textfiles/etext/AUTHORS/DOYLE/doyle-case-381.txt

THE CASE BOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES by ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

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

Preface
The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone
The Problem of Thor Bridge
The Adventure of the Creeping Man
The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire
The Adventure of the Three Garridebs
The Adventure of the Illustrious Client
The Adventure of the Three Gables
The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier
The Adventure of the Lion's Mane
The Adventure of the Retired Colourman
The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger
The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place

                               PREFACE

                  THE CASE BOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

  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 
debut 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-nine 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.

            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. Fi-
nally, 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, ei-
ther. 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 work-
man 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, oblig-
ing 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 downward, as
though reading an invisible book, while the body was sunk deep
in an armchair. Billy detached the head and held it in the air.

  "We put it at different angles, so that it may seem more
lifelike. 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 armchair.
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 fib-
bing 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-ltalian, you know, and with the South-
ern 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 care-
fully 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 formida-
ble 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 armchair in the win-
dow. 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 gray 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 impersona-
tions 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 essen-
tial, 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 lell 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 yor 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
check in the same year on the Credit 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 dia-
monds. 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 repre-
sented. 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?
Aher 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 Hoffman 'Barcarole' upon my violin. In five min-
utes 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 sup-
pose 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 be-
comes 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 ex-
tended 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! Con-
sider 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, Biily. 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 fee-
ble 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

  "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 Lord-
ship out, and tell Mrs. Hudson that I should be glad if she would
send up dinner for two as soon as possible."

                   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 match box 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 unthink-
able, 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 de-
pressed 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 char-
acteristic 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 incom-
patible 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 diffi-
culty. 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 backward. 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 injus-

     tice 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 mar-
ried a wife, the victim of this tragedy, of whom I know nothing
save that she was past her prime, which was the more unfortu-
nate 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 a historical
English state. 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 con-
densed, 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 cor-
responded with the bullet was found on the floor of her ward-
robe." His eyes fixed and he repeated in broken words,
"On -- the -- floor -- of -- her -- wardrobe." Then he sank into si-
lence, 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 nar-
rowest 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 gray 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 imper-
turbable 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 under-
stand 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 reentered 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 advertise-
ment and became governess to our two children. Perhaps you
have seen her portrait in the papers. The whole world has pro-
claimed 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 usu-
ally 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 firearms 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 widespread, 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 gray 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 gray, 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 foot-
steps, 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 firearms 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 8:30 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 perfunc-
tory 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 workmanlike and com-
plete. 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
forever 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 the strong, clear-cut, and yet
sensitive face, that even should she be capable of some impetu-
ous 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 influ-
ence 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 influ-
ence 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 onward 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 charactenstic 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 wom-
an'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 clev-
erly 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 ward-
robe 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 ap-
peared 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 remark-
able 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."

             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
armchair 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 armchair, 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 whimsi-
cal 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 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. Ben-
nett 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 sur-
prise at me.

  "This matter is very delicate, Mr. Holmes," he said. "Con-
sider 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. None the less, 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. Profes-
sor 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, al-
though 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 onward 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 secre-
tary 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 instru-
ment cupboard. One day, in looking for a canula, 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 2d," 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 2d, that Roy attacked the professor as
he came from his study into the hall. Again, on July 11th, there
was a scene of the same sort, and then I have a note of yet
another upon July 20th. 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 4th."

  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 halfway 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
paralyzed 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 wit's 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 trans-
action -- a loan, perhaps, or share cenificates, which are in
the box."

  "And the wolfhound 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
fiancee."

  "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 furi-
ously. 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
paralyzed 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 5th," said Holmes. "That cer-
tainly 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 there-
fore 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 univer-
sity 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 suitcases 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 26th. 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 Excel-
sior. 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 cer-
tainly 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 myste-
rious 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 remark-
able 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 gray 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 funher 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. "How-
ever, 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 sum-
moned. 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 great!y 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 wish 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 secre-
tary, 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 remain-
ing. 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 hotelward. "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 wolfhound 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 2d, and from then onward it seems to have been at
nine-day intervals, with, so far as I remember, only one excep-
tion. Thus the last outbreak upon Friday was on September 3d,
which also falls into the series, as did August 26th, 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 inten-
sified 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 ameni-
ties 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 opportu-
nity of bringing matters to a head. In order to do so it is
necessary to hold the professor under observation. I would sug-
gest, therefore, that you remain awake and on the lookout.
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 ob-
serve his knuckles?"

  I had to confess that I did not.

  "Thick and horny in a way which is quite new in my experi-
ence. 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 lamplit
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, drop-
ping 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 wolfhound 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 danger-
ous task for us, but Bennett's voice and presence brought the
great wolflhound instantly to reason. The uproar had brought the
sleepy and astonished coachman from his room above the sta-
bles. "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 haemorrhage 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 profes-
sor'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 receipt 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, big-
gest 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 cir-
culates, 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 insure 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 win-
dow. 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."

            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 mediaeval, 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 as-

     sessment of machinery the matter hardly comes within our

     purview, and we have therefore recommended Mr. Fergu-

     son 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, Wat-
son," 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
Grimms' 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 Yegg-
man. 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 disap-
pointment.

  "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 while 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 concentra-
tion. 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?"

  "lt 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 peculiari-
ties of his proud, self-contained nature that though he docketed
any fresh information very quietly 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 seri-

      ously, 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. While 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 de-

      mented. 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.

      P. S. 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 remembered 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 wit's end."

  "Very naturally, Mr. Ferguson. Now sit here and pull your-
self together and give me a few clear answers. I can assure you
that I am very far from being at my wit's 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 soft-
ened 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 posthu-
mous 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 yow 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 farmhouse 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 splen-
did 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 cen-
tury. 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 appre-
hension. 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 exam-
ined 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 complex-
ity. 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 entree, Watson.
Will you have the goodness to give the lady this note?"

  I ascended again and handed the note to Dolores, who cau-
tiously 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 armchair, 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 wlth 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 forever."

  "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 understand 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 out-
stretched 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 Minc-

       ing Lane, and that the matter has been brought to a satisfac-

       tory conclusion. With thanks for your recommendation, I

       am, sir,

                                                Faithfully yours,

                                                 SHERLOCK HOLMES.

           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 per-
haps 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 gray 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 gentle-
man 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 arrest-
ing. Seldom in any human head have I seen a pair which be-
spoke a more intense inward life, so bright were they, so alert,
so responsive to every change of thought. His accent was Ameri-
can, 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 direc-
tory. 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, "l 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 Ameri-
can 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 synco-
pated 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 under-
stand 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, loosejointed, 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 cabi-
nets all round, crowded with specimens, geological and anatomi-
cal. 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 bris-
tled up among 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," "Hei-
delberg," "Cro-Magnon" 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 ACRICULTURAL MACHINERY

        Binders, reapers, steam and hand plows, drills, harTows,

        farmer's 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 Ameri-
cn, "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
wth 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 our connec-
tions. 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 disconso-
late 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 expla-
nation. 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 archaeologist 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 adver-
tisement?"

  "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 Ameri-
can. 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 lunchtime 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 influ-
ence. 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-
agent's. 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 apart-
ment 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 examina-
tion 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 trap-door. 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 sat 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 sub-
scribed 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.

            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 this 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 -- 4:30. 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, cleanshaven face, and, above all, that pleasant, mellow voice. 
Frankness shone from his gray 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 Splugen 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 I dare say we may find some means of 
opening the 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 entree 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 breeding 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. Iet 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 cripes! 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 cripes! 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 lor vour cooperation. 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've 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 gray 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 beastman 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 
fiance, 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 
fiance, 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 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 
fiance'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-vender 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 Cafe 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 Cafe 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 curb.

  "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 sublibrarian, 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 armchair.

  "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 mantelpiece."

  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 son."

  "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 quaerers."

  "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 Nonhern 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 gin 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 glazed 
up at me. I could have wept over the ruin had l 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 forever 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.

            The Adveniure 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 armchair 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 gray 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 gen'l'men 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 un-
pleasant, stealthy step round the angle of the table. "See here,
Masser Holmes, you keep your hands out of other folks' busi-
ness. 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 gen'l'man 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, blus-
tering 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 panicular
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 refine-
ment 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 attache 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 devel-
oped. 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 per-
sonal 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
struggle 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, treach-
erous 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 a 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 cohtain. 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
forget it."

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

  "I've got him thoroughly frightened for his own skin, Wat-
son," 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 gar-
bage papers which cater to 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 exact-
ness 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 gray old gentleman, who introduced himself as
the lawyer together with a bustling, rubicund inspector, who
greeted Hoimes 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 maidservant.

  "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
pocketbook.

  "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, Wat-
son." 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 humilia-

     tion. 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 re-
placed 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
masterfui 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-after-
noon!"

  "Stop! Where are you going?"

  "To Scotland Yard."

  We had not got halfway 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.

  "l 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 wom-
an'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 check 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 forever without cutting those dainty hands."

         The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier

  The ideas of my friend Watson, though limited, are exceed-
ingly pertinacious. For a long time he has worried me to write an
experience of my own. Perhaps I have rather invited this perse-
cution, 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 every-
thing 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' ab-
sence, 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 any-
where. There was no trap at the station, so I had to walk,
carrying my suitcase, 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 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 gray beard, seated behind his littered desk. A
red-veined nose jutted out like a vulture's beak, and two fierce
gray eyes glared at me from under tufted brows. I could under-
stand now why Godfrey seldom spoke of his father.

  " 'Well, sir,' said he in a rasping voice, 'I should be inter-
ested 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 memo-
ries 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 recollections, sir, that I had already corres-
ponded 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 camplete 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 slink-
ing, 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 time-table in the hall.

  " There is a train to London at 8:30,' 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 incoher-
ent 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 alterna-
tives 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 in-
volved. 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 Eustonn we
picked up a grave and tacitum gentleman of iron-gray 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 expres-
sion 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 strag-
gling 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 clear-
ing 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 amaze-
ment. '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 strang-
ers with never a hope of release. But absolute secrecy was
necessary, or even in this quiet countryside 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 expla-
nations 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 solu-
tions. These, then, had to be sifted and balanced against each
other.

  "The criminal solution would not bear inspection. No un-
solved 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 con-
straint 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 atten-
dance 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 authori-
ties. 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 noninfective. Yes, Mr. Holmes, the coin-
cidence 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."

