was Sarah's fault and may the curse of a broken man put a        
blight on her and set the blood rotting in her veins! It's not that         
I want to clear myself. I know that I went back to drink, like the          
beast that I was. But she would have forgiven me; she would have stuck      
as close to me as a rope to a block if that woman had never darkened        
our door. For Sarah Cushing loved me- that's the root of the business-      
she loved me until all her love turned to poisonous hate when she knew      
that I thought more of my wife's footmark in the mud than I did of her      
whole body and soul.                                                        
  "'There were three sisters altogether. The old one was just a good        
woman, the second was a devil, and the third was an angel. Sarah was        
thirty-three, and Mary was twenty-nine when I married. We were just as      
happy as the day was long when we set up house together, and in all         
Liverpool there was no better woman than my Mary. And then we asked         
Sarah up for a week, and the week grew into a month, and one thing led      
to another, until she was just one of ourselves.                            
  "'I was blue ribbon at that time, and we were putting a little money      
by, and all was as bright as a new dollar. My God, whoever would            
have thought that it could have come to this? Whoever would have            
dreamed it?                                                                 
  "'I used to be home for the week-ends very often, and sometimes if        
the ship were held back for cargo I would have a whole week at a time,      
and in this way I saw a deal of my sister-in-law, Sarah. She was a          
fine tall woman, black and quick and fierce, with a proud way of            
carrying her head, and a glint from her eye like a spark from a flint.      
But when little Mary was there I had never a thought of her, and            
that I swear as I hope for God's mercy.                                     
  "'It had seemed to me sometimes that she liked to be alone with           
me, or to coax me out for a walk with her, but I had never thought          
anything of that. But one evening my eyes were opened. I had come up        
from the ship and found my wife out, but Sarah at home. "Where's            
Mary?" I asked. "Oh, she has gone to pay some accounts." I was              
impatient and paced up and down the room. "Can't you be happy for five      
minutes without Mary, Jim?" says she. "It's a bad compliment to me          
that you can't be contented with my society for so short a time."           
"That's all right, my lass," said I, putting out my hand towards her        
in a kindly way, but she had it in both hers in an instant, and they        
burned as if they were in a fever. I looked into her eyes and I read        
it all there. There was no need for her to speak, nor for me either. I      
frowned and drew my hand away. Then she stood by my side in silence         
for a bit, and then put up her hand and patted me on the shoulder.          
"Steady old Jim!" said she, and with a kind o' mocking laugh, she           
run out of the room.                                                        
  "Well, from that time Sarah hated me with her whole heart and             
soul, and she is a woman who can hate, too. I was a fool to let her go      
on biding with us- a besotted fool- but I never said a word to Mary,        
for I knew it would grieve her. Things went on much as before, but          
after a time I began to find that there was a bit of a change in            
Mary herself. She had always been so trusting and so innocent, but now      
she became queer and suspicious, wanting to know where I had been           
and what I had been doing, and whom my letters were from, and what I        
had in my pockets, and a thousand such follies. Day by day she grew         
queerer and more irritable, and we had ceaseless rows about nothing. I      
was fairly puzzled by it all. Sarah avoided me now, but she and Mary        
were just inseparable. I can see now how she was plotting and scheming      
and poisoning my wife's mind against me, but I was such a blind beetle      
that I could not understand it at the time. Then I broke my blue            
ribbon and began to drink again, but I think I should not have done it      
if Mary had been the same as ever. She had some reason to be disgusted      
with me now, and the gap between us began to be wider and wider. And        
then this Alec Fairbairn chipped in, and things became a thousand           
times blacker.                                                              
  "'It was to see Sarah that he came to my house first, but soon it         
was to see us, for he was a man with winning ways, and he made friends      
wherever he went. He was a dashing, swaggering chap, smart and curled,      
who had seen half the world and could talk of what he had seen. He was      
good company, I won't deny it, and he had wonderful polite ways with        
him for a sailor man, so that I think there must have been a time when      
he knew more of the poop than the forecastle. For a month he was in         
and out of my house, and never once did it cross my mind that harm          
might come of his soft tricky ways. And then at last something made me      
suspect and from that day my peace was gone forever.                        
  "'It was only a little thing, too. I had come into the parlour            
unexpected, and as I walked in at the door I saw a light of welcome on      
my wife's face. But as she saw who it was it faded again, and she           
turned away with a look of disappointment. That was enough for me.          
There was no one but Alec Fairbairn whose step she could have mistaken      
for mine. If I could have seen him then I should have killed him,           
for I have always been like a madman when my temper gets loose. Mary        
saw the devil's light in my eyes, and she ran forward with her hands        
on my sleeve. "Don't Jim, don't!" says she. "Where's Sarah?" I              
asked. "In the kitchen," says she. "Sarah," says I as I went in, "this      
man Fairbairn is never to darken my door again." "Why not?" says            
she. "Because I order it." "Oh!" says she, "if my friends are not good      
enough for this house, then I am not good enough for it either."            
