# A Study in Scarlet (B1 edition)

*Arthur Conan Doyle*

## Mr. Sherlock Holmes

In the year 1878 I took my degree as a Doctor of Medicine at the University of London. Then I went to Netley to follow the course that army surgeons must take. When I finished my studies there, I was sent to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as an Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was in India at that time. Before I could join it, the second Afghan war had begun. I landed at Bombay and learned that my regiment had already moved through the mountain passes. It was now deep inside enemy country. I followed with many other officers who were in the same position as me. I reached Candahar safely, found my regiment there, and started my new duties at once.

The war brought honours and promotion to many men. For me it brought only bad luck and disaster. I was taken away from my brigade and sent to the Berkshires. I served with them at the terrible battle of Maiwand. There a Jezail bullet hit me in the shoulder. It broke the bone and just touched the subclavian artery. The Ghazis, who were cruel killers, would have caught me. But my orderly, Murray, was brave and loyal. He threw me across a pack-horse and brought me safely to the British lines.

I was tired from pain and weak from the long hardships I had suffered. With a great crowd of other wounded men, I was taken to the base hospital at Peshawar. There I got better. I could soon walk around the wards, and I could even sit in the sun on the verandah. Then I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months people thought I would die. At last I woke up and began to recover. I was so weak and thin that a medical board made a decision. I must go back to England without losing a single day. So I was sent home on the troopship "Orontes". A month later I landed at Portsmouth. My health was ruined for ever, but the kind government gave me permission to spend nine months trying to improve it.

I had no relatives and no close friends in England, so I was as free as the air. Or rather, I was as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day allows a man to be. In this situation I went to London, of course. London is that great cesspool where all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are drawn, as if by force. I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand. My life there was uncomfortable and had no purpose. I spent my money much more freely than I should have done. My money problems became so serious that I soon understood my choices. I could leave the city and live quietly somewhere in the country. Or I could change my way of living completely. I chose the second way. I decided to leave the hotel and find a simpler, cheaper place to live.

On the very day I made this decision, I was standing at the Criterion Bar. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned round and saw young Stamford, who had been my dresser at Barts. For a lonely man, a friendly face in the great wilderness of London is a very pleasant thing. In the old days Stamford had never been a close friend of mine. But now I greeted him with joy, and he seemed very happy to see me too. In my excitement I asked him to have lunch with me at the Holborn. We set off together in a hansom.

"Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?" he asked. He did not hide his surprise as we rattled through the crowded London streets. "You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut."

I gave him a short account of my adventures. I had hardly finished when we reached the restaurant.

"Poor devil!" he said sadly, after he had heard about my troubles. "What are you doing now?"

"I'm looking for lodgings," I answered. "I'm trying to find out if it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price."

"That's strange," said my friend. "You are the second man today who has used those words to me."

"And who was the first?" I asked.

"A man who works at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was complaining this morning. He had found some nice rooms, but they cost too much for his purse. He could not find anyone to share them with him."

"By Jove!" I cried. "If he really wants someone to share the rooms and the cost, I am the very man for him. I would rather have a partner than be alone."

Young Stamford looked at me in a rather strange way over his wine-glass. "You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said. "Perhaps you would not like him as a companion all the time."

"Why, what is there against him?"

"Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. His ideas are a little queer. He is enthusiastic about some branches of science. As far as I know, he is a decent fellow."

"A medical student, I suppose?" I said.

"No. I have no idea what he wants to do in life. I believe he knows a lot about anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist. But as far as I know, he has never taken any regular medical classes. His studies are very random and odd. Still, he has collected a lot of unusual knowledge that would astonish his professors."

"Did you never ask him what he wanted to do?" I asked.

"No. He is not easy to draw out, although he can be quite talkative when he is in the mood."

"I should like to meet him," I said. "If I must live with someone, I would prefer a quiet man who likes to study. I am not strong enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in Afghanistan to last me for the rest of my life. How can I meet this friend of yours?"

"He is sure to be at the laboratory," my friend replied. "Sometimes he stays away from the place for weeks. Then he works there from morning to night. If you like, we can drive over together after lunch."

"Certainly," I answered. Then we started talking about other things.

After we left the Holborn, we made our way to the hospital. On the way Stamford told me a few more things about the man I wanted to share rooms with.

"You mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him," he said. "I know nothing more about him than I have learned from meeting him now and then in the laboratory. You suggested this plan, so you must not hold me responsible."

"If we don't get on, it will be easy to part," I answered. "It seems to me, Stamford," I added, looking hard at him, "that you want no part in this. You must have a reason. Is his temper so terrible? What is it? Tell me plainly."

"It is not easy to explain," he answered with a laugh. "Holmes is a little too scientific for my taste. It is almost cold-blooded. I can imagine him giving a friend a small pinch of the newest plant poison. He would not do it out of cruelty, you understand. He would do it simply from curiosity, because he wants to know exactly what the effects are. To be fair to him, I think he would take it himself just as readily. He seems to have a passion for exact and certain knowledge."

"That is quite right."

"Yes, but it can go too far. He beats the dead bodies in the dissecting-rooms with a stick. That is certainly a strange thing to do."

"He beats the dead bodies!"

"Yes. He wants to see how far bruises can appear after death. I saw him do it with my own eyes."

"And yet you say he is not a medical student?"

"No. Heaven knows what he is studying for. But here we are, and you must form your own opinion of him." As he spoke, we turned down a narrow lane and went through a small side door. It led into one wing of the great hospital. I knew the place well, so I did not need a guide. We climbed the bleak stone staircase and walked down the long corridor. It had whitewashed walls on one side and dun-coloured doors on the other. Near the far end a low arched passage branched off and led to the chemical laboratory.

This was a high room, with bottles lining the walls and covering every surface. Broad, low tables stood around the room. They were crowded with retorts, test-tubes and little Bunsen lamps with blue, flickering flames. There was only one student in the room. He was bending over a table at the far end, deep in his work. When he heard our steps, he looked round and jumped to his feet with a cry of pleasure. "I've found it! I've found it!" he shouted to my friend. He ran towards us with a test-tube in his hand. "I have found a re-agent that is precipitated by hæmoglobin, and by nothing else." He could not have looked happier if he had found a gold mine.

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, introducing us.

"How are you?" said Holmes warmly. He gripped my hand with a strength that I had not expected from him. "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."

"How on earth did you know that?" I asked in astonishment.

"Never mind," he said, laughing quietly to himself. "The question now is about hæmoglobin. No doubt you see how important my discovery is?"

"It is interesting, no doubt, from the chemical side," I answered. "But in practice——"

"Why, man, it is the most practical discovery in medical law for years. Don't you see that it gives us a certain test for blood stains? Come over here!" In his eagerness he seized me by the coat-sleeve. He pulled me over to the table where he had been working. "Let us have some fresh blood," he said. He dug a long bodkin into his finger and drew off the drop of blood in a chemical pipette. "Now I add this small amount of blood to a litre of water. You see that the mixture looks like pure water. There cannot be more than one part of blood in a million. But I am sure that we shall get the special reaction." As he spoke, he threw a few white crystals into the vessel. Then he added some drops of a clear liquid. In an instant the water turned a dull mahogany colour. A brownish dust fell to the bottom of the glass jar.

"Ha! ha!" he cried. He clapped his hands and looked as happy as a child with a new toy. "What do you think of that?"

"It seems to be a very delicate test," I said.

"Beautiful! Beautiful! The old Guiacum test was very clumsy and uncertain. So is the microscope test for blood cells. That one is useless if the stains are a few hours old. But this new test works just as well whether the blood is old or new. If this test had been invented earlier, hundreds of men would have paid for their crimes long ago. Today they walk the earth free."

"Indeed!" I murmured.

"Criminal cases are always depending on that one point. A man is suspected of a crime, perhaps months after it happened. His linen or clothes are examined, and brownish stains are found on them. Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains? What are they? That question has puzzled many an expert. And why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes test, and there will be no more difficulty."

His eyes fairly shone as he spoke. He put his hand over his heart and bowed, as if to a cheering crowd that he had imagined.

"You are to be congratulated," I said. I was quite surprised at his enthusiasm.

"There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He would certainly have been hanged if this test had existed. Then there was Mason of Bradford, and the famous Muller, and Lefevre of Montpellier, and Samson of New Orleans. I could name twenty cases where it would have decided the matter."

"You seem to be a walking calendar of crime," said Stamford with a laugh. "You could start a newspaper about it. You could call it the 'Police News of the Past.'"

"It could make very interesting reading, too," said Sherlock Holmes. He stuck a small piece of plaster over the prick on his finger. "I have to be careful," he went on, turning to me with a smile, "because I play with poisons a good deal." He held out his hand as he spoke. I saw that it was covered with similar pieces of plaster and stained by strong acids.

"We came here on business," said Stamford. He sat down on a high three-legged stool and pushed another one towards me with his foot. "My friend here wants to find rooms. You were complaining that you could find no one to share with you. So I thought I had better bring you together."

Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with me. "I have my eye on a set of rooms in Baker Street," he said. "They would suit us perfectly. You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?"

"I always smoke 'ship's' myself," I answered.

"That's good enough. I usually have chemicals about, and sometimes I do experiments. Would that annoy you?"

"Not at all."

"Let me see. What are my other faults? I get low in spirit at times, and I don't open my mouth for days. You must not think I am in a bad mood when I do that. Just leave me alone, and I'll soon be right again. What have you to confess? It is good for two men to know the worst about each other before they begin to live together."

I laughed at these questions. "I keep a bull pup," I said. "I dislike rows, because my nerves are shaken. I get up at all sorts of terrible hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have other bad habits when I am well, but those are the main ones at present."

"Do you count violin-playing as one of your rows?" he asked anxiously.

"It depends on the player," I answered. "A well-played violin is a treat for the gods. A badly-played one——"

"Oh, that's all right," he cried with a merry laugh. "I think we can consider the matter settled, that is, if you like the rooms."

"When shall we see them?"

"Come and find me here at noon tomorrow. We'll go together and settle everything," he answered.

"All right. Noon exactly," I said, shaking his hand.

We left him working among his chemicals and walked together towards my hotel.

"By the way," I asked suddenly. I stopped and turned to Stamford. "How the deuce did he know that I had come from Afghanistan?"

My friend gave me a mysterious smile. "That's just his little peculiarity," he said. "A good many people have wanted to know how he finds things out."

"Oh! It's a mystery, is it?" I cried, rubbing my hands. "This is very exciting. I am very grateful to you for bringing us together. 'The proper study of mankind is man,' you know."

"Then you must study him," Stamford said, as he said goodbye. "You'll find him a difficult problem, though. I'll bet he learns more about you than you learn about him. Goodbye."

"Goodbye," I answered. I walked on to my hotel, very interested in my new friend.

### Glossary

- **Jezail**: a long gun used by fighters in Afghanistan
- **Ghazis**: Afghan fighters who fought against the British army
- **orderly**: a soldier who helps an officer and does small jobs for him
- **enteric fever**: typhoid, a serious illness that gives a high fever
- **dresser**: a student who helps a surgeon in a hospital
- **hansom**: a light two-wheeled horse cab
- **re-agent**: a chemical used in a test to show that something is present
- **hæmoglobin**: the red substance in blood
- **bodkin**: a long, thin, sharp tool like a big needle

## The Science of Deduction

We met the next day, as he had arranged. We looked at the rooms at No. 221b, Baker Street, which he had talked about when we first met. There were two comfortable bedrooms and one large, airy sitting-room. It was cheerfully furnished and had two broad windows. The rooms were so pleasant, and the price seemed so low when we shared it, that we agreed on the spot. We took the rooms at once. That same evening I moved my things from the hotel. The next morning Sherlock Holmes came with several boxes and bags. For a day or two we were busy unpacking and arranging our things in the best way. After that we slowly settled down and got used to our new surroundings.

Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet, and his habits were regular. He was rarely up after ten at night. In the morning he had always eaten his breakfast and gone out before I got up. Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical laboratory, and sometimes in the dissecting-rooms. Sometimes he went on long walks, which seemed to take him into the poorest parts of the City. Nobody could have more energy than he had when he was in one of his working fits. But now and then a reaction came over him. Then for days he lay on the sofa in the sitting-room. From morning to night he hardly said a word or moved a muscle. At such times his eyes had such a dreamy, empty look that I might have suspected him of using drugs. But his whole life was so clean and temperate that I could not believe it.

As the weeks went by, I became more and more interested in him. I grew more and more curious about his aims in life. Even a casual observer would notice his person and appearance. He was a little over six feet tall, and so extremely thin that he seemed much taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing, except in those dull periods that I have mentioned. His thin nose, like a hawk's, gave his whole face a look of alertness and decision. His chin was also square and strong, like the chin of a man who knows what he wants. His hands were always marked with ink and stained with chemicals. Yet his touch was extremely delicate. I often saw this when I watched him handle his fragile scientific instruments.

The reader may think that I am a hopeless busybody. I admit that this man made me very curious. Often I tried to break through the silence he kept about everything that concerned himself. But before you judge me, remember how empty my life was. I had very little to interest me. My health did not allow me to go out unless the weather was exceptionally pleasant. I had no friends who came to see me and broke the boredom of my days. So I welcomed the little mystery around my companion, and I spent much of my time trying to solve it.

He was not studying medicine. When I asked him, he himself confirmed what Stamford had said. He did not seem to have followed any course of reading that could lead to a degree in science. Nor had he taken any other recognised path into the learned world. Yet he was remarkably keen on certain studies. Within his own odd limits, his knowledge was so wide and so exact that his remarks truly astonished me. Surely no man would work so hard and gain such exact information without a clear goal. People who read without a plan are seldom known for the exactness of their learning. No man fills his mind with small matters unless he has a very good reason.

His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of modern literature, philosophy and politics he seemed to know almost nothing. I once quoted Thomas Carlyle. He asked me, in the most innocent way, who he was and what he had done. But my surprise was greatest when I found, by chance, that he did not know the Copernican Theory. He knew nothing about the Solar System. In this nineteenth century, a civilised person who does not know that the earth travels round the sun! It seemed so extraordinary to me that I could hardly believe it.

"You seem to be astonished," he said, smiling at the surprise on my face. "Now that I do know it, I shall do my best to forget it."

"To forget it!"

"You see," he explained, "I think that a man's brain is like a little empty attic at the beginning. You have to fill it with the furniture that you choose. A fool takes in all the rubbish he finds. Then the knowledge that might be useful to him gets pushed out. Or at best it is mixed up with so many other things that he cannot easily find it. Now a skilful workman is very careful about what he takes into his brain-attic. He will take only the tools that help him in his work. But of these he has a large collection, and they are all in perfect order. It is a mistake to think that the little room has walls that stretch. They cannot grow bigger without limit. Believe me, there comes a time when you forget something old for every new thing you learn. So it is very important not to let useless facts push out the useful ones."

"But the Solar System!" I protested.

"What the deuce is it to me?" he said impatiently, interrupting me. "You say that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon, it would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or to my work."

I was about to ask him what that work might be. But something in his manner showed me that he would not like the question. I thought about our short conversation and tried to draw conclusions from it. He had said that he would not learn anything that did not help his purpose. So everything he knew must be useful to him. In my own mind I counted up all the subjects where he had shown great knowledge. I even took a pencil and wrote them down. I could not help smiling at the paper when I had finished. It read like this.

Sherlock Holmes—his limits.

1. Knowledge of Literature.—Nil.
2. Philosophy.—Nil.
3. Astronomy.—Nil.
4. Politics.—Feeble.
5. Botany.—Variable. Knows a lot about belladonna, opium and poisons in general. Knows nothing about practical gardening.
6. Geology.—Practical, but limited. Can tell different soils from each other at a glance. After walks he has shown me splashes on his trousers. From their colour and thickness he could tell me in which part of London he had got them.
7. Chemistry.—Profound.
8. Anatomy.—Accurate, but without a system.
9. Sensational Literature.—Immense. He seems to know every detail of every horror committed in the century.
10. Plays the violin well.
11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer and swordsman.
12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.

When I had got so far in my list, I threw it into the fire in despair. "I would have to find out what the man is aiming at," I said to myself. "I would have to put all these skills together and find a profession that needs them all. If I can't, I may as well give up at once."

I have mentioned his skill with the violin. It was very remarkable, but as odd as all his other skills. I knew well that he could play pieces, and difficult ones. At my request he has played me some of Mendelssohn's Lieder and other favourite pieces. But when he was left alone, he seldom played real music or any tune that I knew. In the evening he leaned back in his arm-chair and closed his eyes. Then he scraped carelessly at the violin, which lay across his knee. Sometimes the chords were deep and sad. Sometimes they were strange and cheerful. Clearly they showed the thoughts that filled his mind. But I could not tell if the music helped those thoughts. Perhaps he played simply because he felt like it. I might have rebelled against these annoying solos. But he usually ended them by playing a whole series of my favourite tunes, one after another. This was a small reward for my patience.

During the first week or so we had no visitors. I began to think that my companion had no friends, just like me. But soon I found that he knew many people, from the most different classes of society. There was one little man with a sallow face, a rat-like look and dark eyes. He was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and he came three or four times in a single week. One morning a young girl came, fashionably dressed, and she stayed for half an hour or more. The same afternoon a grey-headed, shabby visitor came, who looked like a Jewish pedlar. He seemed very excited. A shabby old woman in loose slippers followed him closely. Another time an old gentleman with white hair spoke with my companion. Another time it was a railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of these odd people appeared, Sherlock Holmes asked to use the sitting-room. Then I went to my bedroom. He always said sorry for the trouble. "I have to use this room as a place of business," he said, "and these people are my clients." Again I had a chance to ask him a direct question. And again I was too polite to force another man to tell me his secrets. At the time I imagined that he had a strong reason for not speaking about it. But he soon proved me wrong, because he started to talk about it of his own accord.

It was on the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that I got up a little earlier than usual. Sherlock Holmes had not yet finished his breakfast. The landlady was so used to my late habits that my place was not set, and my coffee was not ready. Like an unreasonable, bad-tempered man, I rang the bell and told her sharply that I was ready. Then I picked up a magazine from the table and tried to pass the time with it. My companion ate his toast in silence. One of the articles had a pencil mark at the top, and I began, naturally, to read it.

Its rather proud title was "The Book of Life". It tried to show how much an observant man could learn by examining everything around him carefully and systematically. To me it was a strange mixture of cleverness and nonsense. The reasoning was close and strong, but the conclusions seemed too far-fetched and exaggerated. The writer claimed that he could look at a man's face for a moment and know his deepest thoughts. A twitch of a muscle or a glance of the eye was enough. According to him, a man trained in observation and analysis could not be deceived. His conclusions were as certain as the propositions of Euclid. His results would seem so amazing to the ignorant that they might think he was a magician. They would think so until they learned the steps by which he had reached them.

"From a drop of water," said the writer, "a logician could work out that an Atlantic Ocean might exist. He could work out a Niagara Falls too. He would not need to have seen or heard of either. So all life is a great chain. When we are shown a single link, we can know the nature of the whole chain. Like all other arts, the Science of Deduction and Analysis can only be learned by long and patient study. And life is not long enough for any human to reach perfection in it. The moral and mental sides of the matter are the most difficult. Before turning to those, let the student begin with easier problems. Let him meet another person and learn to see at a glance the man's history. Let him learn to see the trade or profession he belongs to. Such an exercise may seem childish. But it sharpens the powers of observation, and it teaches us where to look and what to look for. A man's calling is clearly shown by his finger nails, his coat-sleeve and his boot. It is shown by his trouser knees and by the hard skin on his forefinger and thumb. It is shown by his expression and by his shirt cuffs. It is almost impossible that all of these together should fail to inform a skilled student."

"What stupid nonsense!" I cried, slapping the magazine down on the table. "I never read such rubbish in my life."

"What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"Why, this article," I said. I pointed at it with my egg spoon as I sat down to my breakfast. "I see that you have read it, since you have marked it. I don't deny that it is cleverly written. But it annoys me. It is clearly the theory of some lazy man in an arm-chair. He thinks up all these neat little puzzles in the quiet of his own study. It is not practical. I should like to see him squeezed into a third-class carriage on the Underground. Then I would ask him to tell the trades of all the other passengers. I would bet a thousand to one against him."

"You would lose your money," Sherlock Holmes said calmly. "As for the article, I wrote it myself."

"You!"

"Yes, I have a gift for both observation and deduction. The theories that I have written there seem impossible to you. But they are really very practical. They are so practical that I depend on them for my bread and cheese."

"And how?" I asked, without meaning to.

"Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the world. I'm a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is. Here in London we have many government detectives and many private ones. When these men are stuck, they come to me, and I put them on the right track. They lay all the evidence before me. With my knowledge of the history of crime, I can usually set them straight. Crimes of the same kind are a lot like each other, like members of a family. Suppose you know all the details of a thousand crimes. Then it is strange if you can't solve the thousand and first. Lestrade is a well-known detective. He was lost in a fog recently over a forgery case. That was what brought him here."

"And these other people?"

"They are mostly sent to me by private inquiry agencies. They are all people who are in trouble about something and want a little help to understand it. I listen to their story, and they listen to my comments. Then I put my fee in my pocket."

"But do you mean," I said, "that you can solve a puzzle without leaving your room? Other men can make nothing of it, although they have seen every detail themselves."