              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 paralyzed 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 establish-
ment, 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 occa-
sional outbreaks of temper, which could only be described as
ferocious. On one occasion, being plagued by a little dog be-
longing 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 foot-
steps 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 exam-
ined 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 wondering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was, of
course, still there, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Ander-
son, 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 sev-
eral 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 side-
ways 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, intoler-
able 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. Per-
haps 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 remark-
able 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 fiance 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. Person-
ally, 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 countryside.

  "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 mem-
ory. 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 forever 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 homeward.

   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 with-
out 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 Bardle of the Sussex Con-
stabulary -- 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 McPher-
son 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 instru-
ment 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 photo-
graph. "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. Bardle. But
your case is far too weak for an arrest. Besides, we have those
last words -- the '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 interrup-
tion which was the beginning of the end.

  My outer door was flung open, there were blundering foot-
steps 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 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, crisscrossed
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. Ex-
hausted 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 house-
keeper, 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, vibrat-
ing, 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 forever."

  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
southwest 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 forever 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 of 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 mem-
ory for trifles. That phrase 'the 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 Scot-
land Yard."

             The Adventure of the Retired Colourman

  Sherlock Holmes was in a melancholy and philosophic mood
that morning. His alert practical nature was subject to such
reactions.

  "Did you see him?" he asked.

  "You mean the old fellow who has just gone out?"

  "Precisely."

  "Yes, I met him at the door."

  "What did you think of him?"

  "A pathetic, futile, broken creature."

  "Exactly, Watson. Pathetic and futile. But is not all life
pathetic and futile? Is not his story a microcosm of the whole?
We reach. We grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A
shadow. Or worse than a shadow -- misery."

  "Is he one of your clients?"

  "Well, I suppose I may call him so. He has been sent on by
the Yard. Just as medical men occasionally send their incurables
to a quack. They argue that they can do nothing more, and that
whatever happens the patient can be no worse than he is."

  "What is the matter?"

  Holmes took a rather soiled card from the table. "Josiah
Amberley. He says he was junior partner of Brickfall and
Amberley, who are manufacturers of artistic materials. You will
see their names upon paint-boxes. He made his little pile, retired
from business at the age of sixty-one, bought a house at Lewisham.
and settled down to rest after a life of ceaseless grind. One
would think his future was tolerably assured."

  "Yes, indeed."

  Holmes glanced over some notes which he had scribbled upon
the back of an envelope.

  "Retired in 1896, Watson. Early in 1897 he married a woman
twenty years younger than himself -- a good-looking woman, too.
if the photograph does not flatter. A competence, a wife, leisure -- it
seemed a straight road which lay before him. And yet within two
years he is, as you have seen, as broken and miserable a creature
as crawls beneath the sun."

  "But what has happened?"

  "The old story, Watson. A treacherous friend and a fickle
wife. It would appear that Amberley has one hobby in life, and it
is chess. Not far from him at Lewisham there lives a young
doctor who is also a chess-player. I have noted his name as Dr.
Ray Ernest. Ernest was frequently in the house, and an intimacy
between him and Mrs. Amberley was a natural sequence, for you
must admit that our unfortunate client has few outward graces,
whatever his inner virtues may be. The couple went off together
last week -- destination untraced. What is more, the faithless
spouse carried off the old man's deed-box as her personal lug-
gage with a good part of his life's savings within. Can we find
the lady? Can we save the money? A commonplace problem so
far as it has developed, and yet a vital one for Josiah Amberley."

  "What will you do about it?"

  "Well, the immediate question, my dear Watson, happens to
be, What will you do? -- if you will be good enough to under-
study me. You know that I am preoccupied with this case of the
two Coptic Patriarchs, which should come to a head to-day. I
really have not time to go out to Lewisham, and yet evidence
taken on the spot has a special value. The old fellow was quite
insistent that I should go, but I explained my difficulty. He is
prepared to meet a representative."

  "By all means," I answered. "I confess I don't see that I can
be of much service, but I am willing to do my best." And so it
was that on a summer afternoon I set forth to Lewisham, little
dreaming that within a week the affair in which I was engaging
would be the eager debate of all England.

  It was late that evening before I returned to Baker Street and
gave an account of my mission. Holmes lay with his gaunt figure
stretched in his deep chair, his pipe curling forth slow wreaths of
acrid tobacco, while his eyelids drooped over his eyes so lazily
that he might almost have been asleep were it not that at any halt
or questionable passage of my narrative they half lifted, and two
gray eyes, as bright and keen as rapiers, transfixed me with their
searching glance.

  "The Haven is the name of Mr. Josiah Amberley's house," I
explained. "I think it would interest you, Holmes. It is like some
penurious patrician who has sunk into the company of his inferi-
ors. You know that particular quarter, the monotonous brick
streets, the weary suburban highways. Right in the middle of
them, a little island of ancient culture and comfort, lies this old
home, surrounded by a high sun-baked wall mottled with lichens
and topped with moss, the sort of wall --"

  "Cut out the poetry, Watson," said Holmes severely. "I note
that it was a high brick wall."

  "Exactly. I should not have known which was The Haven had
I not asked a lounger who was smoking in the street. I have a
reason for mentioning him. He was a tall, dark, heavily
moustached, rather military-looking man. He nodded in answer
to my inquiry and gave me a curiously questioning glance, which
came back to my memory a little later.

  "I had hardly entered the gateway before I saw Mr. Amberley
coming down the drive. I only had a glimpse of him this
morning, and he certainly gave me the impression of a strange
creature, but when I saw him in full light his appearance was
even more abnormal."

  "I have, of course, studied it, and yet I should be interested to
have your impression," said Holmes.

  "He seemed to me like a man who was literally bowed down
by care. His back was curved as though he carried a heavy
burden. Yet he was not the weakling that I had at first imagined,
for his shoulders and chest have the framework of a giant,
though his figure tapers away into a pair of spindled legs."

  "Left shoe wrinkled, right one smooth."

  "I did not observe that."

  "No, you wouldn't. I spotted his artificial limb. But proceed."

  "I was struck by the snaky locks of grizzled hair which curled
from under his old straw hat, and his face with its fierce, eager
expression and the deeply lined features."

  "Very good, Watson. What did he say?"

  "He began pouring out the story of his grievances. We walked
down the drive together, and of course I took a good look round.
I have never seen a worse-kept place. The garden was all run-
ning to seed, giving me an impression of wild neglect in which
the plants had been allowed to find the way of Nature rather than
of art. How any decent woman could have tolerated such a state
of things, I don't know. The house, too, was slatternly to the last
degree, but the poor man seemed himself to be aware of it and to
be trying to remedy it, for a great pot of green paint stood in the
centre of the hall, and he was carrying a thick brush in his left
hand. He had been working on the woodwork.

  "He took me into his dingy sanctum, and we had a long chat.
Of course, he was disappointed that you had not come yourself.
'I hardly expected,' he said, 'that so humble an individual as
myself, especially after my heavy financial loss, could obtain the
complete attention of so famous a man as Mr. Sherlock Holmes.'

  "I assured him that the financial question did not arise. 'No
of course, it is art for art's sake with him,' said he, 'but even on
the artistic side of crime he might have found something here to
study. And human nature, Dr. Watson -- the black ingratitude of
it all! When did I ever refuse one of her requests? Was ever a
woman so pampered? And that young man -- he might have been
my own son. He had the run of my house. And yet see how they
have treated me! Oh, Dr. Watson, it is a dreadful, dreadful
world!'

  "That was the burden of his song for an hour or more. He
had, it seems, no suspicion of an intrigue. They lived alone save
for a woman who comes in by the day and leaves every evening
at six. On that particular evening old Amberley, wishing to give
his wife a treat, had taken two upper circle seats at the Haymarket
Theatre. At the last moment she had complained of a headache
and had refused to go. He had gone alone. There seemed to be
no doubt about the fact, for he produced the unused ticket which
he had taken for his wife."

  "That is remarkable -- most remarkable," said Holmes, whose
interest in the case seemed to be rising. "Pray continue, Watson.
I find your narrative most arresting. Did you personally examine
this ticket? You did not, perchance, take the number?"

  "It so happens that I did," I answered with some pride. "It
chanced to be my old school number, thirty-one, and so is stuck
in my head."

  "Excellent, Watson! His seat, then, was either thirty or
thirty-two."

  "Quite so," I answered with some mystification. "And on
B row."

  "That is most satisfactory. What else did he tell you?"

  "He showed me his strong-room, as he called it. It really is a
strong-room -- like a bank -- with iron door and shutter -- burglar-
proof, as he claimed. However, the woman seems to have had a
duplicate key, and between them they had carried off some seven
thousand pounds' worth of cash and securities."

  "Securities! How could they dispose of those?"

  "He said that he had given the police a list and that he hoped
they would be unsaleable. He had got back from the theatre
about midnight and found the place plundered, the door and
window open, and the fugitives gone. There was no letter or
message, nor has he heard a word since. He at once gave the
alarm to the police."

  Holmes brooded for some minutes.

  "You say he was painting. What was he painting?"

  "Well, he was painting the passage. But he had already
painted the door and woodwork of this room I spoke of."

  "Does it not strike you as a strange occupation in the
circumstances?"

  " 'One must do something to ease an aching heart.' That was
his own explanation. It was eccentric, no doubt, but he is clearly
an eccentric man. He tore up one of his wife's photographs in
my presence -- tore it up furiously in a tempest of passion. 'I
never wish to see her damned face again,' he shrieked."

  "Anything more, Watson?"

  "Yes, one thing which struck me more than anything else. I
had driven to the Blackheath Station and had caught my train
there when, just as it was starting, I saw a man dart into the
carriage next to my own. You know that I have a quick eye for
faces, Holmes. It was undoubtedly the tall, dark man whom I
had addressed in the street. I saw him once more at London
Bridge, and then I lost him in the crowd. But I am convinced that
he was following me."

  "No doubt! No doubt!" said Holmes. "A tall, dark, heavily
moustached man, you say, with gray-tinted sun-glasses?"

  "Holmes, you are a wizard. I did not say so, but he had
gray-tinted sun-glasses."

  "And a Masonic tie-pin?"

  "Holmes!"

  "Quite simple, my dear Watson. But let us get down to what
is practical. I must admit to you that the case, which seemed to
me to be so absurdly simple as to be hardly worth my notice, is
rapidly assuming a very different aspect. It is true that though in
your mission you have missed everything of importance, yet
even those things which have obtruded themselves upon your
notice give rise to serious thought."

  "What have I missed?"