"You can do what you like," says I, "but if Fairbairn shows his face        
here again I'll send you one of his ears for a keepsake." She was           
frightened by my face, I think, for she never answered a word, and the      
same evening she left my house.                                             
  "'Well, I don't know now whether it was pure devilry on the part          
of this woman, or whether she thought that she could turn me against        
my wife by encouraging her to misbehave. Anyway, she took a house just      
two streets off and let lodgings to sailors. Fairbairn used to stay         
there, and Mary would go round to have tea with her sister and him.         
How often she went I don't know, but I followed her one day, and as         
I broke in at the door Fairbairn got away over the back garden wall,        
like the cowardly skunk that he was. I swore to my wife that I would        
kill her if I found her in his company again, and I led her back            
with me, sobbing and trembling, and as white as a piece of paper.           
There was no trace of love between us any longer. I could see that she      
hated me and feared me, and when the thought of it drove me to              
drink, then she despised me as well.                                        
  "'Well, Sarah found that she could not make a living in Liverpool,        
so she went back, as I understand, to live with her sister in Croydon,      
and things jogged on much the same as ever at home. And then came this      
last week and all the misery and ruin.                                      
  "'It was in this way. We had gone on the May Day for a round              
voyage of seven days, but a hogshead got loose and started one of           
our plates, so that we had to put back into port for twelve hours. I        
left the ship and came home, thinking what a surprise it would be           
for my wife, and hoping that maybe she would be glad to see me so           
soon. The thought was in my head as I turned into my own street and at      
that moment a cab passed me, and there she was, sitting by the side of      
Fairbairn, the two chatting and laughing, with never a thought for          
me as I stood watching them from the footpath.                              
  "'I tell you, and I give you my word for it, that from that moment I      
was not my own master, and it is all like a dim dream when I look back      
on it. I had been drinking hard of late, and the two things together        
fairly turned my brain. There's something throbbing in my head now,         
like a docker's hammer, but that morning I seemed to have all               
Niagara whizzing and buzzing in my ears.                                    
  "'Well, I took to my heels, and I ran after the cab. I had a heavy        
oak stick in my hand, and I tell you I saw red from the first, but          
as I ran I got cunning, too, and hung back a little to see them             
without being seen. They pulled up soon at the railway station.             
There was a good crowd round the booking-office, so I got quite             
close to them without being seen. They took tickets for New                 
Brighton. So did I, but I got in three carriages behind them. When          
we reached it they walked along the Parade, and I was never more            
than a hundred yards from them. At last I saw them hire a boat and          
start for a row, for it was a very hot day, and they thought, no            
doubt, that it would be cooler on the water.                                
  "It was just as if they had been given into my hands. There was a         
bit of a haze, and you could not see more than a few hundred yards.         
I hired a boat for myself, and I pulled after them. I could see the         
blur of their craft, but they were going nearly as fast as I, and they      
must have been a long mile from the shore before I caught them up. The      
haze was like a curtain all round us, and there were we three in the        
middle of it. My God, shall I ever forget their faces when they saw         
who was in the boat that was closing in upon them? She screamed out.        
He swore like a madman and jabbed at me with an oar, for he must            
have seen death in my eyes. I got past it and got one in with my stick      
that crushed his head like an egg. I would have spared her, perhaps,        
for all my madness, but she threw her arms round him, crying out to         
him, and calling him "Alec." I struck again, and she lay stretched          
beside him. I was like a wild beast then that had tasted blood. If          
Sarah had been there, by the Lord, she should have joined them. I           
pulled out my knife, and- well, there! I've said enough. It gave me         
a kind of savage joy when I thought how Sarah would feel when she           
had such sign of what her meddling had brought about. Then I tied           
the bodies into the boat, stove a plank, and stood by until they had        
sunk. I knew very well that the owner would think that they had lost        
their bearings and had drifted off out to sea. I cleaned myself up,         
got back to land, and joined my ship without a soul having a suspicion      
of what had passed. That night I made up the packet for Sarah Cushing,      
and next day I sent it from Belfast.                                        
  "'There you have the whole truth of it. You can hang me, or do            
what you like with me, but you cannot punish me as I have been              
punished already. I cannot shut my eyes but I see those two faces           
staring at me- staring at me as they stared when my boat broke through      
the haze. I killed them quick, but they are killing me slow; and if         
I have another night of it I shall be either, mad or dead before            
morning. You won't put me alone into a cell, sir? For pity's sake           
don't, and may you be treated in your day of agony as you treat me          
now."                                                                       
  "What is the meaning of it Watson?, said Holmes solemnly as he            
laid down the paper. "What object is served by this circle of misery        
and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our                
universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There      
is the great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as         
far from an answer as ever."                                                
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                          -THE END-