"Quite so. I have a kind of instinct for it. Now and then a case turns up that is a little more complex. Then I have to hurry about and see things with my own eyes. You see, I have a lot of special knowledge. I apply it to the problem, and it makes things wonderfully easy. The rules of deduction in that article, which you laughed at, are very valuable to me in practical work. Observation is second nature to me. You seemed surprised when I told you, at our first meeting, that you had come from Afghanistan."

"Someone told you, no doubt."

"Nothing of the sort. I *knew* that you came from Afghanistan. I have done this for so long that the thoughts ran very fast through my mind. I reached the conclusion without noticing the steps in between. But there were such steps. The chain of reasoning went like this. 'Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, because his face is dark. That is not the natural colour of his skin, because his wrists are fair. He has suffered hardship and sickness, as his thin face clearly says. His left arm has been hurt. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural way. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have suffered much hardship and been wounded in the arm? Clearly in Afghanistan.' The whole train of thought did not take a second. Then I said that you came from Afghanistan, and you were astonished."

"It is simple enough when you explain it," I said, smiling. "You remind me of Edgar Allen Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such people really existed outside of stories."

Sherlock Holmes got up and lit his pipe. "No doubt you think that you are praising me when you compare me to Dupin," he said. "Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very poor fellow. He had a trick. After a quarter of an hour's silence, he would break in on his friends' thoughts with a fitting remark. That is really very showy and shallow. He had some talent for analysis, no doubt. But he was not at all the wonder that Poe seemed to imagine."

"Have you read Gaboriau's works?" I asked. "Does Lecoq come up to your idea of a detective?"

Sherlock Holmes sniffed scornfully. "Lecoq was a miserable bungler," he said, in an angry voice. "He had only one good point, and that was his energy. That book made me really ill. The problem was how to find out who an unknown prisoner was. I could have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took about six months. The book could be a text-book for detectives, to teach them what to avoid."

I felt rather angry that two characters I had admired were treated so carelessly. I walked over to the window and stood looking out into the busy street. "This fellow may be very clever," I said to myself, "but he is certainly very conceited."

"There are no crimes and no criminals in these days," he said, in a complaining voice. "What is the use of having brains in our profession? I know very well that I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives, or has ever lived, with more study and natural talent for the detection of crime than I have. And what is the result? There is no crime to detect. At most there is some clumsy villainy. Its motive is so clear that even a Scotland Yard official can see through it."

I was still annoyed at his boastful way of talking. I thought it best to change the subject.

"I wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked. I pointed to a strong, plainly dressed man who was walking slowly down the other side of the street. He was looking anxiously at the numbers on the houses. He had a large blue envelope in his hand, and he was clearly carrying a message.

"You mean the retired sergeant of Marines," said Sherlock Holmes.

"Brag and bounce!" I thought to myself. "He knows that I cannot check his guess."

The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man we were watching saw the number on our door. He ran quickly across the road. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps coming up the stairs.

"For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said. He stepped into the room and handed my friend the letter.

Here was a chance to take the conceit out of him. He had not thought of this when he made that random guess. "May I ask, my lad," I said in the politest voice, "what your trade is?"

"Commissionaire, sir," he said roughly. "Uniform away for repairs."

"And what were you before?" I asked, with a slightly spiteful look at my companion.

"A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No answer? Right, sir."

He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was gone.

### Glossary

- **dissecting-rooms**: rooms in a hospital where doctors cut up dead bodies to study them
- **drugs**: strong substances that change how a person feels or thinks, such as opium
- **brain-attic**: Holmes's name for the brain, like a small room at the top of a house
- **singlestick**: a fighting sport played with a wooden stick
- **belladonna**: a poisonous plant
- **deduction**: working out facts by careful thinking from small clues
- **consulting detective**: a detective whom other detectives ask for help
- **commissionaire**: a uniformed man who carries messages, often a former soldier
- **Marines**: soldiers who serve with the navy

## The Lauriston Gardens Mystery

I admit that I was very surprised by this new proof that my companion's theories were practical. My respect for his powers of analysis grew wonderfully. But a small suspicion still remained in my mind. Perhaps the whole thing had been planned beforehand to dazzle me. Still, I could not understand what reason he could have for fooling me. I looked at him. He had finished reading the note. His eyes had that empty, dull look that showed he was deep in thought.

"How in the world did you work that out?" I asked.

"Work what out?" he said, impatiently.

"Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines."

"I have no time for trifles," he answered sharply. Then he smiled and said, "Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my thoughts. But perhaps that is just as well. So you really could not see that the man was a sergeant of Marines?"

"No, indeed."

"It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. Suppose someone asked you to prove that two and two make four. You might find it difficult, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across the street I could see a large blue anchor tattooed on the back of the man's hand. That smelled of the sea. But he had the walk of a soldier and the regulation side whiskers. So there we have the Marine. He was a man with some self-importance and a certain air of command. You must have noticed how he held his head and swung his cane. He was also a steady, respectable man of middle age, to judge by his face. All these facts made me believe that he had been a sergeant."

"Wonderful!" I cried.

"Commonplace," said Holmes. But I thought from his face that he was pleased by my obvious surprise and admiration. "I said just now that there were no criminals. It seems that I was wrong. Look at this!" He threw me the note that the commissionaire had brought.

"Why," I cried, as I ran my eye over it, "this is terrible!"

"It does seem to be a little out of the ordinary," he said calmly. "Would you mind reading it aloud to me?"

This is the letter that I read to him.

> "My Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
>
> "There has been a bad business during the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there about two in the morning. The house was empty, so he thought that something was wrong. He found the door open. In the front room, which has no furniture, he discovered the body of a gentleman. The man was well dressed, and he had cards in his pocket with the name 'Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.' Nothing has been stolen. There is also no sign of how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no wound on his body. We do not understand how he came into the empty house. In fact, the whole affair is a puzzle. If you can come to the house any time before twelve, you will find me there. I have left everything *in statu quo* until I hear from you. If you cannot come, I shall give you fuller details. I would think it a great kindness if you would give me your opinion.
>
> "Yours faithfully,
> "Tobias Gregson."

"Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders," my friend said. "He and Lestrade are the best of a bad lot. They are both quick and energetic, but they think in the usual way, and that is a terrible fault. They also hate each other. They are as jealous as a pair of professional beauties. There will be some fun over this case if they are both put on the trail."

I was amazed at the calm way in which he went on talking. "Surely there is not a moment to lose," I cried. "Shall I go and order a cab for you?"

"I'm not sure whether I shall go. I am the laziest devil that ever lived. That is true when the mood is on me, of course, because at times I can be quick enough."

"Why, it is just the chance that you have been wanting."

"My dear fellow, what does it matter to me? Suppose I solve the whole matter. You can be sure that Gregson, Lestrade and the others will take all the credit. That is what happens to a man who has no official position."

"But he begs you to help him."

"Yes. He knows that I am better than he is, and he admits it to me. But he would cut out his own tongue before he would say it to anyone else. However, we may as well go and have a look. I shall work it out in my own way. If I get nothing else, I may at least have a laugh at them. Come on!"

He pulled on his overcoat and moved about busily. It showed that a lively mood had taken the place of the lazy one.

"Get your hat," he said.

"You want me to come?"

"Yes, if you have nothing better to do." A minute later we were both in a hansom, driving fast towards the Brixton Road.

It was a foggy, cloudy morning. A dull brown veil hung over the roofs of the houses. It looked like a reflection of the muddy streets below. My companion was in the best of spirits. He chattered on about Cremona fiddles and the difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati. I was silent. The dull weather and the sad business that we were going to depressed me.

"You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand," I said at last, interrupting Holmes's talk about music.

"No data yet," he answered. "It is a terrible mistake to make theories before you have all the evidence. It makes your judgment unfair."

"You will have your data soon," I said, pointing with my finger. "This is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very much mistaken."

"So it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still about a hundred yards from it, but he insisted that we get out. We finished our journey on foot.

Number 3, Lauriston Gardens had an unlucky and threatening look. It was one of four houses that stood a little way back from the street. Two were lived in, and two were empty. The empty ones looked out with three rows of sad, empty windows, which were blank and dreary. Here and there a "To Let" card had grown like a cataract on the dirty panes. A small garden separated each of these houses from the street. A few sickly plants were scattered over it like a rash. A narrow path crossed it, yellowish in colour, and apparently made of a mixture of clay and gravel. The whole place was very wet and muddy from the rain that had fallen during the night. The garden had a brick wall three feet high, with a fringe of wooden rails on the top. Against this wall leaned a strong police constable. Around him stood a small group of loafers. They stretched their necks and strained their eyes, hoping in vain to see something of what was happening inside.

I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would hurry into the house at once and start studying the mystery. Nothing seemed further from his mind. He walked up and down the pavement in a careless way. Under the circumstances, it seemed to me almost like pretending. He stared blankly at the ground, the sky, the houses opposite and the line of railings. When he had finished looking, he went slowly down the path. Or rather he went along the strip of grass beside the path, and he kept his eyes fixed on the ground. Twice he stopped. Once I saw him smile, and I heard him cry out in satisfaction. There were many footprints in the wet, clayey soil. But the police had been walking over it. I could not see how my companion could learn anything from it. Still, I had already seen proof of how quickly he noticed things. I had no doubt that he could see a great deal that was hidden from me.

At the door of the house a tall, white-faced man with flaxen hair met us. He had a notebook in his hand. He rushed forward and shook my companion's hand warmly. "It is really kind of you to come," he said. "I have had everything left untouched."

"Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the path. "A herd of buffaloes could not have made a worse mess. No doubt, Gregson, you had already drawn your own conclusions before you allowed this."

"I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective said, avoiding the point. "My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied on him to look after this."

Holmes looked at me and raised his eyebrows in a mocking way. "With two such men as you and Lestrade here, there will not be much for a stranger to find," he said.

Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have done all that can be done," he answered. "It's a strange case, though, and I knew that you like such things."

"You did not come here in a cab?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"No, sir."

"Nor Lestrade?"

"No, sir."

"Then let us go and look at the room." With this odd remark he walked on into the house. Gregson followed him, and his face showed his surprise.

A short passage with bare boards and dust led to the kitchen and the other rooms. Two doors opened off it, one on the left and one on the right. One of them had clearly been closed for many weeks. The other led to the dining-room, where the mysterious event had happened. Holmes walked in, and I followed him. My heart felt heavy, as it always does in the presence of death.

It was a large square room. It looked even larger because there was no furniture at all. A cheap, showy wallpaper covered the walls. But it was spotted in places with mildew, and in other places great strips had come loose and hung down. They showed the yellow plaster underneath. Opposite the door was a showy fireplace with a mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one corner of the mantelpiece stood the stump of a red wax candle. The only window was so dirty that the light was hazy and uncertain. It gave everything a dull grey colour, and the thick layer of dust on the whole room made this worse.

I noticed all these details later. At that moment my attention was fixed on the grim, motionless figure that lay stretched on the boards. Its empty, sightless eyes stared up at the stained ceiling. It was a man of about forty-three or forty-four years old. He was of middle height, with broad shoulders, crisp curling black hair and a short, stubbly beard. He wore a heavy frock coat and waistcoat, light-coloured trousers and a perfectly clean collar and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed and neat, stood on the floor beside him. His hands were clenched and his arms were thrown wide. His legs were twisted together, as if his death struggle had been a terrible one. On his stiff face was a look of horror and, it seemed to me, of hatred. I have never seen such a look on a human face. His face was twisted in an evil and terrible way. He also had a low forehead, a flat nose and a heavy jaw. Together these gave the dead man a strange, ape-like look. His twisted, unnatural position made this even stronger. I have seen death in many forms, but never has it looked more fearsome than in that dark, dirty room. The room looked out onto one of the main roads of the London suburbs.

Lestrade was standing by the doorway, as thin and ferret-like as ever. He greeted my companion and me.

"This case will make a stir, sir," he said. "It beats anything I have seen, and I am no chicken."

"There is no clue?" said Gregson.

"None at all," Lestrade added.

Sherlock Holmes went up to the body and knelt down. He examined it carefully. "You are sure that there is no wound?" he asked. He pointed to the many drops and splashes of blood all round.

"Positive!" cried both detectives.

"Then of course this blood belongs to a second person. That person is probably the murderer, if a murder has been committed. It reminds me of the death of Van Jansen in Utrecht, in the year '34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?"

"No, sir."

"Read about it. You really should. There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before."

As he spoke, his quick fingers were flying here, there and everywhere. They felt, pressed, unbuttoned and examined, while his eyes had the same faraway look that I have mentioned before. He made his examination so fast that you would hardly guess how careful it was. At last he sniffed the dead man's lips. Then he glanced at the soles of his patent-leather boots.

"He has not been moved at all?" he asked.

"No more than was necessary for our examination."

"You can take him to the mortuary now," he said. "There is nothing more to be learned."

Gregson had a stretcher and four men ready. At his call they came into the room, and they lifted the stranger and carried him out. As they raised him, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor. Lestrade grabbed it and stared at it, puzzled.

"There's been a woman here," he cried. "It's a woman's wedding-ring."

He held it out on the palm of his hand. We all gathered round him and looked at it. There was no doubt that this circle of plain gold had once been worn on the finger of a bride.

"This complicates matters," said Gregson. "Heaven knows they were complicated enough before."

"Are you sure it doesn't simplify them?" said Holmes. "There is nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his pockets?"

"We have it all here," said Gregson. He pointed to a pile of objects on one of the bottom steps of the stairs. "A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud, of London. A gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. A gold ring with a masonic device. A gold pin, in the shape of a bull-dog's head, with rubies as eyes. A Russian leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland. This agrees with the E. J. D. on the linen. No purse, but loose money, seven pounds thirteen. A pocket edition of Boccaccio's *Decameron*, with the name of Joseph Stangerson on the fly-leaf. Two letters, one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson."

"At what address?"

"American Exchange, Strand, to be left till called for. They are both from the Guion Steamship Company, and they are about the sailings of their ships from Liverpool. It is clear that this unlucky man was about to return to New York."

"Have you made any inquiries about this man Stangerson?"

"I did it at once, sir," said Gregson. "I have had advertisements sent to all the newspapers. One of my men has gone to the American Exchange, but he has not come back yet."

"Have you sent to Cleveland?"

"We telegraphed this morning."

"How did you word your questions?"

"We simply described what had happened. We said that we should be glad of any information that could help us."

"You did not ask for details on any point that seemed to you to be important?"

"I asked about Stangerson."

"Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case seems to depend? Will you not telegraph again?"

"I have said all I have to say," said Gregson, in an offended voice.

Sherlock Holmes laughed quietly to himself. He seemed about to make some remark when Lestrade came back. He had been in the front room while we talked in the hall. He was rubbing his hands in a pompous, self-satisfied way.

"Mr. Gregson," he said, "I have just made a discovery of the highest importance. It would have been missed if I had not examined the walls carefully."

The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke. He was clearly full of hidden joy at having scored a point against his colleague.

"Come here," he said. He hurried back into the room, where the air felt clearer now that its ghastly guest had been removed. "Now, stand there!"

He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.

"Look at that!" he said proudly.

I have mentioned that the wallpaper had fallen away in places. In this corner of the room a large piece had peeled off. It had left a yellow square of rough plaster. Across this bare space someone had scrawled one word in blood-red letters.

RACHE.

"What do you think of that?" cried the detective. He spoke like a showman showing off his show. "This was missed because it was in the darkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking there. The murderer has written it with his own blood, or her own. See this smear where it has run down the wall! That ends the idea of suicide anyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time. If it was lit, this corner would be the brightest part of the wall instead of the darkest."

"And what does it mean, now that you *have* found it?" asked Gregson, in a scornful voice.

"Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to write the woman's name Rachel. But he or she was disturbed before there was time to finish. You mark my words. When this case is cleared up, you will find that a woman named Rachel has something to do with it. It's all very well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be smart and clever, but the old hound is the best, when all is said and done."

"I really beg your pardon!" said my companion. He had made the little man angry by bursting out laughing. "You certainly deserve the credit for being the first of us to find this. And, as you say, it has every sign of being written by the other person in last night's mystery. I have not had time to examine this room yet. But with your permission I shall do so now."

As he spoke, he pulled a tape measure and a large round magnifying glass from his pocket. With these two tools he moved quietly about the room. Sometimes he stopped, sometimes he knelt, and once he lay flat on his face. He was so busy with his work that he seemed to have forgotten we were there. He talked to himself under his breath the whole time. He kept making cries, groans, whistles and little sounds. They seemed to give him hope and courage. As I watched him, I could not help thinking of a well-trained foxhound. It runs backwards and forwards through the bushes, whining in its eagerness, until it finds the lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he went on with his search. He measured, with the most exact care, the distance between marks that I could not see at all. Sometimes he put his tape against the walls in a way that I also could not understand. In one place he gathered a little pile of grey dust from the floor. He did it very carefully and put the dust away in an envelope. Finally he examined the word on the wall with his glass. He went over every letter of it with the greatest care. After this he seemed satisfied, and he put his tape and his glass back in his pocket.

"They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains," he said with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does apply to detective work."

Gregson and Lestrade had watched the movements of their amateur companion with great curiosity and some contempt. They clearly did not understand what I had begun to see. Every small action of Sherlock Holmes was aimed at some definite, practical goal.

"What do you think of it, sir?" they both asked.

"It would be robbing you of the credit for the case if I dared to help you," said my friend. "You are doing so well now that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere." There was a world of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. "If you let me know how your investigations go," he went on, "I shall be happy to give you any help I can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the constable who found the body. Can you give me his name and address?"

Lestrade looked in his note-book. "John Rance," he said. "He is off duty now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate."

Holmes wrote down the address.

"Come along, Doctor," he said. "We shall go and find him. I'll tell you one thing that may help you in the case," he went on, turning to the two detectives. "A murder has been done, and the murderer was a man. He was more than six feet tall and in the prime of life. He had small feet for his height. He wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim in a four-wheeled cab. The horse that pulled it had three old shoes and one new one, on his off fore leg. Most probably the murderer had a red face, and the finger-nails of his right hand were very long. These are only a few signs, but they may help you."

Lestrade and Gregson looked at each other with a smile of disbelief.

"If this man was murdered, how was it done?" asked Lestrade.

"Poison," said Sherlock Holmes shortly, and he walked off. "One other thing, Lestrade," he added, turning round at the door. "'Rache' is the German for 'revenge'. So don't waste your time looking for Miss Rachel."

With this clever parting remark he walked away. He left the two rivals standing with their mouths open behind him.

### Glossary

- **tattooed**: marked on the skin with a picture that does not wash off
- **Scotland Yarders**: detectives who work at Scotland Yard, the London police headquarters
- **Cremona fiddles**: famous old violins made in the Italian town of Cremona
- **frock coat**: a long, formal coat that men wore in the nineteenth century
- **mortuary**: a place where dead bodies are kept
- **masonic device**: a small sign of the Freemasons, a secret society of men
- **in statu quo**: Latin for "in the same state", meaning everything is left untouched
- **magnifying glass**: a glass that makes small things look bigger
- **Trichinopoly**: a kind of strong cigar from southern India

## What John Rance Had to Tell

It was one o'clock when we left 3, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock Holmes took me to the nearest telegraph office. There he sent a long telegram. Then he stopped a cab and told the driver to take us to the address that Lestrade had given us.

"There is nothing like first-hand evidence," he said. "In fact, my mind is already completely made up about the case. But we may as well learn everything that can be learned."

"You amaze me, Holmes," I said. "Surely you are not as sure as you pretend to be about all those details you gave."

"There is no room for a mistake," he answered. "The very first thing I noticed was two deep wheel marks, made by a cab close to the curb. Until last night we had no rain for a week. So wheels that left such deep marks must have been there during the night. There were also the marks of the horse's hoofs. One of them was much clearer than the other three. That showed it was a new shoe. The cab was there after the rain began, and it was not there at any time during the morning. I have Gregson's word for that. So it must have been there during the night. Therefore it brought those two men to the house."

"That seems simple enough," I said. "But how about the other man's height?"

"Well, in nine cases out of ten you can tell a man's height from the length of his stride. It is a simple calculation, but there is no use in boring you with figures. I found this man's steps both on the clay outside and in the dust inside. Then I had a way of checking my calculation. When a man writes on a wall, he naturally writes at about the level of his own eyes. Now, that writing was just over six feet from the ground. It was child's play."

"And his age?" I asked.

"Well, a man who can step four and a half feet without the smallest effort can't be old and tired. That was the width of a puddle on the garden path, and he had clearly walked across it. Patent-leather boots had gone round it, and Square-toes had jumped over it. There is no mystery about it at all. I am simply using a few of the rules of observation and deduction in ordinary life. I wrote about those rules in that article. Is there anything else that puzzles you?"

"The finger nails and the Trichinopoly," I said.

"The writing on the wall was done with a man's forefinger dipped in blood. My glass showed me that the plaster was slightly scratched when he did it. That would not have happened if his nail had been cut short. I also picked up some ash from the floor. It was dark and flaky. Only a Trichinopoly cigar makes ash like that. I have made a special study of cigar ashes. In fact, I have written a small book on the subject. I am proud to say that I can tell the ash of any known cigar or tobacco at a glance. It is exactly in such details that the skilled detective is different from the Gregson and Lestrade type."