  "Don't be hurt, my dear fellow. You know that I am quite
impersonal. No one else would have done better. Some possibly
not so well. But clearly you have missed some vital points. What
is the opinion of the neighbours about this man Amberley and his
wife? That surely is of importance. What of Dr. Ernest? Was he
the gay Lothario one would expect? With your natural advan-
tages, Watson, every lady is your helper and accomplice. What
about the girl at the post-office, or the wife of the greengrocer? I
can picture you whispering soft nothings with the young lady at
the Blue Anchor, and receiving hard somethings in exchange.
All this you have left undone."

  "It can still be done."

  "It has been done. Thanks to the telephone and the help of the
Yard, I can usually get my essentials without leaving this room.
As a matter of fact, my information confirms the man's story.
He has the local repute of being a miser as well as a harsh and
exacting husband. That he had a large sum of money in that
strong-room of his is certain. So also is it that young Dr. Ernest,
an unmarried man, played chess with Amberley, and probably
played the fool with his wife. All this seems plain sailing, and
one would think that there was no more to be said -- and yet! --
and yet!"

  "Where lies the difficulty?"

  "In my imagination, perhaps. Well, leave it there, Watson.
Let us escape from this weary workaday world by the side door
of music. Carina sings to-night at the Albert Hall, and we still
have time to dress, dine, and enjoy."

  In the morning I was up betimes, but some toast crumbs and
two empty eggshells told me that my companion was earlier still.
I found a scribbled note upon the table.

     DEAR WATSON:

       There are one or two points of contact which I should

     wish to establish with Mr. Josiah Amberley. When I have

     done so we can dismiss the case -- or not. I would only ask

     you to be on hand about three o'clock, as I conceive it

     possible that I may want you.

                              S.H.

  I saw nothing of Holmes all day, but at the hour named he
returned, grave, preoccupied, and aloof. At such times it was
wiser to leave him to himself.

  "Has Amberley been here yet?"

  "No."

  "Ah! I am expecting him."

  He was not disappointed, for presently the old fellow arrived
with a very worried and puzzled expression upon his austere
face.

  "I've had a telegram, Mr. Holmes. I can make nothing of it."
He handed it over, and Holmes read it aloud.

      "Come at once without fail. Can give you information as

    to your recent loss.

                 "ELMAN.

                 "The Vicarage.

  "Dispatched at 2:10 from Little Purlington," said Holmes.
"Little Purlington is in Essex, I believe, not far from Frinton.
Well, of course you will start at once. This is evidently from a
responsible person, the vicar of the place. Where is my Crockford?
Yes, here we have him: 'J. C. Elman, M. A., Living of Moosmoor
cum Little Purlington.' Look up the trains, Watson."

  "There is one at 5:20 from Liverpool Street."

  "Excellent. You had best go with him, Watson. He may
need help or advice. Clearly we have come to a crisis in this
affair."

  But our client seemed by no means eager to start.

  "It's perfectly absurd, Mr. Holmes," he said. "What can this
man possibly know of what has occurred? It is waste of time and
money."

  "He would not have telegraphed to you if he did not know
something. Wire at once that you are coming."

  "I don't think I shall go."

  Holmes assumed his sternest aspect.

  "It would make the worst possible impression both on the
police and upon myself, Mr. Amberley, if when so obvious a
clue arose you should refuse to follow it up. We should feel that
you were not really in earnest in this investigation."

  Our client seemed horrified at the suggestion.

  "Why, of course I shall go if you look at it in that way," said
he. "On the face of it, it seems absurd to suppose that this
parson knows anything, but if you think --"

  "I do think," said Holmes with emphasis, and so we were
launched upon our journey. Holmes took me aside before we left
the room and gave me one word of counsel, which showed that
he considered the matter to be of importance. "Whatever you
do, see that he really does go," said he. "Should he break away
or return, get to the nearest telephone exchange and send the
single word 'Bolted.' I will arrange here that it shall reach me
wherever I am."

  Little Purlington is not an easy place to reach, for it is on a
branch line. My remembrance of the journey is not a pleasant
one, for the weather was hot, the train slow, and my companion
sullen and silent, hardly talking at all save to make an occasional
sardonic remark as to the futility of our proceedings. When we at
last reached the little station it was a two-mile drive before we
came to the Vicarage, where a big, solemn, rather pompous
clergyman received us in his study. Our telegram lay before him.

  "Well, gentlemen," he asked, "what can I do for you?"

  "We came," I explained, "in answer to your wire."

  "My wire! I sent no wire."

  "I mean the wire which you sent to Mr. Josiah Amberley
about his wife and his money."

  "If this is a joke, sir, it is a very questionable one," said the
vicar angrily. "I have never heard of the gentleman you name,
and I have not sent a wire to anyone."

  Our client and I looked at each other in amazement.

  "Perhaps there is some mistake," said I; "are there perhaps
two vicarages? Here is the wire itself, signed Elman and dated
from the Vicarage."

  "There is only one vicarage, sir, and only one vicar, and this
wire is a scandalous forgery, the origin of which shall certainly
be investigated by the police. Meanwhile, I can see no possible
object in prolonging this interview."

  So Mr. Amberley and I found ourselves on the roadside in
what seemed to me to be the most primitive village in England.
We made for the telegraph office, but it was already closed.
There was a telephone, however, at the little Railway Arms, and
by it I got into touch with Holmes, who shared in our amazement
at the result of our journey.

  "Most singular!" said the distant voice. "Most remarkable! I
much fear, my dear Watson, that there is no return train to-night.
I have unwittingly condemned you to the horrors of a country
inn. However, there is always Nature, Watson -- Nature and
Josiah Amberley -- you can be in close commune with both." I
heard his dry chuckle as he turned away.

  It was soon apparent to me that my companion's reputation as
a miser was not undeserved. He had grumbled at the expense of
the journey, had insisted upon travelling third-class, and was
now clamorous in his objections to the hotel bill. Next morning,
when we did at last arrive in London, it was hard to say which of
us was in the worse humour.

  "You had best take Baker Street as we pass," said I. "Mr.
Holmes may have some fresh instructions."

  "If they are not worth more than the last ones they are not of
much use," said Amberley with a malevolent scowl. None the
less, he kept me company. I had already warned Holmes by
telegram of the hour of our arrival, but we found a message
waiting that he was at Lewisham and would expect us there.
That was a surprise, but an even greater one was to find that he
was not alone in the sitting-room of our client. A stern-looking,
impassive man sat beside him, a dark man with gray-tinted
glasses and a large Masonic pin projecting from his tie.

  "This is my friend Mr. Barker," said Holmes. "He has been
interesting himself also in your business, Mr. Josiah Amberley,
though we have been working independently. But we both have
the same question to ask you!"

  Mr. Amberley sat down heavily. He sensed impending dan-
ger. I read it in his straining eyes and his twitching features.

  "What is the question, Mr. Holmes?"

  "Only this: What did you do with the bodies?"

  The man sprang to his feet with a hoarse scream. He clawed
into the air with his bony hands. His mouth was open, and for
the instant he looked like some horrible bird of prey. In a flash
we got a glimpse of the real Josiah Amberley, a misshapen
demon with a soul as distorted as his body. As he fell back into
his chair he clapped his hand to his lips as if to stifle a cough.
Holmes sprang at his throat like a tiger and twisted his face
towards the ground. A white pellet fell from between his gasping
lips.

  "No short cuts, Josiah Amberley. Things must be done de-
cently and in order. What about it, Barker?"

  "I have a cab at the door," said our taciturn companion.

  "It is only a few hundred yards to the station. We will go
together. You can stay here, Watson. I shall be back within half
an hour."

  The old colourman had the strength of a lion in that great
trunk of his, but he was helpless in the hands of the two
experienced man-handlers. Wriggling and twisting he was dragged
to the waiting cab, and I was left to my solitary vigil in the
ill-omened house. In less time than he had named, however,
Holmes was back, in company with a smart young police inspector.

  "I've left Barker to look after the formalities," said Holmes.
"You had not met Barker, Watson. He is my hated rival upon
the Surrey shore. When you said a tall dark man it was not
difficult for me to complete the picture. He has several good
cases to his credit, has he not, Inspector?"

  "He has certainly interfered several times," the inspector
answered with reserve.

  "His methods are irregular, no doubt, like my own. The
irregulars are useful sometimes, you know. You, for example,
with your compulsory warning about whatever he said being
used against him, could never have bluffed this rascal into what
is virtually a confession."

  "Perhaps not. But we get there all the same, Mr. Holmes.
Don't imagine that we had not formed our own views of this
case, and that we would not have laid our hands on our man.
You will excuse us for feeling sore when you jump in with
methods which we cannot use, and so rob us of the credit."

  "There shall be no such robbery, MacKinnon. I assure you
that I efface myself from now onward, and as to Barker, he has
done nothing save what I told him."

  The inspector seemed considerably relieved.

  "That is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. Praise or blame
can matter little to you, but it is very different to us when the
newspapers begin to ask questions."

  "Quite so. But they are pretty sure to ask questions anyhow,
so it would be as well to have answers. What will you say, for
example, when the intelligent and enterprising reporter asks you
what the exact points were which aroused your suspicion, and
finally gave you a certain conviction as to the real facts?"

  The inspector looked puzzled.

  "We don't seem to have got any real facts yet, Mr. Holmes.
You say that the prisoner, in the presence of three witnesses,
practically confessed by trying to commit suicide, that he had
murdered his wife and her lover. What other facts have you?"

  "Have you arranged for a search?"

  "There are three constables on their way."

  "Then you will soon get the clearest fact of all. The bodies
cannot be far away. Try the cellars and the garden. It should not
take long to dig up the likely places. This house is older than the
water-pipes. There must be a disused well somewhere. Try your
luck there."

  "But how did you know of it, and how was it done?"

  "I'll show you first how it was done, and then I will give the
explanation which is due to you, and even more to my long-
suffering friend here, who has been invaluable throughout. But,
first, I would give you an insight into this man's mentality. It is
a very unusual one -- so much so that I think his destination is
more likely to be Broadmoor than the scaffold. He has, to a high
degree, the sort of mind which one associates with the mediaeval
Italian nature rather than with the modern Briton. He was a
miserable miser who made his wife so wretched by his niggardly
ways that she was a ready prey for any adventurer. Such a one
came upon the scene in the person of this chess-playing doctor.
Amberley excelled at chess -- one mark, Watson, of a scheming
mind. Like all misers, he was a jealous man, and his jealousy
became a frantic mania. Rightly or wrongly, he suspected an
intrigue. He determined to have his revenge, and he planned it
with diabolical cleverness. Come here!"

  Holmes led us along the passage with as much certainty as if
he had lived in the house and halted at the open door of the
strong-room.