"And the florid face?" I asked.

"Ah, that was a more daring guess, though I have no doubt that I was right. You must not ask me about that at this stage of the affair."

I passed my hand over my forehead. "My head is spinning," I said. "The more one thinks about it, the more mysterious it becomes. How did these two men come into an empty house, if there were two men? What happened to the cabman who drove them? How could one man force another to take poison? Where did the blood come from? What was the murderer's aim, since there was no robbery? How did the woman's ring get there? Above all, why did the second man write the German word RACHE before he ran away? I confess that I cannot see any way to make all these facts fit together."

My companion smiled approvingly.

"You describe the difficulties of the situation briefly and well," he said. "Much is still unclear, though I have made up my mind about the main facts. Poor Lestrade's discovery was only a trick. It was meant to send the police the wrong way, by suggesting Socialism and secret societies. It was not written by a German. The A, if you noticed, was printed somewhat in the German way. Now, a real German always prints in Latin letters. So we can safely say that it was not written by a German. It was written by a clumsy copier who went too far. It was simply a trick to send the investigation in the wrong direction. I'm not going to tell you much more about the case, Doctor. A conjuror gets no credit once he has explained his trick. If I show you too much of my method, you will decide that I am an ordinary person after all."

"I shall never do that," I answered. "You have brought detection as near to an exact science as it will ever be brought in this world."

My companion went red with pleasure at my words and at the serious way I said them. I had already noticed something about him. He was as sensitive to praise of his art as any girl could be about her beauty.

"I'll tell you one other thing," he said. "Patent-leathers and Square-toes came in the same cab. They walked down the path together in a very friendly way, probably arm in arm. When they got inside, they walked up and down the room. Or rather, Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes walked up and down. I could read all that in the dust. I could also read that as he walked, he became more and more excited. That is shown by his longer and longer steps. He was talking all the time, and no doubt he was working himself up into a fury. Then the tragedy happened. Now I have told you all I know myself, because the rest is only guesswork. But we have a good basis to start from. We must hurry, because I want to go to Halle's concert this afternoon to hear Norman Neruda."

This conversation took place while our cab was making its way through many dingy streets. We passed through a long line of gloomy side roads. In the dingiest and gloomiest of them, our driver suddenly stopped. "That's Audley Court in there," he said. He pointed to a narrow slit in the line of dull brick. "You'll find me here when you come back."

Audley Court was not a pleasant place. The narrow passage led us into a square yard paved with flat stones and surrounded by dirty little houses. We picked our way between groups of dirty children and lines of washing that had lost its colour. At last we came to Number 46. On its door there was a small brass plate with the name Rance on it. We asked at the house and learned that the constable was in bed. We were shown into a little front room to wait for him.

He came in soon afterwards. He looked a little bad-tempered at being woken from his sleep. "I made my report at the office," he said.

Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it thoughtfully. "We thought we should like to hear it all from you yourself," he said.

"I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can," the constable answered. His eyes were on the little gold coin.

"Just tell us everything in your own way, as it happened."

Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa. He frowned, as if he was determined not to leave anything out.

"I'll tell it from the beginning," he said. "My hours are from ten at night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the White Hart. Apart from that, all was quiet enough on my beat. At one o'clock it began to rain. I met Harry Murcher, who has the Holland Grove beat, and we stood together talking at the corner of Henrietta Street. After a while, maybe about two or a little after, I thought I would take a look round. I wanted to see that all was right down the Brixton Road. It was very dirty and lonely. I did not meet a soul all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. I was strolling along, thinking, just between ourselves, how handy a hot four of gin would be. Then suddenly I saw the glint of a light in the window of that same house. Now, I knew that those two houses in Lauriston Gardens were empty. The man who owns them won't have the drains seen to. The last tenant who lived in one of them died of typhoid fever. So I was shocked to see a light in the window, and I thought something was wrong. When I got to the door——"

"You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate," my companion interrupted. "Why did you do that?"

Rance gave a violent jump. He stared at Sherlock Holmes in the greatest amazement.

"Why, that's true, sir," he said. "But how you know it, Heaven only knows. You see, when I got up to the door it was so still and so lonely. I thought I would be none the worse for having someone with me. I ain't afraid of anything on this side of the grave. But I thought that maybe it was the man who died of typhoid. I thought he might be looking at the drains that had killed him. The thought gave me a bit of a turn. I walked back to the gate to see if I could see Murcher's lantern. But there was no sign of him, nor of anyone else."

"There was no one in the street?"

"Not a living soul, sir, not even a dog. Then I pulled myself together, went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet inside, so I went into the room where the light was burning. There was a candle flickering on the mantelpiece, a red wax one. By its light I saw——"

"Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round the room several times. You knelt down by the body. Then you walked through and tried the kitchen door, and then——"

John Rance jumped to his feet. His face was frightened and his eyes were full of suspicion. "Where was you hid to see all that?" he cried. "It seems to me that you know a lot more than you should."

Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable. "Don't go arresting me for the murder," he said. "I am one of the hounds and not the wolf. Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for that. But go on. What did you do next?"

Rance sat down again, but he still looked puzzled. "I went back to the gate and blew my whistle. That brought Murcher and two more men to the place."

"Was the street empty then?"

"Well, it was, as far as anybody who could be of any use goes."

"What do you mean?"

The constable's face broadened into a grin. "I've seen many a drunk man in my time," he said. "But I never saw anyone so helplessly drunk as that fellow. He was at the gate when I came out. He was leaning against the railings. He was singing at the top of his voice about Columbine's New-fangled Banner, or some such nonsense. He couldn't stand, let alone help us."

"What sort of man was he?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

John Rance seemed a little annoyed at this interruption. "He was a very drunk sort of man," he said. "He would have ended up in the station if we hadn't been so busy."

"His face, his clothes. Didn't you notice them?" Holmes broke in impatiently.

"I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to hold him up, me and Murcher between us. He was a tall man, with a red face, and the lower part of it was wrapped up in——"

"That will do," cried Holmes. "What became of him?"

"We had enough to do without looking after him," the policeman said in an offended voice. "I'll bet he found his way home all right."

"How was he dressed?"

"A brown overcoat."

"Had he a whip in his hand?"

"A whip? No."

"He must have left it behind," muttered my companion. "You didn't happen to see or hear a cab after that?"

"No."

"Here is a half-sovereign for you," my companion said. He stood up and took his hat. "I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in the force. That head of yours should be for use as well as for show. You might have won your sergeant's stripes last night. The man you held in your hands is the man who holds the clue to this mystery. He is the man we are looking for. There is no use arguing about it now. I tell you that it is so. Come along, Doctor."

We went off together to the cab. We left our informant disbelieving, but clearly uncomfortable.

"The blundering fool," Holmes said bitterly, as we drove back to our rooms. "Just think of him having such an incredible piece of good luck, and not using it."

"I am still rather in the dark," I said. "It is true that the description of this man agrees with your idea of the second man in this mystery. But why should he come back to the house after leaving it? That is not what criminals do."

"The ring, man, the ring. That was what he came back for. If we have no other way of catching him, we can always use the ring as bait on our line. I shall catch him, Doctor. I'll bet you two to one that I catch him. I must thank you for all of it. I might not have gone if it had not been for you. Then I would have missed the finest study I ever came across. A study in scarlet, eh? Why shouldn't we use a little artists' language? There is a scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life. Our duty is to untangle it, separate it and show every inch of it. And now for lunch, and then for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing are splendid. What is that little thing of Chopin's that she plays so magnificently? Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."

Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound sang like a lark. I sat thinking about the many sides of the human mind.

### Glossary

- **telegram**: a short message sent by wire
- **curb**: the edge of the pavement beside the road
- **Trichinopoly**: a type of cigar
- **conjuror**: a person who does magic tricks
- **half-sovereign**: a gold coin worth ten shillings
- **beat**: the area that a police officer walks round on duty
- **whip**: a long thin rope on a stick that a cab driver uses to make the horse go
- **skein**: a loose bundle of thread

## Our Advertisement Brings a Visitor

The work of the morning had been too much for my weak health, and by the afternoon I was tired out. Holmes left for the concert. After he had gone, I lay down on the sofa and tried to get a couple of hours' sleep. It was no use. My mind was too excited by everything that had happened. The strangest ideas and guesses crowded into it. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the twisted, baboon-like face of the dead man. That face had made a terrible impression on me. I found it hard to feel anything but thanks to the man who had removed its owner from the world. If any human face ever showed the most evil kind of vice, it was the face of Enoch J. Drebber. He came from Cleveland. Still, I knew that justice must be done. The victim's bad character was no excuse for the crime in the eyes of the law.

The more I thought about it, the stranger my companion's idea seemed, that the man had been poisoned. I remembered how he had sniffed the dead man's lips. I had no doubt that he had noticed something there that gave him the idea. Then again, if it was not poison, what had caused the man's death? There was no wound and there were no marks of strangulation. But on the other hand, whose blood was lying so thickly on the floor? There were no signs of a struggle. The victim had no weapon with which he might have wounded an enemy. While all these questions remained unanswered, I felt that sleep would not be easy, either for Holmes or for me. His quiet, self-confident manner convinced me that he already had a theory which explained all the facts. But what it was, I could not guess for a moment.

He was very late in returning. He was so late that I knew the concert could not have kept him all that time. Dinner was on the table before he appeared.

"It was magnificent," he said as he took his seat. "Do you remember what Darwin says about music? He claims that human beings could make music, and enjoy it, long before they could speak. Perhaps that is why music affects us in such a subtle way. There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries when the world was in its childhood."

"That's rather a broad idea," I said.

"One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to explain Nature," he answered. "What's the matter? You don't look quite yourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you."

"To tell the truth, it has," I said. "I ought to be harder after my experiences in Afghanistan. I saw my own comrades cut to pieces at Maiwand, and I did not lose my nerve."

"I can understand that. There is a mystery about this case which excites the imagination. Where there is no imagination, there is no horror. Have you seen the evening paper?"

"No."

"It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mention that a woman's wedding ring fell on the floor when the man was lifted up. It is just as well that it does not."

"Why?"

"Look at this advertisement," he answered. "I had one sent to every paper this morning, straight after the affair."

He threw the paper across to me, and I looked at the place he showed me. It was the first notice in the "Found" column. "In Brixton Road, this morning," it said, "a plain gold wedding ring was found in the roadway between the 'White Hart' Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply to Dr. Watson, 221B, Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening."

"Excuse me for using your name," he said. "If I had used my own, some of these fools would have recognised it. They would want to interfere in the affair."

"That is all right," I answered. "But suppose someone comes. I have no ring."

"Oh yes, you have," he said, handing me one. "This will do very well. It is almost an exact copy."

"And who do you expect to answer this advertisement?"

"Why, the man in the brown coat, our red-faced friend with the square toes. If he does not come himself, he will send a helper."

"Would he not think it too dangerous?"

"Not at all. I believe my view of the case is correct, and I have every reason to think so. This man would risk anything rather than lose the ring. In my opinion, he dropped it while he was bending over Drebber's body, and did not miss it at the time. After leaving the house, he found that it was gone and hurried back. But he found the police already there, because he had foolishly left the candle burning. He had to pretend to be drunk, to calm any suspicion that his appearance at the gate might have caused. Now put yourself in that man's place. When he thought about it, he must have realised something. He might have lost the ring in the road after leaving the house. What would he do then? He would look eagerly in the evening papers, hoping to see it among the things found. His eye would, of course, fall on this notice. He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear a trap? In his eyes there would be no reason to connect the finding of the ring with the murder. He would come. He will come. You shall see him within an hour."

"And then?" I asked.

"Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any weapons?"

"I have my old service revolver and a few bullets."

"You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man. I shall catch him by surprise, but it is as well to be ready for anything."

I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I came back with the pistol, the table had been cleared. Holmes was busy with his favourite occupation of scraping on his violin.

"The plot thickens," he said as I came in. "I have just had an answer to my American telegram. My view of the case is the correct one."

"And what is that?" I asked eagerly.

"My fiddle would be better for new strings," he remarked. "Put your pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes, speak to him in an ordinary way. Leave the rest to me. Don't frighten him by looking at him too hard."

"It is eight o'clock now," I said, looking at my watch.

"Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door a little. That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you! This is a queer old book that I picked up at a stall yesterday. It is called 'De Jure inter Gentes'. It was published in Latin at Liege, in the Low Countries, in 1642. Charles's head was still firm on his shoulders when this little brown-backed book was printed."

"Who is the printer?"

"Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf, in very faded ink, is written 'Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.' I wonder who William Whyte was. Some serious seventeenth-century lawyer, I suppose. His writing has a legal twist about it. Here comes our man, I think."

As he spoke, there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes rose quietly and moved his chair towards the door. We heard the servant walk along the hall. Then we heard the sharp click of the latch as she opened the door.

"Does Dr. Watson live here?" asked a clear but rather harsh voice. We could not hear the servant's reply. But the door closed, and someone began to climb the stairs. The steps were uncertain and shuffling. A look of surprise passed over my companion's face as he listened. The steps came slowly along the passage, and there was a weak tap at the door.

"Come in," I cried.

We expected a violent man. Instead, a very old, wrinkled woman limped into the room. She seemed to be dazzled by the sudden bright light. She made a curtsey, and then she stood blinking at us with her weak, watery eyes. Her nervous, shaky fingers fumbled in her pocket. I glanced at my companion. His face had such a disappointed look that I could hardly keep my own face straight.

The old woman pulled out an evening paper and pointed at our advertisement. "It's this that has brought me, good gentlemen," she said, making another curtsey. "A gold wedding ring in the Brixton Road. It belongs to my girl Sally. She was married only this time last year. Her husband is a steward on a Union boat. I can't think what he'd say if he came home and found her without her ring. He is short-tempered at the best of times, but most of all when he has been drinking. If you please, she went to the circus last night along with——"

"Is that her ring?" I asked.

"The Lord be thanked!" cried the old woman. "Sally will be a glad woman tonight. That's the ring."

"And what is your address?" I asked, picking up a pencil.

"13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here."

"The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch," said Sherlock Holmes sharply.

The old woman turned round and looked closely at him with her little red-rimmed eyes. "The gentleman asked me for *my* address," she said. "Sally lives in rooms at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham."

"And your name is——?"

"My name is Sawyer. Hers is Dennis, because Tom Dennis married her. He's a smart, clean lad, too, as long as he's at sea. There's no steward in the company who is thought more of. But when he's on shore, what with the women and what with the drink shops——"

"Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer," I interrupted, because my companion had given me a sign. "It clearly belongs to your daughter. I am glad to be able to give it back to its rightful owner."

The old woman mumbled many blessings and thanks. She put the ring away in her pocket and shuffled off down the stairs. The moment she had gone, Sherlock Holmes jumped to his feet and rushed into his room. A few seconds later he returned, wearing an ulster and a cravat. "I'll follow her," he said hurriedly. "She must be an accomplice, and she will lead me to him. Wait up for me." Our visitor had hardly slammed the hall door behind her before Holmes was down the stairs. Looking through the window, I could see her walking weakly along the other side of the street. Her follower kept a little distance behind her. "Either his whole theory is wrong," I thought to myself. "Or else he will now be led to the heart of the mystery." He did not need to ask me to wait up for him. I felt that I could not sleep until I heard the result of his adventure.

It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he might be. I sat there calmly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the pages of Henri Murger's "Vie de Bohème". Ten o'clock passed, and I heard the maid's steps as she went off to bed. Eleven o'clock came, and the heavier steps of the landlady passed my door on the way to the same place. It was close upon twelve before I heard the sharp sound of his latch-key. As soon as he came in, I saw from his face that he had not been successful. Amusement and annoyance seemed to be fighting for control. Then suddenly the amusement won, and he burst into a hearty laugh.

"I wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world," he cried, dropping into his chair. "I have made so much fun of them that they would never let me forget it. I can afford to laugh, because I know that I shall be even with them in the end."

"What is it, then?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't mind telling a story against myself. That creature had gone a little way when she began to limp. She showed every sign of having sore feet. After a while she stopped and called a four-wheeler that was passing. I managed to be close to her so that I could hear the address. But I need not have worried. She shouted it loud enough to be heard on the other side of the street. 'Drive to 13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch,' she cried. This begins to look genuine, I thought. I saw her safely inside, and I climbed up behind the cab. That is an art which every detective should be good at. Well, away we rattled, and we never stopped until we reached the street in question. I jumped off before we came to the door and strolled down the street in a relaxed, lazy way. I saw the cab stop. The driver jumped down, opened the door and stood waiting. But nothing came out. When I reached him, he was searching wildly about in the empty cab. He was letting out the finest collection of bad language that I ever heard. There was no sign or trace of his passenger. I fear it will be some time before he gets his fare. We asked at Number 13 and found that the house belonged to a respectable paperhanger named Keswick. No one called Sawyer or Dennis had ever been heard of there."

"You don't mean to say," I cried in amazement, "that she got out of the cab while it was moving? That weak old woman? And that neither you nor the driver saw her?"

"Old woman be damned!" said Sherlock Holmes sharply. "We were the old women, to be taken in like that. It must have been a young man, and an active one, too. He was also an incomparable actor. The disguise was perfect. He saw that he was being followed, no doubt, and he used this trick to escape from me. It shows that the man we are after is not as much alone as I imagined. He has friends who are ready to risk something for him. Now, Doctor, you look worn out. Take my advice and go to bed."

I was certainly feeling very tired, so I obeyed him. I left Holmes sitting in front of the dying fire. Late into the night I heard the low, sad notes of his violin. I knew that he was still thinking about the strange problem that he had set himself to solve.

### Glossary

- **baboon-like**: looking like a baboon, a large ape with a long face
- **strangulation**: killing someone by pressing on the neck
- **accomplice**: a helper in a crime
- **curtsey**: a small bow made by a woman, bending the knees
- **steward**: a man who looks after passengers on a ship
- **ulster**: a long, loose, heavy coat
- **cravat**: a wide cloth that a man wears round his neck
- **paperhanger**: a man who puts wallpaper on walls

## Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do

The next day the papers were full of the "Brixton Mystery," as they called it. Each paper had a long account of the affair, and some also had a leading article about it. There was some news in them that was new to me. I still keep in my scrap-book many clippings and extracts about the case. Here is a short version of a few of them.

The *Daily Telegraph* said that in the history of crime there had seldom been a tragedy with stranger features. First, there was the German name of the victim. Second, there was no other reason for the crime. Third, there was the sinister writing on the wall. All three pointed to political refugees and revolutionaries. The Socialists had many branches in America. The dead man had, no doubt, broken their unwritten laws, and they had tracked him down. The writer then talked in a careless way about many things. He mentioned the Vehmgericht, aqua tofana, the Carbonari and the Marchioness de Brinvilliers. He also mentioned the Darwinian theory, the ideas of Malthus and the Ratcliff Highway murders. The article ended by warning the Government and asking for a closer watch over foreigners in England.

The *Standard* remarked that lawless outrages of this sort usually happened under a Liberal Government. They came from the unsettling of the minds of the masses, and the weakening of all authority that followed. The dead man was an American gentleman who had been living for some weeks in London. He had stayed at the boarding-house of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell. He travelled with his private secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The two said goodbye to their landlady on Tuesday, the 4th inst. They went to Euston Station, and they openly said that they meant to catch the Liverpool express. They were seen together afterwards on the platform. Nothing more was known of them until Mr. Drebber's body was found, as reported, in an empty house in the Brixton Road. That is many miles from Euston. How he came there, or how he met his death, were questions that were still a mystery. Nothing was known of where Stangerson was. The paper was glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson, of Scotland Yard, were both working on the case. It was confidently expected that these well-known officers would soon throw light on the matter.

The *Daily News* said that there was no doubt that the crime was a political one. The Continental Governments ruled cruelly, and they hated Liberalism. This had driven a number of men to our shores. These men might have made excellent citizens. But they were made bitter by the memory of all that they had suffered. Among them there was a strict code of honour. Anyone who broke it was punished by death. Every effort should be made to find the secretary, Stangerson. The police should also learn some facts about the habits of the dead man. A great step forward had been made by finding the address of the house where he had stayed. This result was entirely due to the cleverness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland Yard.

Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices together at breakfast. They seemed to amuse him very much.

"I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and Gregson would be sure to score," he said.

"That depends on how it turns out," I said.

"Oh, bless you, it doesn't matter in the least. If the man is caught, it will be *on account* of their efforts. If he escapes, it will be *in spite* of their efforts. It's heads I win and tails you lose. Whatever they do, they will have followers. 'Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire.'"

"What on earth is this?" I cried. At that moment there was the sound of many feet in the hall and on the stairs. Our landlady was loudly showing her disgust.

"It's the Baker Street division of the detective police force," said my companion gravely. As he spoke, half a dozen street boys rushed into the room. They were the dirtiest and most ragged boys that I ever saw.

"'Tention!" cried Holmes in a sharp voice. The six dirty little rascals stood in a line, like so many shabby little statues. "In future you shall send up Wiggins alone to report. The rest of you must wait in the street. Have you found it, Wiggins?"

"No, sir, we haven't," said one of the boys.

"I hardly expected that you would. You must keep on until you do. Here are your wages." He handed each of them a shilling.

"Now, off you go, and come back with a better report next time."