  "Pooh! What an awful smell of paint!" cried the inspector.

  "That was our first clue," said Holmes. "You can thank Dr.
Watson's observation for that, though he failed to draw the
inference. It set my foot upon the trail. Why should this man at
such a time be filling his house with strong odours? Obviously,
to cover some other smell which he wisfhed to conceal -- some
guilty smell which would suggest suspicions. Then came the
idea of a room such as you see here with iron door and shutter -- a
hermetically sealed room. Put those two facts together, and
whither do they lead? I could only determine that by examining
the house myself. I was already certain that the case was serious,
for I had examined the box-office chart at the Haymarket Theatre -- 
another of Dr. Watson's bull's-eyes -- and ascertained that nei-
ther B thirty nor thirty-two of the upper circle had been occupied
that night. Therefore, Amberley had not been to the theatre, and
his alibi fell to the ground. He made a bad slip when he allowed
my astute friend to notice the number of the seat taken for his
wife. The question now arose how I might be able to examine
the house. I sent an agent to the most impossible village I could
think of, and summoned my man to it at such an hour that he
could not possibly get back. To prevent any miscarriage, Dr.
Watson accompanied him. The good vicar's name I took, of
course, out of my Crockford. Do I make it all clear to you?"

  "It is masterly," said the inspector in an awed voice.

  "There being no fear of interruption I proceeded to burgle the
house. Burglary has always been an alternative profession had I
cared to adopt it, and I have little doubt that I should have come
to the front. Observe what I found. You see the gas-pipe along
the skirting here. Very good. It rises in the angle of the wall, and
there is a tap here in the corner. The pipe runs out into the
strong-room, as you can see, and ends in that plaster rose in the
centre of the ceiling, where it is concealed by the ornamentation.
That end is wide open. At any moment by turning the outside tap
the room could be flooded with gas. With door and shutter
closed and the tap full on I would not give two minutes of
conscious sensation to anyone shut up in that little chamber. By
what devilish device he decoyed them there I do not know, but
once inside the door they were at his mercy."

  The inspector examined the pipe with interest. "One of our
officers mentioned the smell of gas," said he, "but of course the
window and door were open then, and the paint -- or some of
it -- was already about. He had begun the work of painting the
day before, according to his story. But what next, Mr. Holmes?"

  "Well, then came an incident which was rather unexpected to
myself. I was slipping through the pantry window in the early
dawn when I felt a hand inside my collar, and a voice said:
'Now, you rascal, what are you doing in there?' When I could
twist my head round I looked into the tinted spectacles of my
friend and rival, Mr. Barker. It was a curious foregathering and
set us both smiling. It seems that he had been engaged by Dr.
Ray Ernest's family to make some investigations and had come
to the same conclusion as to foul play. He had watched the house
for some days and had spotted Dr. Watson as one of the obvi-
ously suspicious characters who had called there. He could
hardly arrest Watson, but when he saw a man actually climbing
out of the pantry window there came a limit to his restraint. Of
course, I told him how matters stood and we continued the case
together."

  "Why him? Why not us?"

  "Because it was in my mind to put that little test which
answered so admirably. I fear you would not have gone so far."

  The inspector smiled.

  "Well, maybe not. I understand that I have your word, Mr.
Holmes, that you step right out of the case now and that you turn
all your results over to us."

  "Certainly, that is always my custom."

  "Well, in the name of the force I thank you. It seems a clear
case, as you put it, and there can't be much difficulty over the
bodies."

  "I'll show you a grim little bit of evidence," said Holmes,
"and I am sure Amberley himself never observed it. You'll get
results, Inspector, by always putting yourself in the other fel-
low's place, and thinking what you would do yourself. It takes
some imagination, but it pays. Now, we will suppose that you
were shut up in this little room, had not two minutes to live, but
wanted to get even with the fiend who was probably mocking at
you from the other side of the door. What would you do?"

  "Write a message."

  "Exactly. You would like to tell people how you died. No use
writing on paper. That would be seen. If you wrote on the wall
someone might rest upon it. Now, look here! Just above the
skirting is scribbled with a purple indelible pencil: 'We we --'
That's all.''

  "What do you make of that?"

  "Well, it's only a foot above the ground. The poor devil was on
the floor dying when he wrote it. He lost his senses before he
could finish."

  "He was writing, 'We were murdered.' "

  "That's how I read it. If you find an indelible pencil on the
body --"

  "We'll look out for it, you may be sure. But those securities?
Clearly there was no robbery at all. And yet he did possess those
bonds. We verified that."

  "You may be sure he has them hidden in a safe place. When
the whole elopement had passed into history, he would suddenly
discover them and announce that the guilty couple had relented
and sent back the plunder or had dropped it on the way."

  "You certainly seem to have met every difficulty," said the
inspector. "Of course, he was bound to call us in, but why he
should have gone to you I can't understand."

  "Pure swank!" Holmes answered. "He felt so clever and so
sure of himself that he imagined no one could touch him. He
could say to any suspicious neighbour, 'Look at the steps I have
taken. I have consulted not only the police but even Sherlock
Holmes.' "

  The inspector laughed.

  "We must forgive you your 'even,' Mr. Holmes," said he
"it's as workmanlike a job as I can remember."

  A couple of days later my friend tossed across to me a copy of
the bi-weekly North Surrey Observer. Under a series of flaming
headlines, which began with "The Haven Horror" and ended
with "Brilliant Police Investigation," there was a packed col-
umn of print which gave the first consecutive account of the
affair. The concluding paragraph is typical of the whole. It ran
thus:

       The remarkable acumen by which Inspector MacKinnon

     deduced from the smell of paint that some other smell, that

     of gas, for example, might be concealed; the bold deduction

     that the strong-room might also be the death-chamber, and

     the subsequent inquiry which led to the discovery of the

     bodies in a disused well, cleverly concealed by a dog-

     kennel, should live in the history of crime as a standing

     example of the intelligence of our professional detectives.

  "Well, well, MacKinnon is a good fellow," said Holmes with
a tolerant smile. "You can file it in our archives, Watson. Some
day the true story may be told."

               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 cooperate 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 forebears
may not be touched, have nothing to fear. The discretion and
high sense of professional honour which have always distin-
guished my friend are still at work in the choice of these mem-
oirs, 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 those 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, moth-
erly 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?"

  "Mine stands well back from the road and is more private
than most. Then, again, I only take the one, and I have no
family of my own. I reckon she had tried others and found that
mine suited her best. It's privacy she is after, and she is ready to
pay for it."

  "You say that she never showed her face from first to last
save on the one accidental occasion. Well, it is a very remark-
able story, most remarkable, and I don't wonder that you want it
examined."

  "I don't, Mr. Holmes. I am quite satisfied so long as I get my
rent. You could not have a quieter lodger, or one who gives less
trouble."

  "Then what has brought matters to a head?"

  "Her health, Mr. Holmes. She seems to be wasting away.
And there's something terrible on her mind. 'Murder!' she cries.
'Murder!' And once I heard her: 'You cruel beast! You mon-
ster!' she cried. It was in the night, and it fair rang through the
house and sent the shivers through me. So I went to her in the
morning. 'Mrs. Ronder,' I says, 'if you have anything that is
troubling your soul, there's the clergy,' I says, 'and there's the
police. Between them you should get some help.' 'For God's
sake, not the police!' says she, 'and the clergy can't change what
is past. And yet,' she says, 'it would ease my mind if someone
knew the truth before I died.' 'Well,' says I, 'if you won't have
the regulars, there is this detective man what we read about' --
beggin' your pardon, Mr. Holmes. And she, she fair jumped
at it. 'That's the man,' says she. 'I wonder I never thought of it
before. Bring him here, Mrs. Merrilow, and if he won't come,
tell him I am the wife of Ronder's wild beast show. Say that,
and give him the name Abbas Parva. Here it is as she wrote it,
Abbas Parva. 'That will bring him if he's the man I think he
is.' "

  "And it will, too," remarked Holmes. "Very good, Mrs.
Merrilow. I should like to have a little chat with Dr. Watson.
That will carry us till lunch-time. About three o'clock you may
expect to see us at your house in Brixton."

  Our visitor had no sooner waddled out of the room -- no other
verb can describe Mrs. Merrilow's method of progression -- than
Sherlock Holmes threw himself with fierce energy upon the pile
of commonplace books in the corner. For a few minutes there
was a constant swish of the leaves, and then with a grunt of
satisfaction he came upon what he sought. So excited was he that
he did not rise, but sat upon the floor like some strange Buddha,
with crossed legs, the huge books all round him, and one open
upon his knees.

  "The case worried me at the time, Watson. Here are my
marginal notes to prove it. I confess that I could make nothing of
it. And yet I was convinced that the coroner was wrong. Have
you no recollection of the Abbas Parva tragedy?"

  "None, Holmes."

  "And yet you were with me then. But certainly my own
impression was very superficial. For there was nothing to go by,
and none of the parties had engaged my services. Perhaps you
would care to read the papers?"

  "Could you not give me the points?"

  "That is very easily done. It will probably come back to your
memory as I talk. Ronder, of course, was a household word. He
was the rival of Wombwell, and of Sanger, one of the greatest
showmen of his day. There is evidence, however, that he took to
drink, and that both he and his show were on the down grade at
the time of the great tragedy. The caravan had halted for the
night at Abbas Parva, which is a small village in Berkshire,
when this horror occurred. They were on their way to Wimble-
don, travelling by road, and they were simply camping and not
exhibiting, as the place is so small a one that it would not have
paid them to open.

  "They had among their exhibits a very fine North African
lion. Sahara King was its name, and it was the habit, both of
Ronder and his wife, to give exhibitions inside its cage. Here,
you see, is a photograph of the performance by which you will
perceive that Ronder was a huge porcine person and that his wife
was a very magnificent woman. It was deposed at the inquest
that there had been some signs that the lion was dangerous, but,
as usual, familiarity begat contempt, and no notice was taken of
the fact.

  "It was usual for either Ronder or his wife to feed the lion at
night. Sometimes one went, sometimes both, but they never
allowed anyone else to do it, for they believed that so long as
they were the food-carriers he would regard them as benefactors
and would never molest them. On this particular night, seven
years ago, they both went, and a very terrible happening fol-
lowed, the details of which have never been made clear.