He waved his hand, and they ran away downstairs like so many rats. A moment later we heard their shrill voices in the street.

"You can get more work out of one of those little beggars than out of a dozen of the police," Holmes remarked. "The mere sight of an official-looking person shuts men's mouths. But these youngsters go everywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp as needles, too. All they want is organisation."

"Is it for this Brixton case that you are using them?" I asked.

"Yes. There is a point that I wish to find out. It is only a matter of time. Hullo! We are going to hear some news now, and no mistake! Here is Gregson coming down the road. He looks completely happy. He is coming to see us, I know. Yes, he is stopping. There he is!"

There was a violent ring at the bell. In a few seconds the fair-haired detective came up the stairs, three steps at a time, and burst into our sitting-room.

"My dear fellow," he cried, shaking Holmes's hand, which did not respond, "congratulate me! I have made the whole thing as clear as day."

I thought that a shade of worry crossed my companion's face.

"Do you mean that you are on the right track?" he asked.

"The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under lock and key."

"And his name is?"

"Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty's navy," cried Gregson proudly. He rubbed his fat hands and puffed out his chest.

Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and then he smiled.

"Take a seat, and try one of these cigars," he said. "We are anxious to know how you managed it. Will you have some whiskey and water?"

"I don't mind if I do," the detective answered. "I have worked very hard during the last day or two, and I am worn out. It is not so much the body, you understand, as the strain on the mind. You will understand that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we are both brain-workers."

"You do me too much honour," said Holmes gravely. "Let us hear how you arrived at this very pleasing result."

The detective sat down in the arm-chair and puffed happily at his cigar. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh in a fit of laughter.

"The fun of it is," he cried, "that that fool Lestrade, who thinks himself so smart, has gone off on completely the wrong track. He is after the secretary Stangerson. Stangerson had no more to do with the crime than a baby that is not yet born. I have no doubt that Lestrade has caught him by this time."

The idea amused Gregson so much that he laughed until he choked.

"And how did you get your clue?" asked Holmes.

"Ah, I'll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor Watson, this is strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty was to find out about this American's past. Some people would have waited until their advertisements were answered. Or they would have waited until people came forward with information. That is not Tobias Gregson's way of working. You remember the hat beside the dead man?"

"Yes," said Holmes. "It was made by John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell Road."

Gregson looked quite disappointed.

"I had no idea that you noticed that," he said. "Have you been there?"

"No."

"Ha!" cried Gregson in a relieved voice. "You should never neglect a chance, however small it may seem."

"To a great mind, nothing is little," remarked Holmes in a solemn voice.

"Well, I went to Underwood and asked him if he had sold a hat of that size and kind. He looked through his books and found it at once. He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber, who lived at Charpentier's Boarding Establishment, Torquay Terrace. That is how I got his address."

"Smart, very smart!" murmured Sherlock Holmes.

"Next I called on Madame Charpentier," the detective went on. "I found her very pale and distressed. Her daughter was in the room, too. She is an unusually fine girl. Her eyes were red, and her lips trembled when I spoke to her. That did not escape my notice. I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, when you come upon the right scent. It is a kind of thrill in your nerves. 'Have you heard of the mysterious death of your late boarder, Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?' I asked.

"The mother nodded. She did not seem able to get out a word. The daughter burst into tears. I felt more than ever that these people knew something about the matter.

"'At what o'clock did Mr. Drebber leave your house for the train?' I asked.

"'At eight o'clock,' she said. She swallowed hard to keep down her agitation. 'His secretary, Mr. Stangerson, said that there were two trains, one at 9.15 and one at 11. Mr. Drebber was to catch the first.'

"'And was that the last that you saw of him?'

"A terrible change came over the woman's face when I asked this question. Her face went completely pale. It was some seconds before she could get out the single word 'Yes.' When it did come, it was in a hoarse, unnatural voice.

"There was silence for a moment. Then the daughter spoke in a calm, clear voice.

"'No good can ever come of lies, mother,' she said. 'Let us be frank with this gentleman. We *did* see Mr. Drebber again.'

"'God forgive you!' cried Madame Charpentier. She threw up her hands and sank back in her chair. 'You have murdered your brother.'

"'Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,' the girl answered firmly.

"'You had better tell me all about it now,' I said. 'Half-confidences are worse than none. Besides, you do not know how much we know of it.'

"'On your head be it, Alice!' cried her mother. Then she turned to me. 'I will tell you all, sir. Do not imagine that I am upset for my son because I fear he had a hand in this terrible affair. He is completely innocent of it. But I am afraid that in your eyes, and in the eyes of others, he may seem to be involved. That, however, is surely impossible. His high character, his profession and his past would all forbid it.'

"'Your best way is to tell the facts openly,' I answered. 'You can depend on it, if your son is innocent he will be none the worse.'

"'Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,' she said, and her daughter went out. 'Now, sir,' she went on, 'I did not mean to tell you all this. But my poor daughter has told you part of it, so I have no choice. I have decided to speak, and I will tell you everything without leaving anything out.'

"'It is your wisest course,' I said.

"'Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks. He and his secretary, Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling in Europe. I noticed a "Copenhagen" label on each of their trunks. That showed that Copenhagen had been their last stopping place. Stangerson was a quiet, reserved man. But his employer, I am sorry to say, was very different. He was coarse in his habits and brutish in his ways. On the very night that he arrived, he became very drunk. Indeed, after twelve o'clock in the day he could hardly ever be called sober. His manners towards the maids were disgustingly free and familiar. Worst of all, he soon began to treat my daughter, Alice, in the same way. More than once he spoke to her in a way that, fortunately, she is too innocent to understand. On one occasion he actually seized her in his arms and embraced her. This was such an outrage that his own secretary spoke sharply to him for his unmanly conduct.'

"'But why did you put up with all this?' I asked. 'I suppose that you can get rid of your boarders when you wish.'

"Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my sharp question. 'I wish to God that I had given him notice on the very day that he came,' she said. 'But it was a hard temptation. They were paying a pound a day each. That is fourteen pounds a week, and this is the slack season. I am a widow, and my boy in the Navy has cost me much. I did not want to lose the money. I acted for the best. But this last thing was too much, and I gave him notice to leave because of it. That was the reason for his going.'

"'Well?'

"'My heart grew light when I saw him drive away. My son is on leave just now. But I did not tell him anything of all this. His temper is violent, and he is passionately fond of his sister. When I closed the door behind them, it was as if a weight was lifted from my mind. Alas, in less than an hour there was a ring at the bell. I learned that Mr. Drebber had returned. He was much excited, and he had clearly been drinking. He forced his way into the room where I was sitting with my daughter. He said something wild about having missed his train. Then he turned to Alice. Before my very face, he asked her to run away with him. "You are of age," he said, "and there is no law to stop you. I have money enough and to spare. Never mind the old girl here, but come along with me now, straight away. You shall live like a princess." Poor Alice was so frightened that she shrank away from him. But he caught her by the wrist and tried to pull her towards the door. I screamed, and at that moment my son Arthur came into the room. What happened then, I do not know. I heard curses and the confused sounds of a fight. I was too terrified to raise my head. When I did look up, I saw Arthur standing in the doorway, laughing, with a stick in his hand. "I don't think that fine fellow will trouble us again," he said. "I will just go after him and see what he does with himself." With those words he took his hat and went off down the street. The next morning we heard of Mr. Drebber's mysterious death.'

"This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier's lips with many gasps and pauses. At times she spoke so low that I could hardly catch the words. But I made shorthand notes of all that she said, so that there could be no mistake."

"It's quite exciting," said Sherlock Holmes with a yawn. "What happened next?"

"When Mrs. Charpentier stopped," the detective went on, "I saw that the whole case depended on one point. I fixed my eyes on her. I have always found that effective with women. I asked her at what time her son came home.

"'I do not know,' she answered.

"'You do not know?'

"'No. He has a latch-key, and he let himself in.'

"'After you went to bed?'

"'Yes.'

"'When did you go to bed?'

"'About eleven.'

"'So your son was gone at least two hours?'

"'Yes.'

"'Possibly four or five?'

"'Yes.'

"'What was he doing during that time?'

"'I do not know,' she answered. She turned white to her very lips.

"Of course, after that there was nothing more to be done. I found out where Lieutenant Charpentier was. I took two officers with me and arrested him. I touched him on the shoulder and warned him to come quietly with us. He answered as bold as brass, 'I suppose you are arresting me for being concerned in the death of that scoundrel Drebber.' We had said nothing to him about it. So the fact that he mentioned it looked very suspicious."

"Very," said Holmes.

"He still carried the heavy stick that his mother said he had with him when he followed Drebber. It was a thick oak cudgel."

"What is your theory, then?"

"Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far as the Brixton Road. There a new quarrel began between them. During it, Drebber received a blow from the stick, perhaps in the pit of the stomach. It killed him without leaving any mark. The night was so wet that no one was about. So Charpentier dragged the body of his victim into the empty house. As for the candle, the blood, the writing on the wall and the ring, they may all be tricks. He may have used them to send the police the wrong way."

"Well done!" said Holmes in an encouraging voice. "Really, Gregson, you are getting on. We shall make something of you yet."

"I flatter myself that I have managed it rather neatly," the detective answered proudly. "The young man made a statement of his own. He said that he followed Drebber for some time. Then Drebber saw him and took a cab to get away from him. On his way home, he met an old shipmate and took a long walk with him. We asked where this old shipmate lived. He could not give any satisfactory answer. I think the whole case fits together unusually well. What amuses me is to think of Lestrade, who started off on the wrong scent. I am afraid he won't make much of it. Why, by Jove, here is the very man himself!"

It was indeed Lestrade. He had come up the stairs while we were talking, and now he entered the room. But his usual confidence and cheerfulness, in his manner and dress, were missing. His face was disturbed and troubled, and his clothes were untidy. He had clearly come to talk things over with Sherlock Holmes. When he saw his colleague, he looked embarrassed and upset. He stood in the middle of the room, nervously fumbling with his hat. He did not know what to do. "This is a most extraordinary case," he said at last. "A most incomprehensible affair."

"Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!" cried Gregson in triumph. "I thought you would come to that conclusion. Have you managed to find the Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?"

"The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson," said Lestrade gravely, "was murdered at Halliday's Private Hotel about six o'clock this morning."

### Glossary

- **aqua tofana**: a famous slow poison from old Italy
- **Carbonari**: a secret political society in Italy
- **inst.**: short for "of this month" in a newspaper date
- **heads I win and tails you lose**: I win whatever happens
- **Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire**: French for "A fool always finds a bigger fool who admires him"
- **sub-lieutenant**: a young officer of low rank in the navy
- **shorthand**: a fast way of writing, using signs for words
- **cudgel**: a short thick stick used as a weapon

## Light in the Darkness

Lestrade's news was so important and so unexpected that the three of us were stunned. Gregson jumped up from his chair and knocked over the rest of his whiskey and water. I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes. His lips were pressed together, and his eyebrows were pulled down over his eyes.

"Stangerson too!" he muttered. "The plot thickens."

"It was quite thick enough before," grumbled Lestrade, taking a chair. "I seem to have walked into a sort of council of war."

"Are you—are you sure of this news?" stammered Gregson.

"I have just come from his room," said Lestrade. "I was the first to find out what had happened."

"We have been listening to Gregson's view of the matter," Holmes said. "Would you tell us what you have seen and done?"

"I have no objection," Lestrade answered, sitting down. "I admit freely that I thought Stangerson was involved in Drebber's death. This new event has shown me that I was completely wrong. I had only one idea in my head. I set out to find what had become of the Secretary. They had been seen together at Euston Station at about half-past eight on the evening of the third. At two in the morning Drebber was found in the Brixton Road. My question was this. How had Stangerson spent the time between 8.30 and the crime, and what had become of him afterwards? I sent a telegram to Liverpool. I gave a description of the man and asked them to keep a watch on the American boats. Then I began to visit all the hotels and lodging-houses near Euston. I reasoned like this. If Drebber and his companion had become separated, the natural thing for the other man would be to stay somewhere near the station for the night. After that, he would hang about the station again next morning."

"They would probably agree on a meeting-place beforehand," remarked Holmes.

"So it turned out. I spent the whole of yesterday evening asking questions, but it was no use. This morning I began very early. At eight o'clock I reached Halliday's Private Hotel, in Little George Street. I asked whether a Mr. Stangerson was living there. They answered at once that he was.

"'No doubt you are the gentleman he was expecting,' they said. 'He has been waiting for a gentleman for two days.'

"'Where is he now?' I asked.

"'He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at nine.'

"'I will go up and see him at once,' I said.

"It seemed to me that my sudden appearance might upset his nerves and make him say something careless. The Boots offered to show me the room. It was on the second floor, and a small corridor led up to it. The Boots pointed out the door and was about to go downstairs again. Then I saw something that made me feel sick, in spite of my twenty years' experience. A little red ribbon of blood was curling out from under the door. It had wandered across the passage and made a small pool along the skirting-board on the other side. I gave a cry, and the Boots came back. He nearly fainted when he saw it. The door was locked on the inside, but we put our shoulders to it and knocked it in. The window of the room was open. Beside the window, all huddled up, lay the body of a man in his nightdress. He was quite dead, and had been for some time, because his arms and legs were stiff and cold. When we turned him over, the Boots knew him at once. He was the same gentleman who had taken the room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. He had died from a deep stab in the left side, which must have gone into the heart. And now comes the strangest part of the affair. What do you think was above the murdered man?"

My skin crept, and I had a feeling of coming horror, even before Sherlock Holmes answered.

"The word RACHE, written in letters of blood," he said.

"That was it," said Lestrade, in an awed voice. We were all silent for a while.

The deeds of this unknown murderer were so planned and so impossible to understand. This made his crimes seem even more ghastly. My nerves were steady enough on the battlefield, but they tingled as I thought of it.

"The man was seen," continued Lestrade. "A milk boy was on his way to the dairy. He happened to walk down the lane that leads from the mews at the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which usually lay there, was standing against one of the second-floor windows. The window was wide open. After he had passed, he looked back and saw a man come down the ladder. The man came down so quietly and openly that the boy took him for a carpenter or joiner. He thought the man was at work in the hotel. He took no special notice of him. He only thought to himself that it was early for the man to be at work. The boy has an impression that the man was tall, had a reddish face, and wore a long, brownish coat. The man must have stayed in the room some time after the murder. We found blood-stained water in the basin, where he had washed his hands. We also found marks on the sheets, where he had wiped his knife on purpose."

I glanced at Holmes when I heard this description of the murderer. It matched his own so exactly. But there was no sign of joy or satisfaction on his face.

"Did you find nothing in the room that could give a clue to the murderer?" he asked.

"Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber's purse in his pocket. But this seems to have been usual, because he did all the paying. There was eighty odd pounds in it, and nothing had been taken. Whatever the reasons for these extraordinary crimes, robbery is certainly not one of them. There were no papers or notes in the dead man's pocket, except one telegram. It was sent from Cleveland about a month ago, and it said, 'J. H. is in Europe.' There was no name at the end of the message."

"And there was nothing else?" Holmes asked.

"Nothing of any importance. The man's novel, which he had read himself to sleep with, was lying on the bed. His pipe was on a chair beside him. There was a glass of water on the table. On the window-sill was a small chip ointment box with a couple of pills in it."

Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with a cry of delight.

"The last link," he cried happily. "My case is complete."

The two detectives stared at him in amazement.

"I now have in my hands," my companion said confidently, "all the threads that made such a tangle. There are details to fill in, of course. But I am as sure of all the main facts as if I had seen them with my own eyes. I mean everything from the time Drebber parted from Stangerson at the station up to the discovery of Stangerson's body. I will give you a proof of my knowledge. Can you lay your hand on those pills?"

"I have them," said Lestrade, taking out a small white box. "I took them, the purse and the telegram. I meant to put them in a safe place at the Police Station. It was pure chance that I took the pills. I must say that I do not think they are important."

"Give them here," said Holmes. "Now, Doctor," he said, turning to me, "are those ordinary pills?"

They certainly were not. They were a pearly grey colour, small, round, and almost transparent against the light. "They are so light and transparent that I think they dissolve in water," I remarked.

"Exactly," answered Holmes. "Now, would you go down and fetch that poor little devil of a terrier? It has been ill for so long. Yesterday the landlady wanted you to put it out of its pain."

I went downstairs and carried the dog up in my arms. Its heavy breathing and glassy eye showed that it was near its end. Its snow-white muzzle showed that it had already lived longer than dogs usually do. I put it on a cushion on the rug.

"Now I will cut one of these pills in two," said Holmes. He took out his penknife and did just that. "We put one half back into the box for later. I will put the other half in this wine glass, which has a teaspoonful of water in it. You see that our friend the Doctor is right. It dissolves easily."

"This may be very interesting," said Lestrade, in the hurt voice of a man who thinks he is being laughed at. "But I cannot see what it has to do with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson."

"Patience, my friend, patience! In time you will find that it has everything to do with it. Now I will add a little milk to make the mixture pleasant to taste. When I give it to the dog, we find that he laps it up readily enough."

As he spoke, he poured the contents of the wine glass into a saucer and put it in front of the terrier. The dog quickly licked it dry. Holmes looked so serious that we were all convinced. We sat in silence, watching the animal closely and expecting some startling effect. But nothing happened. The dog lay stretched on the cushion, breathing heavily. It seemed neither better nor worse for its drink.

Holmes had taken out his watch. Minute followed minute with no result. A look of great anger and disappointment came over his face. He bit his lip and drummed his fingers on the table. He showed every other sign of sharp impatience. His feeling was so strong that I felt truly sorry for him. The two detectives smiled mockingly. They were not at all unhappy about his failure.

"It can't be a coincidence," he cried at last, springing from his chair and pacing wildly up and down the room. "It is impossible that it is just a coincidence. The very pills I suspected in Drebber's case are found after Stangerson's death. And yet they do nothing. What can it mean? My whole chain of reasoning cannot be false. It is impossible! And yet this wretched dog is none the worse. Ah, I have it! I have it!" With a wild shout of delight he rushed to the box. He cut the other pill in two, dissolved it, added milk and gave it to the terrier. The poor creature's tongue seemed hardly to have been wet in it before it gave a shiver in every limb. It lay as stiff and lifeless as if lightning had struck it.

Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "I should have more faith," he said. "I ought to know by now that a fact may seem to go against a long line of deductions. It always turns out that it can be understood in another way. Of the two pills in that box, one was the most deadly poison, and the other was completely harmless. I ought to have known that before I ever saw the box."

This last statement seemed so startling to me that I could hardly believe he was in his right mind. But there was the dead dog to prove that he was right. It seemed to me that the mists in my own mind were slowly clearing. I began to have a dim, vague idea of the truth.

"All this seems strange to you," continued Holmes, "because at the beginning of the inquiry you did not see how important the single real clue was. I was lucky enough to seize on it. Everything that has happened since has confirmed my first idea. It was the logical result of it. So things that have puzzled you and made the case darker have made it clearer to me. They have strengthened my conclusions. It is a mistake to confuse strangeness with mystery. The most commonplace crime is often the most mysterious. It has no new or special features from which to draw deductions. This murder would have been far more difficult to solve if the victim had simply been found lying in the roadway. Then it would have had none of the strange and sensational extras that made it so remarkable. Far from making the case harder, these strange details have really made it easier."

Mr. Gregson had listened to this speech with great impatience. He could not hold himself back any longer. "Look here, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, "we are all ready to admit that you are a clever man, and that you have your own ways of working. But now we want something more than theory and lectures. We have to catch the man. I made out my case, and it seems I was wrong. Young Charpentier could not have been in this second affair. Lestrade went after his man, Stangerson, and it seems he was wrong too. You have dropped hints here and hints there, and you seem to know more than we do. But the time has come when we have a right to ask you plainly. How much do you know about the business? Can you name the man who did it?"

"I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir," remarked Lestrade. "We have both tried, and we have both failed. Since I came into the room, you have said more than once that you have all the evidence you need. Surely you will not keep it back any longer."

"Any delay in arresting the murderer," I said, "might give him time to commit some new horror."

Pressed by all of us, Holmes showed signs of doubt. He kept walking up and down the room with his head sunk on his chest and his eyebrows drawn down. He always did this when he was lost in thought.

"There will be no more murders," he said at last, stopping suddenly and facing us. "You can forget that worry. You have asked me if I know the murderer's name. I do. But knowing his name is a small thing. The real question is whether we can lay our hands on him. I expect to do this very soon. I have good hopes of managing it through my own arrangements. But it needs careful handling. We have a clever and desperate man to deal with. As I have had reason to prove, he is helped by another man who is as clever as himself. As long as this man has no idea that anyone has a clue, there is some chance of catching him. But if he had the slightest suspicion, he would change his name. He would vanish in a moment among the four million people of this great city. I do not want to hurt your feelings. But I must say that I think these men are more than a match for the official police. That is why I have not asked for your help. If I fail, I shall of course take all the blame for this. I am ready for that. For now, I promise you this. The moment I can speak to you without risking my own plans, I shall do so."

Gregson and Lestrade were far from satisfied by this promise. They did not like his remark about the detective police either. Gregson had flushed up to the roots of his flaxen hair. Lestrade's beady eyes glistened with curiosity and anger. Neither of them had time to speak before there was a tap at the door. The spokesman of the street boys, young Wiggins, came in. He was a small, unimportant and dirty-looking figure.

"Please, sir," he said, touching his forelock, "I have the cab downstairs."

"Good boy," said Holmes pleasantly. "Why don't you introduce this kind at Scotland Yard?" he continued, taking a pair of steel handcuffs from a drawer. "See how beautifully the spring works. They fasten in an instant."

"The old kind is good enough," remarked Lestrade, "if we can only find the man to put them on."

"Very good, very good," said Holmes, smiling. "The cabman may as well help me with my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins."

I was surprised that my companion spoke as if he were about to go on a journey. He had not said anything to me about it. There was a small portmanteau in the room. He pulled it out and began to strap it. He was busy with it when the cabman came into the room.

"Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman," he said, kneeling over his task and never turning his head.

The fellow came forward with a sullen, defiant look and put down his hands to help. At that moment there was a sharp click and the jangling of metal. Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.

"Gentlemen," he cried, with flashing eyes, "let me introduce you to Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph Stangerson."

The whole thing happened in a moment, so quickly that I had no time to take it in. I remember that instant very clearly. I remember Holmes's triumphant face and the ring of his voice. I remember the cabman's dazed, savage face as he glared at the glittering handcuffs. They had appeared on his wrists as if by magic. For a second or two we might have been a group of statues. Then, with a wordless roar of fury, the prisoner tore himself free from Holmes's grip. He threw himself at the window. Wood and glass broke before him. But before he got quite through, Gregson, Lestrade and Holmes sprang upon him like so many staghounds. He was dragged back into the room, and then a terrible fight began. He was so strong and so fierce that the four of us were shaken off again and again. He seemed to have the wild strength of a man in a fit. His face and hands were badly torn by his passage through the glass. But the loss of blood did not make him fight any less. Then Lestrade got his hand inside the man's neckcloth and half-strangled him. Only then did we make him see that his struggles were useless. Even then we did not feel safe until we had tied his feet as well as his hands. When that was done, we got to our feet, breathless and panting.

"We have his cab," said Sherlock Holmes. "It will take him to Scotland Yard. And now, gentlemen," he continued, with a pleasant smile, "we have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very welcome to ask me any questions you like now. There is no danger that I will refuse to answer them."

### Glossary

- **a sort of council of war**: a meeting of leaders to decide what to do in a fight
- **Boots**: the hotel servant who cleans guests' boots and runs errands
- **mews**: a small street of stables behind big houses
- **joiner**: a worker who makes things from wood, like a carpenter
- **terrier**: a small dog
- **forelock**: the hair at the front of the head, above the forehead
- **portmanteau**: a large travelling bag
- **staghounds**: big, strong dogs that hunt deer
- **neckcloth**: a cloth worn around the neck

## On the Great Alkali Plain

In the middle of the great North American continent there lies a dry and ugly desert. For many long years it stopped civilisation from moving west. From the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska, and from the Yellowstone River in the north to the Colorado in the south, the land is empty and silent. Nature is not always in the same mood in this grim region. There are high mountains with snow on their tops, and dark, gloomy valleys. There are fast rivers that rush through narrow, rocky canyons. There are huge plains that are white with snow in winter and grey with salty alkali dust in summer. But they all share the same nature. They are bare, unfriendly and miserable.

Nobody lives in this land of despair. A band of Pawnees or Blackfeet may sometimes cross it to reach other hunting-grounds. But even the bravest of these warriors are glad to leave those awful plains behind. They are happy to be back on their own prairies. The coyote creeps about among the bushes. The buzzard flaps heavily through the air. The clumsy grizzly bear walks through the dark ravines and finds what food it can among the rocks. These are the only creatures that live in the wilderness.

There can be no gloomier view in the whole world than the view from the northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can see, the great flat plain stretches out. It is dusted with patches of alkali and broken by clumps of small, stunted chaparral bushes. At the very edge of the horizon lies a long chain of mountain peaks, their rough tops flecked with snow. In this great stretch of country there is no sign of life, or of anything that belongs to life. There is no bird in the steel-blue sky. There is no movement on the dull grey earth. Above all, there is complete silence. Listen as hard as you like, you will not hear the shadow of a sound in all that mighty wilderness. There is nothing but silence, complete and heart-crushing silence.

It has been said that there is nothing connected with life on the broad plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one sees a pathway across the desert. It winds away and is lost in the far distance. It is cut by wheel marks and trodden down by the feet of many adventurers. Here and there white objects lie scattered. They shine in the sun and stand out against the dull alkali dust. Go closer and look at them! They are bones. Some are large and coarse, and others are smaller and more delicate. The large ones belonged to oxen, and the small ones to men. For fifteen hundred miles one can follow this ghastly caravan route by the bones of people who fell along the way.

On the fourth of May, eighteen hundred and forty-seven, a lone traveller stood looking down on this very scene. He looked so strange that he might have been the spirit or demon of the place. An observer would have found it hard to say whether he was closer to forty or to sixty. His face was lean and haggard. The brown skin, like old parchment, was stretched tightly over the bones that stuck out. His long brown hair and beard were streaked with white. His eyes were sunken in his head and burned with an unnatural brightness. The hand that held his rifle was hardly more fleshy than a skeleton's. He leaned on his weapon for support as he stood. Yet his tall figure and the heavy frame of his bones suggested a tough and strong body. But his thin face showed what made him look so old and weak. So did his clothes, which hung loosely on his shrivelled arms and legs. The man was dying—dying from hunger and from thirst.

He had struggled painfully down the ravine and up onto this little hill. He had hoped in vain to see some sign of water. Now the great salt plain stretched before his eyes, with the far-off belt of wild mountains. There was no plant or tree anywhere to show that there was water. In all that wide landscape there was no gleam of hope. He looked north, east and west with wild, questioning eyes. Then he understood that his wandering was over and that he was about to die on that barren rock. "Why not here, as well as in a feather bed, twenty years from now?" he muttered, as he sat down in the shelter of a boulder.

Before sitting down, he had laid his useless rifle on the ground. He had also put down a large bundle tied up in a grey shawl. He had carried it over his right shoulder. It seemed a little too heavy for his strength. It hit the ground with some force as he lowered it. At once a little moaning cry came from the grey parcel. A small, frightened face came out of it, with very bright brown eyes and two little speckled, dimpled fists.

"You've hurt me!" said a childish voice, in a hurt tone.

"Have I, though?" the man answered, feeling sorry. "I didn't mean to do it." As he spoke, he unwrapped the grey shawl and lifted out a pretty little girl of about five years of age. Her dainty shoes and her smart pink frock with its little linen apron all showed a mother's care. The child was pale and weak, but her healthy arms and legs showed that she had suffered less than her companion.

"How is it now?" he asked anxiously, because she was still rubbing the tangled golden curls at the back of her head.

"Kiss it and make it well," she said, perfectly serious, showing him the sore place. "That's what mother used to do. Where's mother?"

"Mother's gone. I guess you'll see her before long."

"Gone, eh!" said the little girl. "Funny, she didn't say good-bye. She almost always did, if she was just going over to Auntie's for tea. And now she's been away three days. Say, it's awfully dry, isn't it? Isn't there any water, or anything to eat?"

"No, there isn't anything, dearie. You'll just need to be patient a while, and then you'll be all right. Put your head up against me like that, and you'll feel better. It isn't easy to talk when your lips are like leather. But I guess I'd better let you know how things stand. What's that you've got?"

"Pretty things! Fine things!" cried the little girl happily, holding up two glittering pieces of mica. "When we go back home, I'll give them to brother Bob."

"You'll see prettier things than those soon," said the man confidently. "You just wait a bit. I was going to tell you, though. Do you remember when we left the river?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, we thought we would reach another river soon, you see. But something was wrong. Maybe it was the compasses, or the map, or something. The river didn't turn up. The water ran out. There was just a little drop left for the likes of you and—and——"

"And you couldn't wash yourself," his companion interrupted gravely, staring up at his dirty face.

"No, and we couldn't drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the first to go, and then Indian Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then, dearie, your mother."

"Then mother's dead too," cried the little girl, dropping her face into her pinafore and sobbing bitterly.

"Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought there was some chance of water in this direction. So I lifted you over my shoulder, and we tramped on together. It doesn't seem we've made things better. There's an awfully small chance for us now!"

"Do you mean that we are going to die too?" asked the child, stopping her sobs and lifting her tear-stained face.

"I guess that's about the size of it."

"Why didn't you say so before?" she said, laughing happily. "You gave me such a fright. Why, of course! Now, as long as we die, we'll be with mother again."

"Yes, you will, dearie."

"And you too. I'll tell her how awfully good you've been. I'll bet she meets us at the door of Heaven with a big pitcher of water. I'll bet she has a lot of buckwheat cakes too, hot, and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me were fond of. How long will it be first?"

"I don't know—not very long." The man's eyes were fixed on the northern horizon. In the blue arch of the sky three little specks had appeared. They grew bigger every moment, because they came so fast. Soon they became three large brown birds. They circled over the heads of the two wanderers and then settled on some rocks above them. They were buzzards, the vultures of the west, whose coming means that death is near.

"Cocks and hens," cried the little girl gleefully, pointing at their ugly, unlucky shapes and clapping her hands to make them rise. "Say, did God make this country?"

"Of course He did," said her companion, rather startled by this unexpected question.

"He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the Missouri," the little girl continued. "I guess somebody else made the country in these parts. It's not nearly so well done. They forgot the water and the trees."

"What would you think of saying a prayer?" the man asked shyly.

"It isn't night yet," she answered.

"It doesn't matter. It isn't quite the usual way, but He won't mind that, you bet. You say the ones that you used to say every night in the wagon when we were on the Plains."

"Why don't you say some yourself?" the child asked, with wondering eyes.

"I forget them," he answered. "I haven't said any since I was half the height of that gun. I guess it's never too late. You say them out, and I'll stand by and join in on the choruses."

"Then you'll need to kneel down, and me too," she said, laying the shawl out for that. "You've got to put your hands up like this. It makes you feel kind of good."

It would have been a strange sight, if anyone but the buzzards had been there to see it. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the little chattering child and the reckless, hardened adventurer. Her chubby face and his thin, bony face were both turned up to the cloudless sky. They prayed with all their hearts to that great Being whom they were now so close to. The two voices, one thin and clear, the other deep and harsh, joined in asking for mercy and forgiveness. When the prayer was finished, they sat down again in the shadow of the boulder. The child fell asleep, snuggled against the broad chest of her protector. He watched over her sleep for some time, but Nature was too strong for him. For three days and three nights he had allowed himself no rest. Slowly the eyelids dropped over the tired eyes, and the head sank lower and lower on his chest. At last the man's grey-streaked beard mixed with the golden hair of his companion. Both slept the same deep, dreamless sleep.

If the wanderer had stayed awake for another half hour, a strange sight would have met his eyes. Far away, at the very edge of the alkali plain, a little spray of dust rose up. At first it was very slight and hard to tell from the mists of the distance. But it slowly grew higher and broader until it formed a solid, clear cloud. The cloud kept growing. It became clear that only a great crowd of moving creatures could raise it. In more fertile places an observer would have thought a herd of bison was coming. Those great herds graze on the prairie lands. In these dry wilds that was clearly impossible. The whirl of dust came nearer to the lonely hill where the two castaways were resting. Then the canvas-covered tops of wagons and the shapes of armed horsemen began to show through the haze. The sight turned out to be a great caravan on its way west. But what a caravan! When its head had reached the foot of the mountains, its tail was not yet visible on the horizon. The long, straggling line stretched right across the enormous plain. There were wagons and carts, men on horseback, and men on foot. There were countless women who staggered along under heavy loads. There were children who toddled beside the wagons or peeped out from under the white covers. This was clearly no ordinary party of immigrants. It was more like a wandering people. Hard times had forced them to look for a new country. A confused clattering and rumbling rose through the clear air from this great mass of people. There was the creaking of wheels and the neighing of horses too. Loud as it was, it was not enough to wake the two tired travellers above them.

At the head of the column rode twenty or more grave, iron-faced men. They wore plain, dark homespun clothes and carried rifles. When they reached the foot of the hill, they stopped and held a short council.

"The wells are to the right, my brothers," said one, a hard-lipped, clean-shaven man with grey hair.

"To the right of the Sierra Blanco, so we shall reach the Rio Grande," said another.

"Do not fear for water," cried a third. "He who could draw it from the rocks will not now abandon His own chosen people."

"Amen! Amen!" answered the whole party.

They were about to go on when one of the youngest and sharpest-eyed men cried out. He pointed up at the rough crag above them. A little wisp of pink fluttered from its top, bright and hard against the grey rocks behind. At the sight, horses were pulled up and guns were unslung. Fresh horsemen came galloping up to join the front guard. The word "Redskins" was on every lip.

"There can't be many Injuns here," said the elderly man who seemed to be in command. "We have passed the Pawnees, and there are no other tribes until we cross the great mountains."

"Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson?" asked one of the band.

"And I," "and I," cried a dozen voices.

"Leave your horses below, and we will wait for you here," the Elder answered. In a moment the young men had got off their horses and tied them up. They began to climb the steep slope that led to the thing that had excited their curiosity. They moved quickly and silently, with the confidence and skill of practised scouts. The watchers on the plain below could see them move from rock to rock. At last their figures stood out against the skyline. The young man who had first given the alarm led them. Suddenly his followers saw him throw up his hands, as if overcome with surprise. When they joined him, the sight before their eyes affected them in the same way.

On the little flat top of the barren hill stood a single giant boulder. Against this boulder lay a tall man, long-bearded and hard-featured, but terribly thin. His peaceful face and regular breathing showed that he was fast asleep. Beside him lay a little child. Her round white arms were around his brown, muscular neck, and her golden-haired head rested on the chest of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were parted, showing a regular line of snow-white teeth. A playful smile played over her childish face. Her plump little white legs ended in white socks and neat shoes with shining buckles. They made a strange contrast to the long, shrivelled limbs of her companion. On the ledge of rock above this strange couple stood three solemn buzzards. When they saw the newcomers, they uttered harsh screams of disappointment and flapped sullenly away.

The cries of the ugly birds woke the two sleepers, who stared about them in confusion. The man staggered to his feet and looked down on the plain. It had been so empty when sleep took him. Now this enormous body of men and animals was crossing it. His face showed disbelief as he gazed. He passed his bony hand over his eyes. "This is what they call delirium, I guess," he muttered. The child stood beside him, holding on to the skirt of his coat. She said nothing, but looked all round her with the wondering, questioning gaze of a child.

The rescuing party soon convinced the two castaways that what they saw was no dream. One of the men seized the little girl and lifted her onto his shoulder. Two others supported her thin companion and helped him towards the wagons.

"My name is John Ferrier," the wanderer explained. "Me and that little one are all that's left of twenty-one people. The rest are all dead of thirst and hunger, away down in the south."

"Is she your child?" asked someone.

"I guess she is now," the other cried defiantly. "She's mine because I saved her. No man will take her from me. She's Lucy Ferrier from this day on. Who are you, though?" he continued, looking with curiosity at his strong, sunburned rescuers. "There seems to be a powerful lot of you."

"Nearly ten thousand," said one of the young men. "We are the persecuted children of God, the chosen of the Angel Merona."

"I never heard tell of him," said the wanderer. "He seems to have chosen a fair crowd of you."

"Do not joke about what is sacred," said the other sternly. "We are those who believe in the sacred writings. They were written in Egyptian letters on plates of beaten gold, and they were handed to the holy Joseph Smith at Palmyra. We have come from Nauvoo, in the State of Illinois, where we built our temple. We have come to look for a refuge from violent men and from the godless. We would even look for it in the heart of the desert."

The name of Nauvoo clearly brought back memories to John Ferrier. "I see," he said. "You are the Mormons."

"We are the Mormons," answered his companions with one voice.

"And where are you going?"

"We do not know. The hand of God is leading us through our Prophet. You must come before him. He will say what is to be done with you."

By this time they had reached the foot of the hill. They were surrounded by crowds of the pilgrims: pale-faced, meek-looking women, strong, laughing children, and anxious men with earnest eyes. Many cries of surprise and pity rose from them. They saw how young one of the strangers was and how poor the other. Their escort did not stop but pushed on, followed by a great crowd of Mormons. At last they reached a wagon that stood out for its great size and its bright, smart look. Six horses were harnessed to it, while the others had two, or at most four, each. Beside the driver sat a man who could not have been more than thirty years old. But his massive head and firm expression marked him as a leader. He was reading a brown-backed book. As the crowd came near, he put it aside and listened closely to an account of the event. Then he turned to the two castaways.

"If we take you with us," he said, in solemn words, "it can only be as believers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold. It is far better that your bones should whiten in this wilderness. That is better than that you should prove to be a little speck of decay. In time such a speck spoils the whole fruit. Will you come with us on these terms?"

"Guess I'll come with you on any terms," said Ferrier, so strongly that the grave Elders could not hold back a smile. The leader alone kept his stern, impressive look.

"Take him, Brother Stangerson," he said. "Give him food and drink, and the child too. Let it be your task also to teach him our holy creed. We have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!"

"On, on to Zion!" cried the crowd of Mormons. The words rippled down the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth. At last they died away in a dull murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of whips and a creaking of wheels, the great wagons began to move. Soon the whole caravan was winding along once more. The Elder had been given care of the two lost travellers. He led them to his wagon, where a meal was already waiting for them.

"You shall stay here," he said. "In a few days you will have recovered from your tiredness. In the meantime, remember that now and for ever you are of our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he has spoken with the voice of Joseph Smith, which is the voice of God."

### Glossary

- **alkali**: a salty white or grey dust found in dry desert land
- **chaparral bushes**: small, tough bushes that grow in dry places
- **buzzards**: large birds that eat dead animals
- **mica**: a shiny mineral that breaks into thin, glittering pieces
- **caravan**: a long line of wagons and travellers going together
- **Mormons**: members of a church that travelled west to find a new home
- **Elder**: a senior leader in the Mormon church
- **Prophet**: a leader who speaks for God
- **Zion**: the Mormons' name for the promised land they were looking for

## The Flower of Utah

This is not the place to tell of the troubles and hardships of the immigrant Mormons. They suffered them before they reached their final home. They had struggled on from the shores of the Mississippi to the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains. Their steadiness was almost without equal in history. They had beaten savage men and savage beasts, hunger, thirst, tiredness and disease. They had overcome every obstacle that Nature could place in their way, with Anglo-Saxon stubbornness. Yet the long journey and the growing terrors had shaken the hearts of even the strongest. They saw the broad valley of Utah bathed in sunlight below them. Every one of them sank to his knees in heartfelt prayer. Their leader told them that this was the promised land. These untouched acres would be theirs for ever.

Young soon proved himself to be a skilful organiser as well as a firm leader. Maps were drawn and plans were prepared, showing where the future city would stand. All around, farms were shared out according to the standing of each person. The tradesman was put to his trade and the craftsman to his work. In the town, streets and squares sprang up as if by magic. In the country there was draining and hedging, planting and clearing. By the next summer the whole country was golden with the wheat crop. Everything did well in the strange settlement. Above all, the great temple that they had built in the centre of the city grew taller and larger. From the first light of dawn until the end of twilight, the sound of hammers and saws never stopped. The temple was their monument to the One who had led them safely through many dangers.

The two castaways went with the Mormons to the end of their great journey. They were John Ferrier and the little girl who had shared his fortunes. He had adopted her as his daughter. Little Lucy Ferrier was carried along quite comfortably in Elder Stangerson's wagon. She shared it with the Elder's three wives and with his son, a headstrong, pushy boy of twelve. She recovered quickly from the shock of her mother's death, as children do. Soon she became a pet of the women, and she accepted this new life in her moving, canvas-covered home. Meanwhile Ferrier recovered from his hardships. He made himself useful as a guide and as a tireless hunter. He quickly won the respect of his new companions. When they reached the end of their wanderings, everyone agreed on one thing. He should receive as large and fertile a piece of land as any settler. The only exceptions were Young himself and the four principal Elders: Stangerson, Kemball, Johnston and Drebber.

On the farm that he received, John Ferrier built himself a solid log-house. He added so much to it in the following years that it grew into a roomy villa. He was a practical man, sharp in his dealings and skilful with his hands. His iron health let him work morning and evening, improving and ploughing his land. So his farm and everything that belonged to him did very well. In three years he was better off than his neighbours. In six he was well-to-do, and in nine he was rich. In twelve there were not half a dozen men in all Salt Lake City who could compare with him. From the great inland sea to the distant Wahsatch Mountains, no name was better known than John Ferrier's.

There was one way, and only one, in which he offended the feelings of his fellow believers. No argument or persuasion could make him set up a household of wives, as his companions did. He never gave reasons for this stubborn refusal. He was content to keep firmly and stiffly to his decision. Some people accused him of being lukewarm in his adopted religion. Others said it was greed for wealth and unwillingness to spend money. Others spoke of an early love affair. They said a fair-haired girl had pined away on the shores of the Atlantic. Whatever the reason, Ferrier stayed strictly without a wife. In every other way he followed the religion of the young settlement. He gained the name of an orthodox and honest man.