  "It seems that the whole camp was roused near midnight by
the roars of the animal and the screams of the woman. The
different grooms and employees rushed from their tents, carrying
lanterns, and by their light an awful sight was revealed. Ronder
lay, with the back of his head crushed in and deep claw-marks
across his scalp, some ten yards from the cage, which was open.
Close to the door of the cage lay Mrs. Ronder upon her back,
with the creature squatting and snarling above her. It had torn
her face in such a fashion that it was never thought that she could
live. Several of thc circus men, headed by Leonardo, the strong
man, and Griggs, the clown, drove the creature off with poles,
upon which it sprang back into the cage and was at once locked
in. How it had got loose was a mystery. It was conjectured that
the pair intended to enter the cage, but that when the door was
loosed the creature bounded out upon them. There was no other
point of interest in the evidence save that the woman in a
delirium of agony kept screaming, 'Coward! Coward!' as she
was carried back to the van in which they lived. It was six
months before she was fit to give evidence, but the inquest was
duly held, with the obvious verdict of death from misadventure."

  "What alternative could be conceived?" said I.

  "You may well say so. And yet there were one or two points
which worried young Edmunds, of the Berkshire Constabulary.
A smart lad that! He was sent later to Allahabad. That was how I
came into the matter, for he dropped in and smoked a pipe or
two over it."

  "A thin, yellow-haired man?"

  "Exactly. I was sure you would pick up the trail presently."

  "But what worried him?"

  "Well, we were both worried. It was so deucedly difficult to
reconstruct the affair. Look at it from the lion's point of view.
He is liberated. What does he do? He takes half a dozen bounds
forward, which brings him to Ronder. Ronder turns to fly -- the
claw-marks were on the back of his head -- but the lion strikes
him down. Then, instead of bounding on and escaping, he
returns to the woman, who was close to the cage, and he knocks
her over and chews her face up. Then, again, those cries of hers
would seem to imply that her husband had in some way failed
her. What could the poor devil have done to help her? You see
the difficulty?"

  "Quite."

  "And then there was another thing. It comes back to me now
as I think it over. There was some evidence that just at the time
the lion roared and the woman screamed, a man began shouting
in terror."

  "This man Ronder, no doubt."

  "Well, if his skull was smashed in you would hardly expect to
hear from him again. There were at least two witnesses who
spoke of the cries of a man being mingled with those of a
woman."

  "I should think the whole camp was crying out by then. As to
the other points, I think I could suggest a solution."

  "I should be glad to consider it."

  "The two were together, ten yards from the cage, when the
lion got loose. The man turned and was struck down. The
woman conceived the idea of getting into the cage and shutting
the door. It was her only refuge. She made for it, and just as she
reached it the beast bounded after her and knocked her over. She
was angry with her husband for having encouraged the beast's
rage by turning. If they had faced it they might have cowed it.
Hence her cries of 'Coward!' "

  "Brilliant, Watson! Only one flaw in your diamond."

  "What is the flaw, Holmes?"

  "If they were both ten paces from the cage, how came the
beast to get loose?"

  "Is it possible that they had some enemy who loosed it?"

  "And why should it attack them savagely when it was in the
habit of playing with them, and doing tricks with them inside the
cage?"

  "Possibly the same enemy had done something to enrage it."

  Holmes looked thoughtful and remained in silence for some
moments.

  "Well, Watson, there is this to be said for your theory.
Ronder was a man of many enemies. Edmunds told me that in
his cups he was horrible. A huge bully of a man, he cursed and
slashed at everyone who came in his way. I expect those cries
about a monster, of which our visitor has spoken, were nocturnal
reminiscences of the dear departed. However, our speculations
are futile until we have all the facts. There is a cold partridge on
the sideboard, Watson, and a bottle of Montrachet. Let us renew
our energies before we make a fresh call upon them."

  When our hansom deposited us at the house of Mrs. Merrilow,
we found that plump lady blocking up the open door of her
humble but retired abode. It was very clear that her chief
preoccupation was lest she should lose a valuable lodger, and she
implored us, before showing us up, to say and do nothing which
could lead to so undesirable an end. Then, having reassured her,
we followed her up the straight, badly carpeted staircase and
were shown into the room of the mysterious lodger.

  It was a close, musty, ill-ventilated place, as might be ex-
pected, since its inmate seldom left it. From keeping beasts in a
cage, the woman seemed, by some retribution of fate, to have
become herself a beast in a cage. She sat now in a broken arm-
chair in the shadowy corner of the room. Long years of inaction
had coarsened the lines of her figure, but at some period it must
have been beautiful, and was still full and voluptuous. A thick
dark veil covered her face, but it was cut off close at her upper
lip and disclosed a perfectly shaped mouth and a delicately
rounded chin. I could well conceive that she had indeed been a
very remarkable woman. Her voice, too, was well modulated
and pleasing.

  "My name is not unfamiliar to you, Mr. Holmes," said she.
"I thought that it would bring you."

  "That is so, madam, though I do not know how you are aware
that I was interested in your case."

  "l learned it when I had recovered my health and was exam-
ined by Mr. Edmunds, the county detective. I fear I lied to him.
Perhaps it would have been wiser had I told the truth."

  "It is usually wiser to tell the truth. But why did you lie to
him?"

  "Because the fate of someone else depended upon it. I know
that he was a very worthless being, and yet I would not have his
destruction upon my conscience. We had been so close -- so
close!"

  "But has this impediment been removed?"

  "Yes, sir. The person that I allude to is dead."

  "Then why should you not now tell the police anything you
know?"

  "Because there is another person to be considered. That other
person is myself. I could not stand the scandal and publicity
which would come from a police examination. I have not long to
live, but I wish to die undisturbed. And yet I wanted to find one
man of judgment to whom I could tell my terrible story, so that
when I am gone all might be understood."

  "You compliment me, madam. At the same time, I am a
responsible person. I do not promise you that when you have
spoken I may not myself think it my duty to refer the case to the
police."

  "I think not, Mr. Holmes. I know your character and methods
too well, for I have followed your work for some years. Reading
is the only pleasure which fate has left me, and I miss little
which passes in the world. But in any case, I will take my
chance of the use which you may make of my tragedy. It will
ease my mind to tell it."

  "My friend and I would be glad to hear it."

  The woman rose and took from a drawer the photograph of a
man. He was clearly a professional acrobat, a man of magnifi-
cent physique, taken with his huge arms folded across his swollen
chest and a smile breaking from under his heavy moustache -- the
self-satisfied smile of the man of many conquests.

  "That is Leonardo," she said.

  "Leonardo, the strong man, who gave evidence?"

  "The same. And this -- this is my husband."

  It was a dreadful face -- a human pig, or rather a human wild
boar, for it was formidable in its bestiality. One could imagine
that vile mouth champing and foaming in its rage, and one could
conceive those small, vicious eyes darting pure malignancy as
they looked forth upon the world. Ruffian, bully, beast -- it was
all written on that heavy-jowled face.

  "Those two pictures will help you, gentlemen, to understand
the story. I was a poor circus girl brought up on the sawdust, and
doing springs through the hoop before I was ten. When I became
a woman this man loved me, if such lust as his can be called
love, and in an evil moment I became his wife. From that day I
was in hell, and he the devil who tormented me. There was no
one in the show who did not know of his treatment. He deserted
me for others. He tied me down and lashed me with his riding-
whip when I complained. They all pitied me and they all loathed
him, but what could they do? They feared him, one and all. For
he was terrible at all times, and murderous when he was drunk.
Again and again he was had up for assault, and for cruelty to the
beasts, but he had plenty of money and the fines were nothing to
him. The best men all left us, and the show began to go
downhill. It was only Leonardo and I who kept it up -- with little
Jimmy Griggs, the clown. Poor devil, he had not much to be
funny about, but he did what he could to hold things together.

  "Then Leonardo came more and more into my life. You see
what he was like. I know now the poor spirit that was hidden in
that splendid body, but compared to my husband he seemed like
the angel Gabriel. He pitied me and helped me, till at last our
intimacy turned to love -- deep, deep, passionate love, such love
as I had dreamed of but never hoped to feel. My husband
suspected it, but I think that he was a coward as well as a bully,
and that Leonardo was the one man that he was afraid of. He
took revenge in his own way by torturing me more than ever.
One night my cries brought Leonardo to the door of our van. We
were near tragedy that night, and soon my lover and I understood
that it could not be avoided. My husband was not fit to live. We
planned that he should die.

  "Leonardo had a clever, scheming brain. It was he who
planned it. I do not say that to blame him, for I was ready to go
with him every inch of the way. But I should never have had the
wit to think of such a plan. We made a club -- Leonardo made
it -- and in the leaden head he fastened five long steel nails, the
points outward, with just such a spread as the lion's paw. This
was to give my husband his death-blow, and yet to leave the
evidence that it was the lion which we would loose who had
done the deed.

  "It was a pitch-dark night when my husband and I went
down, as was our custom, to feed the beast. We carried with us
the raw meat in a zinc pail. Leonardo was waiting at the corner
of the big van which we should have to pass before we reached
the cage. He was too slow, and we walked past him before he
could strike, but he followed us on tiptoe and I heard the crash as
the club smashed my husband's skull. My heart leaped with joy
at the sound. I sprang forward, and I undid the catch which held
the door of the great lion's cage.

  "And then the terrible thing happened. You may have heard
how quick these creatures are to scent human blood, and how it
excites them. Some strange instinct had told the creature in one
instant that a human being had been slain. As I slipped the bars it
bounded out and was on me in an instant. Leonardo could have
saved me. If he had rushed forward and struck the beast with his
club he might have cowed it. But the man lost his nerve. I heard
him shout in his terror, and then I saw him turn and fly. At the
same instant the teeth of the lion met in my face. Its hot, filthy
breath had already poisoned me and I was hardly conscious of
pain. With the palms of my hands I tried to push the great
steaming, blood-stained jaws away from me, and I screamed for
help. I was conscious that the camp was stirring, and then dimly
I remembered a group of men. Leonardo, Griggs, and others,
dragging me from under the creature's paws. That was my last
memory, Mr. Holmes, for many a weary month. When I came to
myself and saw myself in the mirror, I cursed that lion -- oh, how
I cursed him! -- not because he had torn away my beauty but
because he had not torn away my life. I had but one desire, Mr.
Holmes, and I had enough money to gratify it. It was that I
should cover myself so that my poor face should be seen by
none, and that I should dwell where none whom I had ever
known should find me. That was all that was left to me to
do -- and that is what I have done. A poor wounded beast that has
crawled into its hole to die -- that is the end of Eugenia Ronder."

  We sat in silence for some time after the unhappy woman had
told her story. Then Holmes stretched out his long arm and
patted her hand with such a show of sympathy as I had seldom
known him to exhibit.