Lucy Ferrier grew up in the log-house and helped her adopted father in all his work. The keen mountain air and the smell of the pines took the place of nurse and mother. As year followed year, she grew taller and stronger, her cheeks more rosy and her step lighter. Many travellers on the high road past Ferrier's farm felt long-forgotten thoughts come back. They watched her slim, girlish figure tripping through the wheatfields. Or they met her riding her father's mustang, handling it with all the ease and grace of a true child of the West. So the bud blossomed into a flower. That was the year her father became the richest of the farmers. She was then as fine an example of American girlhood as any on the whole Pacific slope.

It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child had become a woman. It seldom is, in such cases. That mysterious change is too subtle and too gradual to be measured by dates. Least of all does the girl herself know it. Then the tone of a voice or the touch of a hand makes her heart thrill. She learns, with a mixture of pride and fear, that a new and larger nature has awoken in her. There are few people who cannot remember that day. They remember the one little incident that began a new life. In Lucy Ferrier's case the event was serious enough in itself. It also had a great effect later on her fate and the fate of many others.

It was a warm June morning. The Latter Day Saints were as busy as the bees whose hive they have chosen as their emblem. In the fields and in the streets rose the same hum of human work. Long lines of heavily loaded mules came down the dusty high roads, all heading west. Gold fever had broken out in California, and the Overland Route went through the City of the Elect. There were also droves of sheep and bullocks coming in from the grazing lands far from the city. There were trains of tired immigrants, men and horses equally weary of their endless journey. Through all this mixed crowd Lucy Ferrier galloped, threading her way with the skill of an expert rider. Her fair face was flushed with the exercise, and her long chestnut hair floated out behind her. She had a task from her father in the City. She was dashing in as she had done many times before, with all the fearlessness of youth. She thought only of her task and how to carry it out. The travel-stained adventurers gazed after her in astonishment. Even the Indians, who came in with their furs, gave up their usual stern calm. They marvelled at the beauty of the pale-faced girl.

She had reached the edge of the city when she found the road blocked by a great drove of cattle. Half a dozen wild-looking herdsmen from the plains were driving it. In her impatience she tried to pass this obstacle by pushing her horse into what looked like a gap. She had hardly got into it when the animals closed in behind her. She found herself completely trapped in the moving stream of fierce-eyed, long-horned bullocks. She was used to dealing with cattle, so she was not alarmed. She took every chance to urge her horse on, hoping to push her way through. Unfortunately the horns of one of the creatures struck the flank of the mustang hard, by accident or on purpose. This drove the horse mad. In an instant it reared up on its hind legs with a snort of rage. It pranced and tossed in a way that would have thrown any but a very skilful rider. The situation was full of danger. Every plunge of the excited horse brought it against the horns again. This drove it to fresh madness. The girl could hardly keep herself in the saddle. Yet a slip would mean a terrible death under the hoofs of the clumsy, terrified animals. She was not used to sudden emergencies. Her head began to swim, and her grip on the bridle began to loosen. She was choked by the rising cloud of dust and by the steam from the struggling creatures. She might have given up in despair, but a kindly voice at her elbow promised her help. At the same moment a strong brown hand caught the frightened horse by the bridle. It forced a way through the drove and soon brought her to the edge.

"You're not hurt, I hope, miss," said her rescuer respectfully.

She looked up at his dark, fierce face and laughed cheekily. "I'm awfully frightened," she said, innocently. "Whoever would have thought that Poncho would be so scared by a lot of cows?"

"Thank God you kept your seat," the other said earnestly. He was a tall, wild-looking young man, riding a powerful roan horse. He wore the rough clothes of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over his shoulders. "I guess you are the daughter of John Ferrier," he said. "I saw you ride down from his house. When you see him, ask him if he remembers the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he's the same Ferrier, my father and he were pretty close."

"Hadn't you better come and ask him yourself?" she asked, with a modest look.

The young man seemed pleased at the idea, and his dark eyes sparkled with pleasure. "I'll do that," he said. "We've been in the mountains for two months, and we're not fit to visit anyone. He must take us as he finds us."

"He has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I," she answered. "He's awfully fond of me. If those cows had jumped on me, he would never have got over it."

"Neither would I," said her companion.

"You! Well, I don't see that it would matter much to you, anyhow. You aren't even a friend of ours."

The young hunter's dark face grew so gloomy at this remark that Lucy Ferrier laughed aloud.

"There, I didn't mean that," she said. "Of course you are a friend now. You must come and see us. Now I must hurry on, or father won't trust me with his business any more. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye," he answered, raising his broad sombrero and bending over her little hand. She turned her mustang round and gave it a cut with her riding-whip. She darted away down the broad road in a rolling cloud of dust.

Young Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions, gloomy and silent. He and his companions had been in the Nevada Mountains, looking for silver. They were returning to Salt Lake City. They hoped to raise enough money to work some silver veins that they had found. He had been as keen as any of them on the business. But this sudden incident turned his thoughts another way. The sight of the fair young girl had stirred his fiery, untamed heart to its depths. She was as frank and healthy as the Sierra breezes. When she vanished from his sight, he realised that a crisis had come in his life. Neither silver speculations nor any other question could ever matter to him as much as this new and all-absorbing one. The love that had sprung up in his heart was not the sudden, changing fancy of a boy. It was the wild, fierce passion of a man with a strong will and a commanding temper. He was used to succeeding in everything he tried. He swore in his heart that he would not fail, if human effort and patience could bring success.

He called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, until his face was familiar at the farm-house. John was shut up in the valley and absorbed in his work. For the last twelve years he had had little chance to learn the news of the outside world. Jefferson Hope was able to tell him all of it. He told it in a style that interested Lucy as well as her father. He had been a pioneer in California. He could tell many strange tales of fortunes made and fortunes lost in those wild, golden days. He had been a scout too, and a trapper, a silver explorer and a ranchman. Wherever there were exciting adventures to be had, Jefferson Hope had gone in search of them. He soon became a favourite with the old farmer, who spoke warmly of his good qualities. On such occasions Lucy was silent. But her blushing cheek and bright, happy eyes showed clearly that her young heart was no longer her own. Her honest father may not have noticed these signs. But they were certainly not wasted on the man who had won her love.

It was a summer evening when he came galloping down the road and pulled up at the gate. She was at the doorway, and she came down to meet him. He threw the bridle over the fence and strode up the pathway.

"I am off, Lucy," he said, taking her two hands in his and gazing tenderly down into her face. "I won't ask you to come with me now. But will you be ready to come when I am here again?"

"And when will that be?" she asked, blushing and laughing.

"A couple of months at the outside. I will come and claim you then, my darling. There's no one who can stand between us."

"And how about father?" she asked.

"He has given his consent, provided we get these mines working all right. I have no fear of that."

"Oh, well, of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there's no more to be said," she whispered, with her cheek against his broad chest.

"Thank God!" he said hoarsely, stooping and kissing her. "It is settled, then. The longer I stay, the harder it will be to go. They are waiting for me at the canyon. Good-bye, my own darling—good-bye. In two months you shall see me."

He tore himself away from her as he spoke. He flung himself on his horse and galloped furiously away. He never even looked round. He seemed afraid that his resolve might fail if he took one glance at what he was leaving. She stood at the gate, gazing after him until he vanished from her sight. Then she walked back into the house, the happiest girl in all Utah.

### Glossary

- **Elder**: a senior leader in the Mormon church
- **orthodox**: following the accepted rules of a religion
- **mustang**: a small, wild-bred horse of the American West
- **Latter Day Saints**: another name for the Mormons
- **Overland Route**: the main road across the land to the west coast
- **bullocks**: young male cattle
- **drove**: a large group of animals driven along together
- **roan**: a horse with a mix of white and brown or grey hair
- **sombrero**: a hat with a wide brim

## John Ferrier Talks with the Prophet

Three weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope and his friends left Salt Lake City. John Ferrier's heart was sore when he thought of the young man's return. He would soon lose the child he had adopted. Yet her bright, happy face made him accept the plan more than any argument could have done. Deep in his strong heart, he had always decided one thing. Nothing would ever make him let his daughter marry a Mormon. He thought such a marriage was no marriage at all, only a shame and a disgrace. Whatever he thought of the Mormon beliefs, on this one point he would never change his mind. But he had to keep his mouth shut about it. In those days, in the Land of the Saints, it was dangerous to say anything against the accepted beliefs.

Yes, it was dangerous. It was so dangerous that even the most holy men only whispered their opinions about religion. They held their breath, afraid that a word from their lips might be misunderstood. It could bring swift punishment down on them. The victims of persecution had now become persecutors themselves, and persecutors of the most terrible kind. Not even the Inquisition of Seville was so fearful. The German Vehmgericht and the Secret Societies of Italy were not worse. None of them used a more dreadful machine than the one that lay like a dark cloud over Utah.

This organization was invisible, and nobody understood it. That made it twice as terrible. It seemed to know everything and to have power over everything, yet nobody saw it or heard it. A man who stood against the Church vanished, and nobody knew where he had gone or what had happened to him. His wife and children waited for him at home. But no father ever came back to tell them how his secret judges had treated him. A careless word or a hasty act was followed by destruction. Yet nobody knew what this terrible power was that hung over them. No wonder men went about in fear and trembling. Even in the middle of the wilderness they did not dare to whisper the doubts that weighed on them.

At first this vague and terrible power was used only against rebels. These were men who had joined the Mormon faith but later wanted to change it or leave it. Soon, however, it reached wider. There were not enough grown women, and polygamy without women to draw from was an empty belief indeed. Strange rumours began to pass from mouth to mouth. There were rumours of murdered immigrants and robbed camps. This happened in places where no Indians had ever been seen. New women appeared in the harems of the Elders. They were women who grew weak with sorrow and wept, and their faces showed a horror that never went away. Travellers who were out late in the mountains spoke of gangs of armed men. The men were masked, and they moved secretly and silently past them in the darkness. These tales took shape and were confirmed again and again. At last they became one clear name: the Danite Band, or the Avenging Angels. To this day, on the lonely ranches of the West, that name brings fear and bad luck.

As people learned more about the organization and its terrible results, their horror grew rather than shrank. Nobody knew who belonged to this merciless society. Men did deeds of blood and violence in the name of religion. The names of those who took part were kept deeply secret. Even the friend to whom you told your doubts about the Prophet and his mission might be one of them. He might come out at night with fire and sword to make you pay terribly. So every man feared his neighbour, and nobody spoke about the things closest to his heart.

One fine morning, John Ferrier was about to go out to his wheatfields. He heard the click of the latch. Looking through the window, he saw a stout, sandy-haired, middle-aged man coming up the path. His heart leapt into his mouth, for this was the great Brigham Young himself. Ferrier was full of fear, for he knew that such a visit meant little good for him. He ran to the door to greet the Mormon chief. But Young received his greeting coldly and followed him with a stern face into the sitting-room.

"Brother Ferrier," he said, taking a seat and looking keenly at the farmer from under his light-coloured eyelashes, "the true believers have been good friends to you. We picked you up when you were starving in the desert. We shared our food with you and led you safely to the Chosen Valley. We gave you a good share of land and let you grow rich under our protection. Is this not so?"

"It is so," answered John Ferrier.

"In return we asked only one condition. You were to accept the true faith and follow all its customs. You promised to do this. If common report is true, you have not done it."

"How have I not done it?" asked Ferrier, throwing out his hands in protest. "Have I not given to the common fund? Have I not gone to the Temple? Have I not——?"

"Where are your wives?" asked Young, looking round him. "Call them in, so that I may greet them."

"It is true that I have not married," Ferrier answered. "But women were few, and many men had better claims than I. I was not a lonely man. I had my daughter to look after my needs."

"It is about that daughter that I want to speak to you," said the leader of the Mormons. "She has grown to be the flower of Utah. Many important men in the land look on her with favour."

John Ferrier groaned inside.

"There are stories about her that I would rather not believe. They say she is sealed to some Gentile. This must be the gossip of people with nothing to do. What is the thirteenth rule in the code of the holy Joseph Smith? 'Let every maiden of the true faith marry one of the elect. If she weds a Gentile, she commits a terrible sin.' This being so, you who hold the holy faith cannot let your daughter break the rule."

John Ferrier made no answer, but he played nervously with his riding-whip.

"On this one point your whole faith will be tested. So it has been decided in the Sacred Council of Four. The girl is young. We do not want her to marry an old man with grey hair, and we do not want to take away all her choice. We Elders have many heifers \[1\], but our children must also be provided for. Stangerson has a son, and Drebber has a son. Either of them would gladly welcome your daughter into his house. Let her choose between them. They are young and rich, and of the true faith. What do you say to that?"

\[1\] Heber C. Kemball, in one of his sermons, uses this loving word for his hundred wives.

Ferrier stayed silent for some time with a deep frown.

"You will give us time," he said at last. "My daughter is very young. She is hardly old enough to marry."

"She shall have a month to choose," said Young, rising from his seat. "At the end of that time she must give her answer."

He was going through the door when he turned, with a red face and flashing eyes. "It would be better for you, John Ferrier," he thundered, "if you and she were now lying as white skeletons on the Sierra Blanco, than that you should set your weak wills against the orders of the Holy Four!"

With a threatening wave of his hand, he turned from the door. Ferrier heard his heavy step crunching along the path of small stones.

Ferrier was still sitting with his elbows on his knees, wondering how to tell his daughter. Then a soft hand was laid on his. Looking up, he saw her standing beside him. One look at her pale, frightened face showed him that she had heard what was said.

"I could not help it," she said, in answer to his look. "His voice rang through the house. Oh, father, father, what shall we do?"

"Don't you scare yourself," he answered, drawing her to him and stroking her chestnut hair gently with his broad, rough hand. "We'll fix it up somehow. You don't find that you like this chap any less, do you?"

A sob and a squeeze of his hand was her only answer.

"No, of course not. I wouldn't want to hear you say you did. He's a fine lad, and he's a Christian, which is more than these folk here are, for all their praying and preaching. A party starts for Nevada tomorrow. I'll find a way to send him a message and tell him the hole we are in. If I know that young man, he'll be back here faster than any telegraph."

Lucy laughed through her tears at her father's words.

"When he comes, he will tell us what is best to do. But I am frightened for you, dear. One hears—one hears such dreadful stories about those who go against the Prophet. Something terrible always happens to them."

"But we haven't gone against him yet," her father answered. "It will be time to watch out for trouble when we do. We have a clear month before us. At the end of that, I guess we had best get out of Utah."

"Leave Utah!"

"That's about the size of it."

"But the farm?"

"We will raise as much money as we can and let the rest go. To tell the truth, Lucy, it isn't the first time I have thought of it. I don't like bowing down to any man, as these folk do to their darned prophet. I'm a free-born American, and all this is new to me. I guess I'm too old to learn. If he comes wandering about this farm, he might run into a charge of buckshot going the other way."

"But they won't let us leave," his daughter said.

"Wait till Jefferson comes, and we'll soon manage that. In the meantime, don't you fret, my dearie, and don't make your eyes red and swollen, or he'll walk into me when he sees you. There's nothing to be afraid of, and there's no danger at all."

John Ferrier said these comforting words in a very confident voice. But she could not help noticing that he took unusual care to lock the doors that night. He also cleaned and loaded the rusty old shotgun that hung on the wall of his bedroom.

### Glossary

- **Inquisition**: a church court in Spain long ago that punished people for their beliefs
- **Vehmgericht**: a secret court in Germany in the Middle Ages
- **harems**: the groups of wives that live in one man's house
- **Elders**: senior leaders of the Mormon church
- **Gentile**: in Utah, a person who is not a Mormon
- **sealed**: promised or married in a Mormon religious way
- **heifers**: young cows; here the Elders use the word for young women
- **skeletons**: the bones of dead people
- **buckshot**: small metal balls fired from a shotgun

## A Flight for Life

The morning after his talk with the Mormon Prophet, John Ferrier went into Salt Lake City. He found an acquaintance who was going to the Nevada Mountains. He gave him a message for Jefferson Hope. In it he told the young man about the danger that threatened them. He also told him how necessary it was that he should come back. After doing this, Ferrier felt easier in his mind. He went home with a lighter heart.

As he came near his farm, he was surprised to see a horse tied to each of the gate posts. He was even more surprised to find two young men in his sitting-room. One had a long pale face. He was leaning back in the rocking-chair with his feet up on the stove. The other was a bull-necked young man with coarse, bloated features. He stood in front of the window with his hands in his pockets, whistling a popular hymn. Both of them nodded to Ferrier as he came in. The one in the rocking-chair began the conversation.

"Maybe you don't know us," he said. "This here is the son of Elder Drebber, and I'm Joseph Stangerson. I travelled with you in the desert, when the Lord stretched out His hand and gathered you into the true fold."

"As He will gather all the nations in His own good time," said the other in a nasal voice. "God's mill grinds slowly, but it grinds very fine."

John Ferrier bowed coldly. He had guessed who his visitors were.

"We have come," Stangerson went on, "on the advice of our fathers to ask for the hand of your daughter. She will marry whichever of us seems good to you and to her. I have only four wives, and Brother Drebber here has seven. So it seems to me that my claim is the stronger one."

"No, no, Brother Stangerson," cried the other. "The question is not how many wives we have, but how many we can keep. My father has now given his mills to me, and I am the richer man."

"But my prospects are better," said Stangerson, warmly. "When the Lord takes my father, I shall have his tanning yard and his leather factory. Then I will be your senior, and higher in the Church."

"It will be for the maiden to decide," replied young Drebber, smiling with satisfaction at his own face in the mirror. "We will leave it all to her decision."

During this talk, John Ferrier stood in the doorway, boiling with anger. He could hardly keep his riding-whip off the backs of his two visitors.

"Look here," he said at last, striding up to them. "When my daughter calls for you, you can come. Until then I don't want to see your faces again."

The two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In their eyes, this competition for the maiden's hand was the highest honour, both for her and for her father.

"There are two ways out of the room," cried Ferrier. "There is the door, and there is the window. Which do you want to use?"

His brown face looked so savage, and his thin hands so threatening, that his visitors jumped up. They hurried away, and the old farmer followed them to the door.

"Let me know when you have decided which it is to be," he said, with a cold, mocking voice.

"You shall pay for this!" Stangerson cried, white with rage. "You have defied the Prophet and the Council of Four. You will be sorry for it to the end of your days."

"The hand of the Lord shall be heavy upon you," cried young Drebber. "He will rise up and strike you down!"

"Then I'll start the striking," exclaimed Ferrier furiously. He would have rushed upstairs for his gun, but Lucy seized him by the arm and held him back. Before he could get free of her, the clatter of horses' hoofs told him they were out of his reach.

"The young hypocritical rascals!" he exclaimed, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "I would rather see you in your grave, my girl, than the wife of either of them."

"And so would I, father," she answered, with spirit. "But Jefferson will soon be here."

"Yes. It will not be long before he comes. The sooner the better, for we do not know what their next move may be."

It was indeed high time for someone to come and help the sturdy old farmer and his adopted daughter. They needed a person who could give good advice. In the whole history of the settlement, there had never been such a case of open disobedience to the Elders. If small errors were punished so sternly, what would be the fate of this arch rebel? Ferrier knew that his wealth and position would not help him. Others as well known and as rich as himself had been secretly carried away before now. Their goods had been given to the Church. He was a brave man, but he trembled at the vague, shadowy terrors that hung over him. He could face any known danger with a firm lip, but this waiting was unnerving. He hid his fears from his daughter and pretended to make light of the whole matter. But she, with the sharp eye of love, saw plainly that he was ill at ease.

He expected a message or a complaint from Young about his behaviour, and he was not mistaken. But it came in an unexpected way. When he got up next morning, he found, to his surprise, a small square of paper. It was pinned to the cover of his bed, just over his chest. On it, in bold, uneven letters, was printed:

"Twenty-nine days are given you for amendment, and then——"

The dash was more frightening than any threat could have been. John Ferrier was very puzzled how this warning had come into his room. His servants slept in an outhouse, and all the doors and windows had been locked. He crumpled the paper up and said nothing to his daughter. But the event struck a chill into his heart. The twenty-nine days were clearly what was left of the month Young had promised. What strength or courage could help against an enemy with such mysterious powers? The hand that fixed that pin could have struck him to the heart, and he would never have known who killed him.

He was even more shaken the next morning. They had sat down to breakfast when Lucy cried out in surprise and pointed upwards. In the middle of the ceiling the number 28 was scrawled, apparently with a burned stick. To his daughter it meant nothing, and he did not explain it to her. That night he sat up with his gun and kept watch. He saw and heard nothing. Yet in the morning a great 27 had been painted on the outside of his door.

So day followed day. As surely as morning came, he found that his unseen enemies had kept their count. They had marked up in some clear place how many days were left to him of the month of grace. Sometimes the fatal numbers appeared on the walls, sometimes on the floors. Sometimes they were on small notices stuck on the garden gate or the railings. With all his watching, John Ferrier could not find out where these daily warnings came from. A horror that was almost superstitious came over him when he saw them. He became haggard and restless, and his eyes had the troubled look of a hunted animal. He now had only one hope in life: the arrival of the young hunter from Nevada.

Twenty had changed to fifteen and fifteen to ten, but there was no news of the absent man. One by one the numbers grew smaller, and still there was no sign of him. Whenever a horseman clattered down the road or a driver shouted at his horses, the farmer hurried to the gate. He thought that help had come at last. When at last he saw five give way to four, and four to three, he lost heart. He gave up all hope of escape. Alone, and knowing little of the mountains around the settlement, he knew he was powerless. The busier roads were strictly watched and guarded. Nobody could pass along them without an order from the Council. Whichever way he turned, there seemed no way to avoid the blow that hung over him. Yet the old man never changed his decision. He would give up life itself before he agreed to what he saw as his daughter's dishonour.

He was sitting alone one evening, thinking deeply about his troubles and searching in vain for a way out. That morning the figure 2 had appeared on the wall of his house. The next day would be the last of the time he was given. What was going to happen then? All kinds of vague and terrible fancies filled his imagination. And his daughter—what would become of her after he was gone? Was there no escape from the invisible net that was drawn all round them? He sank his head on the table and sobbed at the thought of his own helplessness.

What was that? In the silence he heard a gentle scratching sound. It was low, but very clear in the quiet of the night. It came from the door of the house. Ferrier crept into the hall and listened hard. There was a pause for a few moments, and then the low, sly sound was repeated. Someone was clearly tapping very gently on one of the panels of the door. Was it some midnight murderer who had come to carry out the deadly orders of the secret court? Or was it some agent who was marking up that the last day of grace had come? John Ferrier felt that instant death would be better than this waiting, which shook his nerves and chilled his heart. He sprang forward, drew the bolt and threw the door open.

Outside, all was calm and quiet. The night was fine, and the stars were twinkling brightly overhead. The little front garden lay before the farmer's eyes, with its fence and gate. But nobody could be seen there or on the road. With a sigh of relief, Ferrier looked to right and left. Then he happened to glance straight down at his own feet. To his astonishment he saw a man lying flat on his face on the ground, with his arms and legs spread out.

He was so shaken at the sight that he leaned against the wall with his hand at his throat. He was trying not to cry out. His first thought was that the figure on the ground was a wounded or dying man. But as he watched, he saw it twist along the ground and into the hall, as fast and as silently as a snake. Once inside the house, the man sprang to his feet and closed the door. The astonished farmer now saw the fierce face and firm look of Jefferson Hope.

"Good God!" gasped John Ferrier. "How you scared me! Whatever made you come in like that?"

"Give me food," the other said hoarsely. "I have had no time to eat or drink for forty-eight hours." He threw himself on the cold meat and bread still lying on the table from his host's supper, and ate it hungrily. "Is Lucy holding up well?" he asked, when he had had enough.

"Yes. She does not know the danger," her father answered.

"That is well. The house is watched on every side. That is why I crawled up to it. They may be darned sharp, but they're not quite sharp enough to catch a Washoe hunter."

John Ferrier felt a different man now that he knew he had a devoted ally. He seized the young man's tough hand and shook it warmly. "You're a man to be proud of," he said. "There are not many who would come to share our danger and our troubles."

"You've hit it there, partner," the young hunter answered. "I respect you, but if you were alone in this business, I'd think twice before I put my head into such a hornet's nest. It's Lucy that brings me here. Before harm comes to her, I guess there will be one less of the Hope family in Utah."

"What are we to do?"

"Tomorrow is your last day, and unless you act tonight, you are lost. I have a mule and two horses waiting in the Eagle Ravine. How much money have you?"

"Two thousand dollars in gold, and five in notes."

"That will do. I have as much more to add to it. We must push on to Carson City through the mountains. You had best wake Lucy. It is a good thing that the servants do not sleep in the house."

While Ferrier was away, preparing his daughter for the coming journey, Jefferson Hope packed all the food he could find into a small parcel. He filled a stoneware jar with water, for he knew from experience that mountain wells were few and far between. He had hardly finished before the farmer came back with his daughter, all dressed and ready to start. The greeting between the lovers was warm but short, for minutes were precious and there was much to do.

"We must start at once," said Jefferson Hope. He spoke in a low, firm voice. He knew how great the danger was, but he had made his heart hard to meet it. "The front and back entrances are watched. But with care we may get away through the side window and across the fields. Once on the road, we are only two miles from the Ravine where the horses are waiting. By daybreak we should be half-way through the mountains."

"What if we are stopped?" asked Ferrier.

Hope slapped the butt of the revolver that stuck out from the front of his tunic. "If there are too many for us, we shall take two or three of them with us," he said with an evil smile.

The lights inside the house had all been put out. From the darkened window Ferrier looked out over the fields that had been his own, and that he was now going to leave for ever. He had long prepared himself for this loss. The thought of his daughter's honour and happiness outweighed any regret at his ruined fortunes. All looked so peaceful and happy, with the rustling trees and the broad, silent stretch of grain-land. It was hard to realize that the spirit of murder hid in it all. Yet the young hunter's white face and set look showed the truth. On his way to the house, he had seen enough to be sure of it.

Ferrier carried the bag of gold and notes. Jefferson Hope had the small supply of food and the water. Lucy had a small bundle with a few of her more valued possessions. They opened the window very slowly and carefully. They waited until a dark cloud made the night somewhat darker. Then one by one they passed through into the little garden. Holding their breath and crouching low, they stumbled across it and reached the shelter of the hedge. They followed the hedge until they came to the gap that opened into the cornfields. They had just reached this point when the young man seized his two companions and dragged them down into the shadow. There they lay silent and trembling.

It was lucky that his training on the prairie had given Jefferson Hope the ears of a lynx. They had hardly crouched down when they heard the sad hooting of a mountain owl, a few yards away. Another hoot answered it immediately from a little distance. At the same moment a vague, shadowy figure came out of the gap they had been heading for. He gave the sad signal cry again, and a second man appeared out of the darkness.

"Tomorrow at midnight," said the first, who seemed to be in command. "When the Whip-poor-Will calls three times."

"It is well," said the other. "Shall I tell Brother Drebber?"

"Pass it on to him, and from him to the others. Nine to seven!"

"Seven to five!" repeated the other, and the two figures slipped away in different directions. Their last words were clearly a sign and a countersign. The moment their footsteps had died away, Jefferson Hope sprang to his feet. He helped his companions through the gap and led the way across the fields at top speed. He supported the girl and half-carried her when her strength seemed to fail.

"Hurry on! Hurry on!" he gasped from time to time. "We are through the line of sentinels. Everything depends on speed. Hurry on!"

Once on the high road, they made fast progress. They met someone only once, and then they slipped into a field and so avoided being recognized. Before they reached the town, the hunter turned off onto a rough, narrow footpath that led to the mountains. Two dark, jagged peaks loomed above them through the darkness. The defile between them was the Eagle Cañon, where the horses were waiting. With sure instinct, Jefferson Hope picked his way among the great boulders and along the bed of a dried-up stream. At last he came to a hidden corner, screened by rocks, where the faithful animals had been tied. The girl was placed on the mule, and old Ferrier on one of the horses, with his money-bag. Jefferson Hope led the other horse along the steep and dangerous path.

It was a bewildering route for anyone not used to facing Nature in her wildest moods. On one side a great crag towered up a thousand feet or more, black, stern and threatening. Long basaltic columns on its rough surface looked like the ribs of some monster turned to stone. On the other side a wild mass of boulders and broken rock made it impossible to go forward. Between the two ran the uneven track. In places it was so narrow that they had to travel in single file. It was so rough that only practised riders could have crossed it at all. Yet in spite of all dangers and difficulties, the hearts of the fugitives were light. Every step increased the distance between them and the terrible tyranny they were fleeing from.

They soon had proof, however, that they were still within the power of the Saints. They had reached the wildest and loneliest part of the pass. Then the girl gave a startled cry and pointed upwards. On a rock above the track, dark and clear against the sky, stood a lone sentinel. He saw them as soon as they saw him. His military challenge of "Who goes there?" rang through the silent ravine.

"Travellers for Nevada," said Jefferson Hope, with his hand on the rifle that hung by his saddle.

They could see the lonely watcher fingering his gun and peering down at them, as if he did not like their answer.

"By whose permission?" he asked.

"The Holy Four," answered Ferrier. His Mormon experience had taught him that this was the highest authority he could name.

"Nine from seven," cried the sentinel.

"Seven from five," Hope answered quickly. He remembered the countersign that he had heard in the garden.

"Pass, and the Lord go with you," said the voice from above. Beyond his post the path became wider, and the horses were able to break into a trot. Looking back, they could see the lone watcher leaning on his gun. They knew that they had passed the outer post of the chosen people, and that freedom lay before them.

### Glossary

- **tanning yard**: a place where animal skins are made into leather
- **outhouse**: a small building separate from the main house
- **month of grace**: extra time given before a punishment begins
- **Washoe hunter**: a hunter from the Washoe area of Nevada
- **countersign**: a secret answer to a secret sign
- **sentinel**: a guard who watches
- **defile**: a narrow path between mountains
- **basaltic columns**: tall, straight pillars of dark volcanic rock
- **Holy Four**: the four main Elders who rule with the Prophet
- **five in notes**: five thousand dollars in paper money

## The Avenging Angels

All night their way led through twisting mountain passes and over rough, rock-covered paths. More than once they lost their way, but Hope knew the mountains well and found the track again. When morning came, a scene of wonderful but wild beauty lay before them. In every direction the great snow-capped peaks closed them in, peeping over each other's shoulders to the far horizon. The rocky banks on either side were so steep that the larch and pine trees seemed to hang over their heads. It seemed that one gust of wind would bring them crashing down. The fear was not entirely an illusion. The barren valley was thickly covered with trees and boulders that had fallen in just this way. Even as they passed, a great rock came thundering down with a hoarse rattle. It woke the echoes in the silent gorges and startled the tired horses into a gallop.

The sun rose slowly above the eastern horizon. The tops of the great mountains lit up one after the other, like lamps at a festival. At last they were all red and glowing. The magnificent sight cheered the hearts of the three fugitives and gave them new energy. At a wild torrent that swept out of a ravine, they stopped and watered their horses. They ate a hasty breakfast. Lucy and her father would gladly have rested longer, but Jefferson Hope would not give way. "They will be on our track by this time," he said. "Everything depends on our speed. Once safe in Carson we may rest for the rest of our lives."

During the whole of that day they struggled on through the defiles. By evening they calculated that they were more than thirty miles from their enemies. At night they chose the foot of an overhanging crag, where the rocks gave some protection from the cold wind. There they huddled together for warmth and enjoyed a few hours' sleep. Before daybreak, however, they were up and on their way again. They had seen no sign of any pursuers. Jefferson Hope began to think that they were well out of reach of the terrible organization whose hatred they had earned. He little knew how far that iron grasp could reach. He did not know how soon it would close on them and crush them.

About the middle of the second day of their flight, their small store of food began to run out. This worried the hunter little, however, for there was game to be had among the mountains. He had often before had to depend on his rifle for the needs of life. He chose a sheltered corner, piled together a few dried branches, and made a blazing fire. His companions could warm themselves at it. They were now nearly five thousand feet above sea level, and the air was bitter and sharp. He tied up the horses and said goodbye to Lucy. Then he threw his gun over his shoulder and set out to look for whatever chance might bring him. Looking back, he saw the old man and the young girl crouching over the blazing fire. The three animals stood still behind them. Then the rocks between hid them from his view.

He walked for a couple of miles through one ravine after another without success. But from the marks on the bark of the trees, and other signs, he judged that there were many bears nearby. At last, after two or three hours of useless search, he was thinking of turning back in despair. Then he looked upwards and saw a sight that sent a thrill of pleasure through his heart. On the edge of a jutting pinnacle, three or four hundred feet above him, stood a creature. It looked somewhat like a sheep, but it had a pair of gigantic horns. The big-horn—as it is called—was probably guarding a flock that the hunter could not see. Luckily it was facing the other way and had not noticed him. He lay on his face and rested his rifle on a rock. He took a long, steady aim before pulling the trigger. The animal sprang into the air, tottered for a moment on the edge of the precipice, and then came crashing down into the valley below.

The creature was too heavy to lift, so the hunter was content to cut away one haunch and part of the flank. With this prize over his shoulder, he hurried to retrace his steps, for evening was already coming on. He had hardly started, however, when he realized the difficulty before him. In his eagerness he had wandered far past the ravines that he knew. It was not easy to find the path he had taken. The valley divided and divided again into many gorges. They were so like each other that it was impossible to tell one from another. He followed one for a mile or more. Then he came to a mountain torrent that he was sure he had never seen before. He was convinced that he had taken the wrong turn, so he tried another, but with the same result. Night was coming on fast. It was almost dark when at last he found himself in a defile he knew. Even then it was not easy to keep to the right track, for the moon had not yet risen. The high cliffs on either side made the darkness deeper. Weighed down by his load and tired from his efforts, he stumbled along. He kept up his heart with the thought that every step brought him nearer to Lucy. He also carried enough to give them food for the rest of their journey.

He had now come to the mouth of the very defile where he had left them. Even in the darkness he could recognize the shape of the cliffs on its sides. They must, he thought, be waiting for him anxiously, for he had been away nearly five hours. He was glad. He put his hands to his mouth and made the glen echo with a loud halloo. It was a signal that he was coming. He paused and listened for an answer. None came except his own cry. It clattered up the dreary, silent ravines and came back to his ears in countless echoes. Again he shouted, even louder than before. Again no whisper came back from the friends he had left such a short time ago. A vague, nameless dread came over him. He hurried on wildly, dropping the precious food in his fear.

When he turned the corner, he came in full sight of the spot where the fire had been lit. There was still a glowing pile of wood ashes there, but it had clearly not been tended since he left. The same dead silence still reigned all round. His fears had now become certainties, and he hurried on. There was no living creature near the remains of the fire. Animals, man, girl, all were gone. It was only too clear that some sudden and terrible disaster had happened while he was away. It had taken them all, and yet it had left no trace behind.

Confused and stunned by this blow, Jefferson Hope felt his head spin. He had to lean on his rifle to keep himself from falling. But he was above all a man of action, and he soon recovered from his helplessness. He seized a half-burned piece of wood from the smouldering fire and blew it into a flame. With its help he began to examine the little camp. The ground was all stamped down by the feet of horses. This showed that a large party of mounted men had overtaken the fugitives. The direction of their tracks proved that they had afterwards turned back to Salt Lake City. Had they carried back both of his companions with them? Jefferson Hope had almost persuaded himself that they must have done so. Then his eye fell on something that made every nerve in his body tingle. A little way from the camp was a low heap of reddish soil, which had certainly not been there before. It could only be a newly dug grave. As the young hunter came near, he saw a stick planted in it. A sheet of paper was stuck in the split top of the stick. The words on the paper were short, but to the point:

JOHN FERRIER, Formerly of Salt Lake City, Died August 4th, 1860.

The sturdy old man, whom he had left so short a time before, was gone, then, and this was all his epitaph. Jefferson Hope looked wildly round to see if there was a second grave, but there was no sign of one. Lucy had been carried back by their terrible pursuers. They would make her fulfil her first destiny, to become one of the harem of the Elder's son. The young man realized that her fate was certain and that he was powerless to prevent it. He wished that he too was lying with the old farmer in his last silent resting-place.

Again, however, his active spirit shook off the heaviness that comes from despair. If nothing else was left to him, he could at least give his life to revenge. Jefferson Hope had great patience and would never give up. He also had a power of lasting vengefulness, which he may have learned from the Indians among whom he had lived. As he stood by the empty fire, he felt that one thing alone could ease his grief. That was full and complete punishment of his enemies, brought by his own hand. He decided that his strong will and tireless energy should be given to that one purpose. With a grim, white face he went back to where he had dropped the food. He stirred up the smouldering fire and cooked enough to last him a few days. He made it into a bundle. Tired as he was, he set out to walk back through the mountains on the track of the avenging angels.

For five days he toiled on, footsore and weary, through the defiles that he had already crossed on horseback. At night he threw himself down among the rocks and snatched a few hours of sleep. But before daybreak he was always well on his way. On the sixth day he reached the Eagle Cañon, from which their unlucky flight had begun. From there he could look down on the home of the saints. Worn and exhausted, he leaned on his rifle and shook his thin hand fiercely at the silent, widespread city beneath him. As he looked at it, he noticed that there were flags in some of the main streets, and other signs of a festival. He was still wondering what this meant when he heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs. He saw a mounted man riding towards him. As the man came near, Hope recognized him. He was a Mormon named Cowper, to whom he had done favours at different times. So he spoke to him when he came up. He wanted to find out what had happened to Lucy Ferrier.

"I am Jefferson Hope," he said. "You remember me."

The Mormon looked at him with open astonishment. Indeed, it was hard to see the neat young hunter of former days in this ragged wanderer. He had a ghastly white face and fierce, wild eyes. But at last the man was sure who it was, and his surprise changed to alarm.

"You are mad to come here," he cried. "It is as much as my life is worth to be seen talking with you. There is a warrant against you from the Holy Four for helping the Ferriers to get away."

"I don't fear them, or their warrant," Hope said earnestly. "You must know something of this matter, Cowper. I beg you, by everything you hold dear, to answer a few questions. We have always been friends. For God's sake, don't refuse to answer me."

"What is it?" the Mormon asked uneasily. "Be quick. The very rocks have ears and the trees eyes."

"What has become of Lucy Ferrier?"

"She was married yesterday to young Drebber. Hold up, man, hold up, you have no life left in you."

"Don't mind me," said Hope faintly. He was white to the very lips, and he had sunk down on the stone against which he had been leaning. "Married, you say?"

"Married yesterday—that's what those flags are for on the Endowment House. There were some words between young Drebber and young Stangerson about which of them was to have her. They had both been in the party that followed them, and Stangerson had shot her father. That seemed to give him the best claim. But when they argued it out in council, Drebber's party was the stronger. So the Prophet gave her to him. No one will have her very long, though, for I saw death in her face yesterday. She is more like a ghost than a woman. Are you off, then?"

"Yes, I am off," said Jefferson Hope, who had risen from his seat. His face might have been cut out of marble, so hard and set was its expression. His eyes glowed with an evil light.

"Where are you going?"

"Never mind," he answered. He slung his weapon over his shoulder and strode off down the gorge, away into the heart of the mountains, to the homes of the wild beasts. Among them all there was none so fierce and so dangerous as himself.

The Mormon's prediction came only too true. Perhaps it was the terrible death of her father. Perhaps it was the hateful marriage into which she had been forced. Poor Lucy never held up her head again. She grew weaker and weaker from sorrow and died within a month. Her drunken husband had married her mostly for John Ferrier's property. He did not pretend any great grief at his loss. But his other wives mourned over her. They sat up with her the night before the burial, as is the Mormon custom. They were grouped round the bier in the early hours of the morning. Then, to their great fear and astonishment, the door was flung open. A savage-looking, weather-beaten man in ragged clothes strode into the room. He did not look at the frightened women or speak to them. He walked up to the white, silent figure that had once held the pure soul of Lucy Ferrier. Stooping over her, he pressed his lips reverently to her cold forehead. Then he snatched up her hand and took the wedding-ring from her finger. "She shall not be buried in that," he cried with a fierce snarl. Before an alarm could be raised, he sprang down the stairs and was gone. The episode was so strange and so brief that the watchers could hardly believe it themselves. They could not have made other people believe it. But the circlet of gold that marked her as a bride had disappeared. That was undeniable.

For some months Jefferson Hope stayed among the mountains. He led a strange, wild life, and he nursed in his heart the fierce desire for revenge that possessed him. Tales were told in the City of a weird figure. It was seen prowling around the suburbs and haunting the lonely mountain gorges. Once a bullet whistled through Stangerson's window and flattened itself on the wall within a foot of him. Another time, Drebber passed under a cliff, and a great boulder crashed down at him. He escaped a terrible death only by throwing himself on his face. The two young Mormons soon discovered the reason for these attempts on their lives. They led many expeditions into the mountains, hoping to capture or kill their enemy, but always without success. Then they took the precaution of never going out alone or after nightfall, and of having their houses guarded. After a time they were able to relax these measures. Nothing was heard or seen of their opponent, and they hoped that time had cooled his thirst for revenge.

But time had not cooled it. If anything, it had made his hatred stronger. The hunter's mind was hard and unyielding. The one idea of revenge had taken such complete possession of it that there was no room for any other feeling. Above all things, however, he was practical. He soon realized that even his iron body could not stand the constant strain he was putting on it. Exposure and lack of healthy food were wearing him out. If he died like a dog among the mountains, what would become of his revenge then? And yet such a death was sure to come to him if he went on. He felt that this would be playing his enemy's game. So he went back, unwillingly, to the old Nevada mines. There he would recover his health and save enough money to follow his purpose without hardship.

He had meant to be away a year at the most. But a mix of unexpected events kept him in the mines for nearly five years. At the end of that time, his memory of his wrongs and his craving for revenge were as sharp as ever. They were as sharp as on that unforgettable night by John Ferrier's grave. Disguised, and under a false name, he returned to Salt Lake City. He did not care what happened to his own life. He wanted only what he knew to be justice. There he found bad news waiting for him. A few months before, there had been a split among the Chosen People. Some of the younger members of the Church had rebelled against the authority of the Elders. As a result, a number of the unhappy rebels had left Utah and become Gentiles. Drebber and Stangerson were among them, and no one knew where they had gone. Rumour said that Drebber had managed to turn a large part of his property into money. He had left as a rich man. His companion Stangerson was comparatively poor. But there was no clue at all as to where they were.