  "Poor girl!" he said. "Poor girl! The ways of fate are indeed
hard to understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter,
then the world is a cruel jest. But what of this man Leonardo?"

  "I never saw him or heard from him again. Perhaps I have
been wrong to feel so bitterly against him. He might as soon
have loved one of the freaks whom we carried round the country
as the thing which the lion had left. But a woman's love is not so
easily set aside. He had left me under the beast's claws, he had
deserted me in my need, and yet I could not bring myself to give
him to the gallows. For myself, I cared nothing what became of
me. What could be more dreadful than my actual life? But I
stood between Leonardo and his fate."

  "And he is dead?"

  "He was drowned last month when bathing near Margate. I
saw his death in the paper."

  "And what did he do with this five-clawed club, which is the
most singular and ingenious part of all your story?"

  "I cannot tell, Mr. Holmes. There is a chalk-pit by the camp,
with a deep green pool at the base of it. Perhaps in the depths of
that pool --"

  "Well, well, it is of little consequence now. The case is
closed."

  "Yes," said the woman, "the case is closed."

  We had risen to go, but there was something in the woman's
voice which arrested Holmes's attention. He turned swiftly upon
her.

  "Your life is not your own," he said. "Keep your hands off
it."

  "What use is it to anyone?"

  "How can you tell? The example of patient suffering is in
itself the most precious of all lessons to an impatient world."

  The woman's answer was a terrible one. She raised her veil
and stepped forward into the light.

  "I wonder if you would bear it," she said.

  It was horrible. No words can describe the framework of a
face when the face itself is gone. Two living and beautiful brown
eyes looking sadly out from that grisly ruin did but make the
view more awful. Holmes held up his hand in a gesture of pity
and protest, and together we left the room.

  Two days later, when I called upon my friend, he pointed with
some pride to a small blue bottle upon his mantelpiece. I picked
it up. There was a red poison label. A pleasant almondy odour
rose when I opened it.

  "Prussic acid?" said 1.

  "Exactly. It came by post. 'I send you my temptation. I will
follow your advice.' That was the message. I think, Watson, we
can guess the name of the brave woman who sent it."

            The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place

  Sherlock Holmes had been bending for a long time over a
low-power microscope. Now he straightened himself up and
looked round at me in triumph.

  "It is glue, Watson," said he. "Unquestionably it is glue.
Have a look at these scattered objects in the field!"

  I stooped to the eyepiece and focussed for my vision.

  "Those hairs are threads from a tweed coat. The irregular gray
masses are dust. There are epithelial scales on the left. Those
brown blobs in the centre are undoubtedly glue."

  "Well," I said, laughing, "I am prepared to take your word
for it. Does anything depend upon it?"

  "It is a very fine demonstration," he answered. "In the St.
Pancras case you may remember that a cap was found beside the
dead policeman. The accused man denies that it is his. But he is
a picture-frame maker who habitually handles glue."

  "Is it one of your cases?"

  "No; my friend, Merivale, of the Yard, asked me to look into
the case. Since I ran down that coiner by the zinc and copper
filings in the seam of his cuff they have begun to realize the
importance of the microscope." He looked impatiently at his
watch. "I had a new client calling, but he is overdue. By the
way, Watson, you know something of racing?"

  "I ought to. I pay for it with about half my wound pension."

  "Then I'll make you my 'Handy Guide to the Turf.' What
about Sir Robert Norberton? Does the name recall anything?"

  "Well, I should say so. He lives at Shoscombe Old Place,
and I know it well, for my summer quarters were down there
once. Norberton nearly came within your province once."

  "How was that?"

  "It was when he horsewhipped Sam Brewer, the well-known
Curzon Street money-lender, on Newmarket Heath. He nearly
killed the man."

  "Ah, he sounds interesting! Does he often indulge in that
way?"

  "Well, he has the name of being a dangerous man. He is
about the most daredevil rider in England -- second in the Grand
National a few years back. He is one of those men who have
overshot their true generation. He should have been a buck in the
days of the Regency -- a boxer, an athlete, a plunger. on the turf,
a lover of fair ladies, and, by all account, so far down Queer
Street that he may never find his way back again."

  "Capital, Watson! A thumb-nail sketch. I seem to know the
man. Now, can you give me some idea of Shoscombe Old
Place?"

  "Only that it is in the centre of Shoscombe Park, and that the
famous Shoscombe stud and training quarters are to be found
there."

  "And the head trainer," said Holmes, "is John Mason. You
need not look surprised at my knowledge, Watson, for this is a
letter from him which I am unfolding. But let us have some more
about Shoscombe. I seem to have struck a rich vein."

  "There are the Shoscombe spaniels," said I. "You hear of
them at every dog show. The most exclusive breed in England.
They are the special pride of the lady of Shoscombe Old Place."

  "Sir Robert Norberton's wife, I presume!"

  "Sir Robert has never married. Just as well, I think, consider-
ing his prospects. He lives with his widowed sister, Lady
Beatrice Falder."

  "You mean that she lives with him?"

  "No, no. The place belonged to her late husband, Sir James.
Norberton has no claim on it at all. It is only a life interest and
reverts to her husband's brother. Meantime, she draws the rents
every year."

  "And brother Robert, I suppose, spends the said rents?"

  "That is about the size of it. He is a devil of a fellow and
must lead her a most uneasy life. Yet I have heard that she is
devoted to him. But what is amiss at Shoscombe?"

  "Ah, that is just what I want to know. And here, I expect, is
the man who can tell us."

  The door had opened and the page had shown in a tall,
clean-shaven man with the firm, austere expression which is only
seen upon those who have to control horses or boys. Mr. John
Mason had many of both under his sway, and he looked equal to
the task. He bowed with cold self-possession and seated himself
upon the chair to which Holmes had waved him.

  "You had my note, Mr. Holmes?"

  "Yes, but it explained nothing."

  "It was too delicate a thing for me to put the details on paper.
And too complicated. It was only face to face I could do it."

  "Well, we are at your disposal."

  "First of all, Mr. Holmes, I think that my employer, Sir
Robert, has gone mad."

  Holmes raised his eyebrows. "This is Baker Street, not Harley
Street," said he. "But why do you say so?"

  "Well, sir, when a man does one queer thing, or two queer
things, there may be a meaning to it, but when everything he
does is queer, then you begin to wonder. I believe Shoscombe
Prince and the Derby have turned his brain."

  "That is a colt you are running?"

  "The best in England, Mr. Holmes. I should know, if anyone
does. Now, I'll be plain with you, for I know you are gentlemen
of honour and that it won't go beyond the room. Sir Robert has
got to win this Derby. He's up to the neck, and it's his last
chance. Everything he could raise or borrow is on the horse --
and at fine odds, too! You can get forties now, but it was nearer
the hundred when he began to back him."

  "But how is that if the horse is so good?"

  "The public don't know how good he is. Sir Robert has been
too clever for the touts. He has the Prince's half-brother out for
spins. You can't tell 'em apart. But there are two lengths in a
furlong between them when it comes to a gallop. He thinks of
nothing but the horse and the race. His whole life is on it. He's
holding off the Jews till then. If the Prince fails him he is done. "

  "It seems a rather desperate gamble, but where does the
madness come in?"

  "Well, first of all, you have only to look at him. I don't
believe he sleeps at night. He is down at the stables at all hours.
His eyes are wild. It has all been too much for his nerves. Then
there is his conduct to Lady Beatrice!"

  "Ah! What is that?"

  "They have always been the best of friends. They had the
same tastes, the two of them, and she loved the horses as much
as he did. Every day at the same hour she would drive down to
see them -- and, above all, she loved the Prince. He would prick
up his ears when he heard the wheels on the gravel, and he
would trot out each morning to the carriage to get his lump of
sugar. But that's all over now."

  "Why?"          

  "Well, she seems to have lost all interest in the horses. For a
week now she has driven past the stables with never so much as
'Good-morning'! "

  "You think there has been a quarrel?"

  "And a bitter, savage, spitelful quarrel at that. Why else would
he give away her pet spaniel that she loved as if he were her
child? He gave it a few days ago to old Barnes, what keeps the
Green Dragon, three miles off, at Crendall."

  "That certainly did seem strange."

  "Of course, with her weak heart and dropsy one couldn't
expect that she could get about with him, but he spent two hours
every evening in her room. He might well do what he could, for
she has been a rare good friend to him. But that's all over, too.
He never goes near her. And she takes it to heart. She is
brooding and sulky and drinking, Mr. Holmes -- drinking like a
fish."

  "Did she drink before this estrangement?"

  "Well, she took her glass, but now it is often a whole bottle
of an evening. So Stephens, the butler, told me. It's all changed,
Mr. Holmes, and there is something damned rotten about it. But
then, again, what is master doing down at the old church crypt at
night? And who is the man that meets him there?"

  Holmes rubbed his hands.

  "Go on, Mr. Mason. You get more and more interesting."

  "It was the butler who saw him go. Twelve o'clock at night
and raining hard. So next night I was up at the house and, sure
enough, master was off again. Stephens and I went after him,
but it was jumpy work, for it would have been a bad job if he
had seen us. He's a terrible man with his fists if he gets started,
and no respecter of persons. So we were shy of getting too near,
but we marked him down all light. It was the haunted crypt that
he was making for, and there was a man waiting for him there."

  "What is this haunted cryp?"

  "Well, sir, there is an old ruined chapel in the park. It is so
old that nobody could fix its date. And under it there's a crypt
which has a bad name among us. It's a dark, damp, lonely place
by day, but there are few in that county that would have the
nerve to go near it at night. But master's not afraid. He never
feared anything in his life. But what is he doing there in the
night-time?"

  "Wait a bit!" said Holmes. "You say there is another man
there. It must be one of your own stablemen, or someone from
the house! Surely you have only to spot who it is and question
him?"

  "It's no one I know."

  "How can you say that?"

  "Because I have seen him, Mr. Holmes. It was on that second
night. Sir Robert turned and passed us -- me and Stephens, quak-
ing in the bushes like two bunny-rabbits, for there was a bit of
moon that night. But we could hear the other moving about
behind. We were not afraid of him. So we up when Sir Robert
was gone and pretended we were just having a walk like in the
moonlight, and so we came right on him as casual and innocent
as you please. 'Hullo, mate! who may you be?' says I. I guess
he had not heard us coming, so he looked over his shoulder with
a face as if he had seen the devil coming out of hell. He let out a
yell, and away he went as hard as he could lick it in the
darkness. He could run! -- I'll give him that. In a minute he was
out of sight and hearing, and who he was, or what he was, we
never found."

  "But you saw him clearly in the moonlight?"

  "Yes, I would swear to his yellow face -- a mean dog, I
should say. What could he have in common with Sir Robert?"

  Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.

  "Who keeps Lady Beatrice Falder company?" he asked at
last.

  "There is her maid, Carrie Evans. She has been with her this
five years."

  "And is, no doubt, devoted?"

  Mr. Mason shuffled uncomfortably.

  "She's devoted enough," he answered at last. "But I won't
say to whom."

  "Ah!" said Holmes.

  "I can't tell tales out of school."

  "I quite understand, Mr. Mason. Of course, the situation is
clear enough. From Dr. Watson's description of Sir Robert I can
realize that no woman is safe from him. Don't you think the
quarrel between brother and sister may lie there?"

  "Well, the scandal has been pretty clear for a long time."

  "But she may not have seen it before. Let us suppose that she
has suddenly found it out. She wants to get rid of the woman.
Her brother will not permit it. The invalid, with her weak heart
and inability to get about, has no means of enforcing her will.
The hated maid is still tied to her. The lady refuses to speak,
sulks, takes to drink. Sir Robert in his anger takes her pet spaniel
away from her. Does not all this hang together?"

  "Well, it might do -- so far as it goes."

  "Exactly! As far as it goes. How would all that bear upon the
visits by night to the old crypt? We can't fit that into our plot."

  "No, sir, and there is something more that I can't fit in. Why
should Sir Robert want to dig up a dead body?"

  Holmes sat up abruptly.

  "We only found it out yesterday -- after I had written to you.
Yesterday Sir Robert had gone to London, so Stephens and I
went down to the crypt. It was all in order, sir, except that in one
corner was a bit of a human body."

  "You informed the police, I suppose?"

  Our visitor smiled grimly.

  "Well, sir, I think it would hardly interest them. It was just
the head and a few bones of a mummy. It may have been a
thousand years old. But it wasn't there before. That I'll swear,
and so will Stephens. It had been stowed away in a corner and
covered over with a board, but that corner had always been
empty before."

  "What did you do with it?"

  "Well, we just left it there."

  "That was wise. You say Sir Robert was away yesterday. Has
he returned?"

  "We expect him back to-day."

  "When did Sir Robert give away his sister's dog?"

  "It was just a week ago to-day. The creature was howling
outside the old wellhouse, and Sir Robert was in one of his
tantrums that morning. He caught it up, and I thought he would
have killed it. Then he gave it to Sandy Bain, the jockey, and
told him to take the dog to old Barnes at the Green Dragon, for
he never wished to see it again."

  Holmes sat for some time in silent thought. He had lit the
oldest and foulest of his pipes.

  "I am not clear yet what you want me to do in this matter,
Mr. Mason," he said at last. "Can't you make it more definite?"

  "Perhaps this will make it more definite, Mr. Holmes," said
our visltor.

  He took a paper from his pocket, and, unwrapping it care-
fully, he exposed a charred fragment of bone.

  Holmes examined it with interest.

  "Where did you get it?"

  "There is a central heating furnace in the cellar under Lady
Beatrice's room. It's been off for some time, but Sir Robert
complained of cold and had it on again.

  Harvey runs it -- he's one of my lads. This very morning he
came to me with this which he found raking out the cinders. He
didn't like the look of it."

  "Nor do I," said Holmes. "What do you make of it, Watson?"

  It was burned to a black cinder, but there could be no question
as to its anatomical significance.

  "It's the upper condyle of a human femur," said I.

  "Exactly!" Holmes had become very serious. "When does
this lad tend to the furnace?"

  "He makes it up every evening and then leaves it."

  "Then anyone could visit it during the night?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Can you enter it from outside?"

  "There is one door from outside. There is another which leads
up by a stair to the passage in which Lady Beatrice's room is
situated."

  "These are deep waters, Mr. Mason; deep and rather dirty.
You say that Sir Robert was not at home last night?"

  "No, sir."

  "Then, whoever was burning bones, it was not he."

  "That's true. sir."

  "What is the name of that inn you spoke of?"

  "The Green Dragon."

  "Is there good fishing in that part of Berkshire?" The honest
trainer showed very clearly upon his face that he was convinced
that yet another lunatic had come into his harassed life.

  "Well, sir, I've heard there are trout in the mill-stream and pike
in the Hall lake."

  "That's good enough. Watson and I are famous fishermen --
are we not, Watson? You may address us in future at the Green
Dragon. We should reach it to-night. I need not say that we
don't want to see you, Mr. Mason, but a note will reach us, and
no doubt I could find you if I want you. When we have gone a
little farther into the matter I will let you have a considered
opinion."

  Thus it was that on a bright May evening Holmes and I found
ourselves alone in a first-class carriage and bound for the little
"halt-on-demand" station of Shoscombe. The rack above us was
covered with a formidable litter of rods, reels, and baskets. On
reaching our destination a short drive took us to an old-fashioned
tavern, where a sporting host, Josiah Barnes, entered eagerly
into our plans for the extirpation of the fish of the neighbourhood.

  "What about the Hall lake and the chance of a pike?" said
Holmes.

  The face of the innkeeper clouded.

  "That wouldn't do, sir. You might chance to find yourself in
the lake before you were through."

  "How's that, then?"

  "It's Sir Robert, sir. He's terrible jealous of touts. If you two
strangers were as near his training quarters as that he'd be after
you as sure as fate. He ain't taking no chances, Sir Robert
ain't."

  "I've heard he has a horse entered for the Derby."

  "Yes, and a good colt, too. He carries all our money for the
race, and all Sir Robert's into the bargain. By the way" -- he
looked at us with thoughtful eyes -- "I suppose you ain't on the
turf yourselves?"

  "No, indeed. Just two weary Londoners who badly need
some good Berkshire air."

  "Well, you are in the right place for that. There is a deal of it
lying about. But mind what I have told you about Sir Robert.
He's the sort that strikes first and speaks afterwards. Keep clear
of the park."

  "Surely, Mr. Barnes! We certainly shall. By the way, that was
a most beautiful spaniel that was whining in the hall."

  "I should say it was. That was the real Shoscombe breed.
There ain't a better in England."

  "I am a dog-fancier myself," said Holmes. "Now, if it is a
fair question, what would a prize dog like that cost?"

  "More than I could pay, sir. It was Sir Robert himself who
gave me this one. That's why I have to keep it on a lead. It
would be off to the Hall in a jiffy if I gave it its head."

  "We are getting some cards in our hand, Watson," said
Holmes when the landlord had left us. "It's not an easy one to
play, but we may see our way in a day or two. By the way, Sir
Robert is still in London, I hear. We might, perhaps, enter the
sacred domain to-night without fear of bodily assault. There are
one or two points on which I should like reassurance."

  "Have you any theory, Holmes?"

  "Only this, Watson, that something happened a week or so
ago which has cut deep into the life of the Shoscombe house-
hold. What is that something? We can only guess at it from its
effects. They seem to be of a curiously mixed character. But that
should surely help us. It is only the colourless, uneventful case
which is hopeless.

  "Let us consider our data. The brother no longer visits the
beloved invalid sister. He gives away her favourite dog. Her
dog, Watson! Does that suggest nothing to you?"

  "Nothing but the brother's spite."

  "Well, it might be so. Or -- well, there is an alternative. Now
to continue our review of the situation from the time that the
quarrel, if there is a quarrel, began. The lady keeps her room,
alters her habits, is not seen save when she drives out with her
maid, refuses to stop at the stables to greet her favourite horse
and apparently takes to drink. That covers the case, does it not?"

  "Save for the business in the crypt."

  "That is another line of thought. There are two, and I beg you
will not tangle them. Line A, which concerns Lady Beatrice, has
a vaguely sinister flavour, has it not?"

  "I can make nothing of it."

  "Well, now, let us take up line B, which concerns Sir Robert.
He is mad keen upon winning the Derby. He is in the hands of
the Jews, and may at any moment be sold up and his racing
stables seized by his creditors. He is a daring and desperate
man. He derives his income from his sister. His sister's maid is
his willing tool. So far we seem to be on fairly safe ground, do
we not?"

  "But the crypt?"

  "Ah, yes, the crypt! Let us suppose, Watson -- it is merely a
scandalous supposition, a hypothesis put forward for argument's
sake -- that Sir Robert has done away with his sister."

  "My dear Holmes, it is out of the question."

  "Very possibly, Watson. Sir Robert is a man of an honourable
stock. But you do occasionally find a carrion crow among the
eagles. Let us for a moment argue upon this supposition. He
could not fly the country until he had realized his fortune, and
that fortune could only be realized by bringing off this coup with
Shoscombe Prince. Therefore, he has still to stand his ground.
To do this he would have to dispose of the body of his victim,
and he would also have to find a substitute who would imperson-
ate her. With the maid as his confidante that would not be
impossible. The woman's body might be conveyed to the crypt,
which is a place so seldom visited, and it might be secretly
destroyed at night in the furnace, leaving behind it such evidence
as we have already seen. What say you to that, Watson?"

  "Wel], it is all possible if you grant the original monstrous
supposition."

  "I think that there is a small experiment which we may try
to-morrow, Watson, in order to throw some light on the matter.
Meanwhile, if we mean to keep up our characters, I suggest that
we have our host in for a glass of his own wine and hold some
high converse upon eels and dace, which seems to be the straight
road to his affections. We may chance to come upon some useful
local gossip in the process."

  In the morning Holmes discovered that we had come without
our spoon-bait for jack, which absolved us from fishing for the
day. About eleven o'clock we started for a walk, and he obtained
leave to take the black spaniel with us.

  "This is the place," said he as we came to two high park
gates with heraldic griffins towering above them. "About mid-
day, Mr Barnes informs me, the old lady takes a drive, and the
carriage must slow down while the gates are opened. When it
comes through, and before it gathers speed, I want you, Watson,
to stop the coachman with some question. Never mind me. I shall
stand behind this holly-bush and see what I can see."

  It was not a long vigil. Within a quarter of an hour we saw the
big open yellow barouche coming down the long avenue, with
two splendid, high-stepping gray carriage horses in the shafts.
Holmes crouched behind his bush with the dog. I stood uncon-
cemedly swinging a cane in the roadway. A keeper ran out and
the gates swung open.

  The carriage had slowed to a walk, and I was able to get a
good look at the occupants. A highly coloured young woman
with flaxen hair and impudent eyes sat on the left. At her right
was an elderly person with rounded back and a huddle of shawls
about her face and shoulders which proclaimed the invalid.
When the horses reached the highroad I held up my hand with an
authoritative gesture, and as the coachman pulled up I inquired if
Sir Robert was at Shoscombe Old Place.

  At the same moment Holmes stepped out and released the
spaniel. With a joyous cry it dashed forward to the carriage and
sprang upon the step. Then in a moment its eager greeting
changed to furious rage, and it snapped at the black skirt above
it.

  "Drive on! Drive on!" shrieked a harsh voice. The coachman
lashed the horses, and we were left standing in the roadway.

  "Well, Watson, that's done it," said Holmes as he fastened
the lead to the neck of the excited spaniel. "He thought it was
his mistress, and he found it was a stranger. Dogs don't make
mistakes."

  "But it was the voice of a man!" I cried.

  "Exactly! We have added one card to our hand, Watson, but
it needs careful playing, all the same."

  My companion seemed to have no further plans for the day,
and we did actually use our fishing tackle in the mill-stream
with the result that we had a dish of trout for our supper. It was
only after that meal that Holmes showed signs of renewed activ-
ity. Once more we found ourselves upon the same road as in the
morning, which led us to the park gates. A tall, dark figure was
awaiting us there, who proved to be our London acquaintance,
Mr. John Mason, the trainer.

  "Good-evening, gentlemen," said he. "I got your note, Mr.
Holmes. Sir Robert has not returned yet, but I hear that he is
expected to-night."

  "How far is this crypt from the house?" asked Holmes.

  "A good quarter of a mile."

  "Then I think we can disregard him altogether."

  "I can't afford to do that, Mr. Holmes. The moment he
arrives he will want to see me to get the last news of Shoscombe
Prince."

  "I see! In that case we must work without you, Mr. Mason.
You can show us the crypt and then leave us."

  It was pitch-dark and without a moon, but Mason led us over
the grass-lands until a dark mass loomed up in front of us which
proved to be the ancient chapel. We entered the broken gap
which was once the porch, and our guide, stumbling among heaps
of loose masonry, picked his way to the corner of the building,
where a steep stair led down into the crypt. Striking a match, he
illuminated the melancholy place -- dismal and evil-smelling, with
ancient crumbling walls of rough-hewn stone, and piles of cof-
fins, some of lead and some of stone, extending upon one side
right up to the arched and groined roof which lost itself in the
shadows above our heads. Holmes had lit his lantern, which shot
a tiny tunnel of vivid yellow light upon the mournful scene. Its
rays were reflected back from the coffin-plates, many of them
adorned with the griffin and coronet of this old family which
carried its honours even to the gate of Death.

  "You spoke of some bones, Mr. Mason. Could you show
them before you go?"

  "They are here in this corner." The trainer strode across and
then stood in silent surprise as our light was turned upon the
place. "They are gone," said he.

  "So I expected," said Holmes, chuckling. "I fancy the ashes
of them might even now be found in that oven which had already
consumed a part."

  "But why in the world would anyone want to burn the bones
of a man who has been dead a thousand years?" asked John
Mason.

  "That is what we are here to find out," said Holmes. "It may
mean a long search, and we need not detain you. I fancy that we
shall get our solution before morning."

  When John Mason had left us, Holmes set to work making a
very careful examination of the graves, ranging from a very
ancient one, which appeared to be Saxon, in the centre, through
a long line of Norman Hugos and Odos, until we reached the Sir
William and Sir Denis Falder of the eighteenth century. It was an
hour or more before Holmes came to a leaden coffin standing on
end before the entrance to the vault. I heard his little cry of
satisfaction and was aware from his hurried but purposeful move-
ments that he had reached a goal. With his lens he was eagerly
examining the edges of the heavy lid. Then he drew from his
pocket a short jemmy, a box-opener, which he thrust into a
chink, levering back the whole front, which seemed to be se-
cured by only a couple of clamps. There was a rending, tearing
sound as it gave way, but it had hardly hinged back and partly
revealed the contents before we had an unforeseen interruption.

  Someone was walking in the chapel above. It was the firm,
rapid step of one who came with a definite purpose and knew
well the ground upon which he walked. A light streamed down
the stairs, and an instant later the man who bore it was framed in
the Gothic archway. He was a terrible figure, huge in stature and
fierce in manner. A large stable-lantern which he held in front of
him shone upward upon a strong, heavily moustached face and
angry eyes, which glared round him into every recess of the
vault, finally fixing themselves with a deadly stare upon my
companion and myself.

  "Who the devil are you?" he thundered. "And what are you
doing upon my property?" Then, as Holmes returned no answer
he took a couple of steps forward and raised a heavy stick which
he carried. "Do you hear me?" he cried. "Who are you? What
are you doing here?" His cudgel quivered in the air.

  But instead of shrinking Holmes advanced to meet him.

  "I also have a question to ask you, Sir Robert," he said in his
sternest tone. "Who is this? And what is it doing here?"

  He turned and tore open the coffin-lid behind him. In the glare
of the lantern I saw a body swathed in a sheet from head to foot
with dreadful, witch-like features, all nose and chin, projecting
at one end, the dim, glazed eyes staring from a discoloured and
crumbling face.

  The baronet had staggered back with a cry and supported
himself against a stone sarcophagus.

  "How came you to know of this?" he cried. And then, with
some return of his truculent manner: "What business is it of
yours?"

  "My name is Sherlock Holmes," said my companion. "Pos-
sibly it is familiar to you. In any case, my business is that of
every other good citizen -- to uphold the law. It seems to me that
you have much to answer for."

  Sir Robert glared for a moment, but Holmes's quiet voice and
cool, assured manner had their effect.

  " 'Fore God, Mr. Holmes, it's all right," said he. "Appear-
ances are against me, I'll admit, but I could act no otherwise."

  "I should be happy to think so, but I fear your explanations
must be before the police."

  Sir Robert shrugged his broad shoulders.

  "Well, if it must be, it must. Come up to the house and you
can judge for yourself how the matter stands."

  A quarter of an hour later we found ourselves in what I judge,
from the lines of polished barrels behind glass covers, to be the
gun-room of the old house. It was comfortably furnished, and
here Sir Robert left us for a few moments. When he returned he
had two companions with him; the one, the florid young woman
whom we had seen in the carriage; the other, a small rat-faced
man with a disagreeably furtive manner. These two wore an
appearance of utter bewilderment, which showed that the baronet
had not yet had time to explain to them the turn events had
taken.

  "There," said Sir Robert with a wave of his hand, "are Mr.
and Mrs. Norlett. Mrs. Norlett, under her maiden name of
Evans, has for some years been my sister's confidential maid. I
have brought them here because I feel that my best course is to
explain the true position to you, and they are the two people
upon earth who can substantiate what I say."

  "Is this necessary, Sir Robert? Have you thought what you are
doing?" cried the woman.

  "As to me, I entirely disclaim all responsibility," said her
husband.

  Sir Robert gave him a glance of contempt. "I will take all
responsibility," said he. "Now, Mr. Holmes, listen to a plain
statement of the facts.

  "You have clearly gone pretty deeply into my affairs or I
should not have found you where I did. Therefore, you know
already, in all probability, that I am running a dark horse for the
Derby and that everything depends upon my success. If I win, all
is easy. If I lose -- well, I dare not think of that!"

  "I understand the position," said Holmes.

  "I am dependent upon my sister, Lady Beatrice, for every-
thing. But it is well known that her interest in the estate is for her
own life only. For myself, I am deeply in the hands of the Jews.
I have always known that if my sister were to die my creditors
would be on to my estate like a flock of vultures. Everything
would be seized -- my stables, my horses -- everything. Well, Mr.
Holmes, my sister did die just a week ago."

  "And you told no one!"

  "What could I do? Absolute ruin faced me. If I could stave
things off for three weeks all would be well. Her maid's husband -- 
this man here -- is an actor. It came into our heads -- it came into
my head -- that he could for that short period personate my sister.
It was but a case of appearing daily in the carriage, for no one
need enter her room save the maid. It was not difficult to
arrange. My sister died of the dropsy which had long afflicted
her."

  "That will be for a coroner to decide."

  "Her doctor would certify that for months her symptoms have
threatened such an end."

  "Well, what did you do?"

  "The body could not remain there. On the first night Norlett
and I carried it out to the old well-house, which is now never
used. We were followed, however, by her pet spaniel, which
yapped continually at the door, so I felt some safer place was
needed. I got rid of the spaniel, and we carried the body to the
crypt of the church. There was no indignity or irreverence, Mr.
Holmes. I do not feel that I have wronged the dead."

  "Your conduct seems to me inexcusable, Sir Robert."

  The baronet shook his head impatiently. "It is easy to preach,"
said he. "Perhaps you would have felt differently if you had
been in my position. One cannot see all one's hopes and all
one's plans shattered at the last moment and make no effort to
save them. It seemed to me that it would be no unworthy
resting-place if we put her for the time in one of the coffins of
her husband's ancestors lying in what is still consecrated ground.
We opened such a coffin, removed the contents, and placed her
as you have seen her. As to the old relics which we took out, we
could not leave them on the floor of the crypt. Norlett and I
removed them, and he descended at night and burned them in the
central furnace. There is my story, Mr. Holmes, though how you
forced my hand so that I have to tell it is more than I can say."

  Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.

  "There is one flaw in your narrative, Sir Robert," he said at
last. "Your bets on the race, and therefore your hopes for the
future, would hold good even if your creditors seized your
estate."

  "The horse would be part of the estate. What do they care for
my bets? As likely as not they would not run him at all. My
chief creditor is, unhappily, my most bitter enemy -- a rascally
fellow, Sam Brewer, whom I was once compelled to horsewhip
on Newmarket Heath. Do you suppose that he would try to save
me?"

  "Well, Sir Robert," said Holmes, rising, "this matter must,
of course, be referred to the police. It was my duty to bring the
facts to light, and there I must leave it. As to the morality or
decency of your conduct, it is not for me to express an opinion.
It is nearly midnight, Watson, and I think we may make our way
back to our humble abode."

  It is generally known now that this singular episode ended
upon a happier note than Sir Robert's actions deserved. Shoscombe
Prince did win the Derby, the sporting owner did net eighty
thousand pounds in bets, and the creditors did hold their hand
until the race was over, when they were paid in full, and enough
was left to reestablish Sir Robert in a fair position in life. Both
police and coroner took a lenient view of the transaction, and
beyond a mild censure for the delay in registering the lady's
decease, the lucky owner got away scatheless from this strange
incident in a career which has now outlived its shadows and
promises to end in an honoured old age.

[End of The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes]
.