Many a man, however vengeful, would have given up all thought of revenge in the face of such a difficulty. But Jefferson Hope never faltered for a moment. He had only a small amount of money, which he stretched with any work he could find. With it he travelled from town to town through the United States, searching for his enemies. Year passed into year, and his black hair became streaked with grey. But still he wandered on like a human bloodhound. His mind was wholly set on the one purpose to which he had given his life. At last his patience was rewarded. It was only a glance at a face in a window. But that one glance told him that Cleveland in Ohio held the men he was hunting. He returned to his miserable lodgings with his plan of revenge all made. It happened, however, that Drebber, looking from his window, had seen the wanderer in the street. He had recognized him and had read murder in his eyes. He hurried to a justice of the peace, with Stangerson, who had become his private secretary. He told the justice that they were in danger of their lives from the jealousy and hatred of an old rival. Jefferson Hope was arrested that evening. He could not find anyone to pay bail for him, and he was held for some weeks. When at last he was set free, he found that Drebber's house was empty. Drebber and his secretary had left for Europe.

Again the avenger had been beaten, and again his deep hatred urged him to go on with the hunt. But he had no money, so for some time he had to go back to work. He saved every dollar for his coming journey. At last he had collected enough to keep himself alive, and he left for Europe. He followed his enemies from city to city, working his way in any humble job, but he never caught up with them. When he reached St. Petersburg, they had left for Paris. When he followed them there, he learned that they had just set off for Copenhagen. In the Danish capital he was again a few days late, for they had gone on to London. There at last he found them. For what happened there, we cannot do better than quote the old hunter's own account. It is written down in Dr. Watson's Journal, to which we already owe so much.

### Glossary

- **torrent**: a fast, strong stream of water
- **defile**: a narrow path between mountains
- **big-horn**: a wild mountain sheep with very large horns
- **haunch**: the back leg and hip of an animal
- **epitaph**: words written for a dead person on a grave
- **harem**: the group of wives that live in one man's house
- **bier**: a stand on which a dead body is placed before the burial
- **bail**: money paid so that a prisoner can go free until his trial
- **justice of the peace**: an official who can hold a court and order an arrest

## A Continuation of the Reminiscences of John Watson, M.D.

Our prisoner had fought like a madman. But this did not mean that he was fierce towards us. When he found that he was powerless, he smiled in a friendly way. He hoped that he had not hurt any of us in the fight. "I guess you're going to take me to the police-station," he said to Sherlock Holmes. "My cab's at the door. If you'll loosen my legs, I'll walk down to it. I'm not as light to lift as I used to be."

Gregson and Lestrade looked at each other. They seemed to think this a rather bold idea. But Holmes at once took the prisoner at his word. He loosened the towel which we had tied round his ankles. The prisoner stood up and stretched his legs, as if to make sure that they were free again. I remember thinking, as I looked at him, that I had seldom seen a more powerfully built man. His dark, sunburned face showed a determination and energy that were as frightening as his strength.

"If there's a vacant place for a chief of the police, I reckon you are the man for it," he said. He looked with open admiration at the man who shared my rooms. "The way you kept on my trail was a caution."

"You had better come with me," Holmes said to the two detectives.

"I can drive you," said Lestrade.

"Good! And Gregson can come inside with me. You too, Doctor. You have taken an interest in the case, and you may as well stay with us."

I agreed gladly, and we all went down together. Our prisoner made no attempt to escape. He stepped calmly into the cab which had been his own, and we followed him. Lestrade climbed up to the driver's seat and whipped up the horse. In a very short time he brought us to the police-station.

We were shown into a small room. There a police Inspector wrote down our prisoner's name. He also wrote the names of the two men he was charged with murdering. The Inspector was a white-faced, unemotional man who did his duties in a dull, mechanical way. "The prisoner will be put before the magistrates in the course of the week," he said. "In the meantime, Mr. Jefferson Hope, do you have anything that you wish to say? I must warn you that your words will be written down and may be used against you."

"I've got a good deal to say," our prisoner said slowly. "I want to tell you gentlemen all about it."

"Hadn't you better keep that for your trial?" asked the Inspector.

"I may never be tried," he answered. "You needn't look startled. It isn't suicide I am thinking of. Are you a doctor?" He turned his fierce dark eyes on me as he asked this last question.

"Yes, I am," I answered.

"Then put your hand here," he said with a smile. He pointed with his handcuffed wrists towards his chest.

I did so, and at once I felt a strange throbbing and movement inside. The walls of his chest seemed to shake and tremble. It was like a weak building when a powerful engine is working inside it. In the silence of the room I could hear a dull humming and buzzing noise from the same place.

"Why," I cried, "you have an aortic aneurism!"

"That's what they call it," he said calmly. "I went to a doctor last week about it. He told me that it is bound to burst before many days have passed. It has been getting worse for years. I got it from too much time out in bad weather, and too little food, among the Salt Lake Mountains. I've done my work now, and I don't care how soon I go. But I should like to leave some account of the business behind me. I don't want to be remembered as a common cut-throat."

The Inspector and the two detectives talked quickly about whether they should let him tell his story.

"Do you think, Doctor, that there is immediate danger?" the Inspector asked.

"Most certainly there is," I answered.

"In that case it is clearly our duty, in the interests of justice, to take down his statement," said the Inspector. "You are free, sir, to give your account. I warn you again that it will be written down."

"I'll sit down, with your leave," the prisoner said, and he did so. "This aneurism of mine makes me tired easily. The fight we had half an hour ago has not helped. I'm on the brink of the grave, and I'm not likely to lie to you. Every word I say is the absolute truth. How you use it is of no importance to me."

With these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back in his chair and began the following remarkable statement. He spoke in a calm and careful way, as though the events were quite ordinary. I can promise that the account below is accurate. I have seen Lestrade's note-book, where the prisoner's words were written down exactly as he said them.

"It don't much matter to you why I hated these men," he said. "It's enough that they were guilty of the death of two human beings, a father and a daughter. So they had lost the right to their own lives. So much time had passed since their crime that I could never have got them punished in any court. But I knew they were guilty. I decided that I would be judge, jury and executioner all in one. You'd have done the same, if you have any manhood in you, in my place.

"That girl that I spoke of was to have married me twenty years ago. She was forced to marry that same Drebber, and it broke her heart. I took the wedding ring from her dead finger. I swore that his dying eyes would rest on that very ring. I swore that his last thoughts would be of the crime for which he was punished. I have carried it with me. I have followed him and his accomplice over two continents until I caught them. They thought they would tire me out, but they could not. If I die tomorrow, as is likely enough, I die knowing that my work in this world is done, and done well. They have died, and by my hand. There is nothing left for me to hope for or to wish for.

"They were rich and I was poor, so it was not easy to follow them. When I got to London my pocket was nearly empty. I knew that I must find some work to live. Driving and riding are as natural to me as walking, so I went to a cab-owner's office and soon got a job. I had to bring a certain sum a week to the owner, and I could keep whatever was over that. There was seldom much over, but I managed to get along somehow. The hardest job was learning my way about. Of all the mazes that were ever made, I reckon this city is the most confusing. But I had a map beside me. Once I had learned where the main hotels and stations were, I got on pretty well.

"It was some time before I found out where my two gentlemen were living. But I asked and asked until at last I dropped across them. They were at a boarding-house in Camberwell, on the other side of the river. Once I found them, I knew that I had them at my mercy. I had grown my beard, so there was no chance of them knowing me. I would follow them closely until I saw my chance. I was determined that they would not escape me again.

"They very nearly did escape, for all that. Wherever they went in London, I was always at their heels. Sometimes I followed them in my cab, and sometimes on foot. The cab was best, because then they could not get away from me. I could only earn money early in the morning or late at night. So I began to fall behind with what I owed my employer. I did not mind that, as long as I could lay my hand on the men I wanted.

"They were very cunning, though. They must have thought that they might be followed. They would never go out alone, and never after nightfall. For two weeks I drove behind them every day, and I never once saw them separate. Drebber himself was drunk half the time. But Stangerson was never caught off guard. I watched them late and early, but I never saw even the smallest chance. I was not discouraged, because something told me that the hour had almost come. My only fear was that this thing in my chest might burst too soon and leave my work undone.

"At last, one evening, I was driving up and down Torquay Terrace, the street where they boarded. I saw a cab drive up to their door. Soon some luggage was brought out. After a time Drebber and Stangerson followed it and drove off. I whipped up my horse and kept them in sight. I felt very uneasy, because I feared that they were going to move to other lodgings. At Euston Station they got out. I left a boy to hold my horse and followed them onto the platform. I heard them ask for the Liverpool train. The guard answered that one had just gone and there would not be another for some hours. Stangerson seemed annoyed at that, but Drebber was rather pleased. I got so close to them in the crowd that I could hear every word between them. Drebber said that he had a little business of his own to do. If the other would wait for him, he would soon join him again. His companion argued with him and reminded him that they had agreed to stick together. Drebber answered that the matter was a delicate one, and that he must go alone. I could not catch what Stangerson said to that. But Drebber burst out swearing. He said that Stangerson was nothing more than a paid servant and must not give him orders. At that, Stangerson, the Secretary, gave it up as a bad job. He only made one agreement with him. If Drebber missed the last train, he would join Stangerson at Halliday's Private Hotel. Drebber answered that he would be back on the platform before eleven, and he left the station.

"The moment I had waited for so long had come at last. I had my enemies in my power. Together they could protect each other, but alone they were at my mercy. I did not act too quickly, however. My plans were already made. There is no satisfaction in revenge unless the guilty man knows who is striking him. He must also know why the punishment has come. My plan was to make the man who had wronged me understand that his old sin had found him out. Some days before, a gentleman had been looking over houses in the Brixton Road. By chance he dropped the key of one of them in my cab. He claimed it that same evening, and I returned it. But in the meantime I had taken a mould of it and had a copy made. With this I could reach at least one place in this great city where I would not be interrupted. The difficult problem now was how to get Drebber to that house.

"He walked down the road and went into one or two liquor shops. He stayed nearly half an hour in the last of them. When he came out he staggered as he walked, and he was clearly quite drunk. There was a hansom just in front of me, and he called it. I followed it so close that my horse's nose was within a yard of his driver the whole way. We rattled across Waterloo Bridge and through miles of streets. To my astonishment, we found ourselves back in the Terrace where he had boarded. I could not imagine why he was going back there. But I went on and stopped my cab a hundred yards or so from the house. He went in, and his hansom drove away. Give me a glass of water, if you please. My mouth gets dry with the talking."

I handed him the glass, and he drank it down.

"That's better," he said. "Well, I waited for a quarter of an hour or more. Suddenly there came a noise like people struggling inside the house. The next moment the door was thrown open and two men appeared. One was Drebber, and the other was a young chap I had never seen before. This fellow had Drebber by the collar. When they came to the top of the steps, he gave him a shove and a kick that sent him half across the road. 'You hound,' he cried, shaking his stick at him, 'I'll teach you to insult an honest girl!' He was so angry that I think he would have beaten Drebber with his cudgel. But the coward staggered away down the road as fast as his legs would carry him. He ran as far as the corner. Then he saw my cab, called to me and jumped in. 'Drive me to Halliday's Private Hotel,' he said.

"When I had him inside my cab, my heart jumped so much with joy that I feared my aneurism might go wrong at this last moment. I drove along slowly, thinking about what was best to do. I might take him right out into the country and have my last meeting with him in some empty lane. I had almost decided on this when he solved the problem for me. The craze for drink had seized him again. He told me to stop outside a gin palace. He went in and left word that I should wait for him. He stayed there until closing time. When he came out he was so far gone that I knew the game was in my own hands.

"Don't imagine that I meant to kill him in cold blood. It would only have been strict justice if I had, but I could not bring myself to do it. I had long ago decided that he should have a chance for his life, if he chose to take it. In my wandering life in America I have had many jobs. Once I was janitor and sweeper in the laboratory at York College. One day the professor was giving a lecture on poisons. He showed his students an alkaloid, as he called it, which he had taken from some South American arrow poison. It was so powerful that the smallest grain meant instant death. I noticed the bottle where this was kept. When they were all gone, I helped myself to a little of it. I was fairly good at mixing medicines, so I worked this alkaloid into small pills that dissolve in water. I put each pill in a box with a similar pill made without the poison. I decided then that when I had my chance, my gentlemen would each draw one pill out of one of these boxes. I would eat the pill that remained. It would be just as deadly, and a good deal less noisy than firing across a handkerchief. From that day I always had my pill boxes with me, and the time had now come to use them.

"It was nearer one o'clock than twelve. The night was wild and bleak, with a strong wind and rain pouring down. It was dismal outside, but inside I was glad. I was so glad that I could have shouted out for pure joy. If any of you gentlemen have ever longed for something for twenty long years, and then suddenly found it within reach, you would understand my feelings. I lit a cigar and puffed at it to steady my nerves. But my hands were trembling, and my temples were throbbing with excitement. As I drove, I could see old John Ferrier and sweet Lucy looking at me out of the darkness and smiling at me. I saw them as plainly as I see you all in this room. All the way they were ahead of me, one on each side of the horse, until I stopped at the house in the Brixton Road.

"There was not a soul to be seen, nor a sound to be heard, except the dripping of the rain. When I looked in at the window, I found Drebber all huddled together in a drunken sleep. I shook him by the arm. 'It's time to get out,' I said.

"'All right, cabby,' said he.

"I suppose he thought we had come to the hotel that he had named. He got out without another word and followed me down the garden. I had to walk beside him to keep him steady, because he was still a little unsteady on his feet. When we came to the door, I opened it and led him into the front room. I give you my word that all the way, the father and the daughter were walking in front of us.

"'It's awfully dark,' said he, stamping about.

"'We'll soon have a light,' I said. I struck a match and put it to a wax candle which I had brought with me. 'Now, Enoch Drebber,' I went on, turning to him and holding the light to my own face, 'who am I?'

"He looked at me for a moment with red, drunken eyes. Then I saw horror spring up in them and twist his whole face. That showed me that he knew me. He staggered back with a deathly pale face. I saw the sweat break out on his forehead, and his teeth chattered in his head. At the sight, I leaned my back against the door and laughed loud and long. I had always known that revenge would be sweet. But I had never hoped for the peace of soul which now filled me.

"'You dog!' I said. 'I have hunted you from Salt Lake City to St. Petersburg, and you have always escaped me. Now at last your wanderings have come to an end. Either you or I will never see tomorrow's sun rise.' He shrank still further away as I spoke. I could see on his face that he thought I was mad. So I was, for the time. The pulses in my temples beat like heavy hammers. I believe I would have had a fit of some sort. But the blood gushed from my nose and relieved me.

"'What do you think of Lucy Ferrier now?' I cried. I locked the door and shook the key in his face. 'Punishment has been slow in coming, but it has caught you at last.' I saw his coward lips tremble as I spoke. He would have begged for his life, but he knew well that it was useless.

"'Would you murder me?' he stammered.

"'There is no murder,' I answered. 'Who talks of murdering a mad dog? What mercy did you show my poor darling? You dragged her from her murdered father. You carried her away to your cursed and shameless harem.'

"'It was not I who killed her father,' he cried.

"'But it was you who broke her innocent heart,' I screamed, pushing the box in front of him. 'Let the high God judge between us. Choose and eat. There is death in one and life in the other. I shall take what you leave. Let us see if there is justice on earth, or if we are ruled by chance.'

"He shrank back with wild cries and prayers for mercy. But I drew my knife and held it to his throat until he had obeyed me. Then I swallowed the other pill. We stood facing each other in silence for a minute or more, waiting to see which of us would live and which would die. Shall I ever forget the look on his face when the first warning pains told him that the poison was in his body? I laughed as I saw it, and held Lucy's wedding ring in front of his eyes. It was only for a moment, because the alkaloid works fast. A spasm of pain twisted his face. He threw his hands out in front of him and staggered. Then, with a hoarse cry, he fell heavily on the floor. I turned him over with my foot and put my hand on his heart. There was no movement. He was dead!

"The blood had been streaming from my nose, but I had taken no notice of it. I don't know what put it into my head to write on the wall with it. Perhaps I had some playful idea of sending the police on a wrong track, for I felt light-hearted and cheerful. I remembered a German being found in New York with RACHE written above him. The newspapers argued at the time that the secret societies must have done it. I guessed that what puzzled the New Yorkers would puzzle the Londoners. So I dipped my finger in my own blood and printed it in a convenient place on the wall. Then I walked down to my cab. There was nobody about, and the night was still very wild. I had driven some distance when I put my hand into the pocket where I usually kept Lucy's ring, and found that it was not there. I was shocked at this, for it was the only thing I had to remember her by. I thought I might have dropped it when I stooped over Drebber's body. So I drove back and left my cab in a side street. I went boldly up to the house, for I was ready to dare anything rather than lose the ring. When I arrived, I walked right into the arms of a police-officer who was coming out. I only managed to calm his suspicions by pretending to be hopelessly drunk.

"That was how Enoch Drebber came to his end. All I had to do then was to do as much for Stangerson, and so pay off John Ferrier's debt. I knew that he was staying at Halliday's Private Hotel. I hung about all day, but he never came out. I fancy that he suspected something when Drebber did not appear. He was cunning, was Stangerson, and always on his guard. If he thought he could keep me away by staying indoors, he was very much mistaken. I soon found out which was the window of his bedroom. Early next morning I took advantage of some ladders which were lying in the lane behind the hotel. So I made my way into his room in the grey of the dawn. I woke him up and told him that the hour had come when he must answer for the life he had taken so long before. I described Drebber's death to him, and I gave him the same choice of the poisoned pills. He did not grab at the chance of safety that this gave him. Instead he sprang from his bed and flew at my throat. In self-defence I stabbed him to the heart. It would have been the same in any case. Providence would never have allowed his guilty hand to pick out anything but the poison.

"I have little more to say, and it's as well, for I am about worn out. I went on driving my cab for a day or so. I meant to keep at it until I could save enough to take me back to America. I was standing in the yard when a ragged youngster asked if there was a cabby there called Jefferson Hope. He said that his cab was wanted by a gentleman at 221B, Baker Street. I went round, suspecting no harm. The next thing I knew, this young man here had the handcuffs on my wrists, and I was as neatly tied up as ever I saw in my life. That's the whole of my story, gentlemen. You may think I am a murderer. But I hold that I am just as much an officer of justice as you are."

The man's story had been so thrilling, and his manner so impressive, that we had sat silent and absorbed. Even the professional detectives were no longer excited by any detail of crime. Yet they seemed keenly interested in the man's story. When he finished, we sat for some minutes in a stillness. It was broken only by the scratching of Lestrade's pencil, as he added the last touches to his shorthand account.

"There is only one point on which I should like a little more information," Sherlock Holmes said at last. "Who was your accomplice who came for the ring which I advertised?"

The prisoner winked at my friend in a joking way. "I can tell my own secrets," he said, "but I don't get other people into trouble. I saw your advertisement. I thought it might be a trap, or it might be the ring I wanted. My friend volunteered to go and see. I think you'll admit he did it cleverly."

"Not a doubt of that," said Holmes heartily.

"Now, gentlemen," the Inspector said gravely, "the forms of the law must be followed. On Thursday the prisoner will be brought before the magistrates, and you will be needed there. Until then I will be responsible for him." He rang the bell as he spoke. Jefferson Hope was led off by a couple of warders. My friend and I left the Station and took a cab back to Baker Street.

### Glossary

- **a caution**: something that makes people stare in surprise; here, amazing
- **cut-throat**: a violent criminal who kills people
- **aneurism**: a swelling in a large blood vessel that can burst and kill
- **accomplice**: a person who helps someone to commit a crime
- **cudgel**: a short, thick stick used as a weapon
- **gin palace**: a large, showy bar where people drink strong alcohol
- **janitor**: a person who cleans and looks after a building
- **alkaloid**: a strong chemical from plants, often a poison
- **firing across a handkerchief**: fighting a duel with guns from very close, each holding one end of a handkerchief
- **Providence**: God's care for the world and his plan for it

## The Conclusion

We had all been told to appear before the magistrates on the Thursday. But when Thursday came, there was no need for our evidence. A higher Judge had taken the matter in hand. Jefferson Hope had been called before a court where strict justice would be given to him. On the very night after his capture the aneurism burst. In the morning he was found stretched on the floor of his cell, with a calm smile on his face. It was as though in his dying moments he had been able to look back on a useful life and on work well done.

"Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his death," Holmes remarked, as we chatted it over next evening. "Where will their grand advertisement be now?"

"I don't see that they had very much to do with his capture," I answered.

"What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence," returned my companion bitterly. "The question is, what can you make people believe that you have done? Never mind," he went on, more brightly, after a pause. "I would not have missed the investigation for anything. There has been no better case that I can remember. Simple as it was, there were several most instructive points about it."

"Simple!" I cried.

"Well, really, it can hardly be called anything else," said Sherlock Holmes, smiling at my surprise. "The proof of how simple it was is this. I had no help except a few very ordinary deductions. Yet I was able to lay my hand on the criminal within three days."

"That is true," said I.

"I have already explained to you that something out of the ordinary is usually a guide rather than a problem in your way. In solving a problem of this sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backwards. That is a very useful skill, and a very easy one, but people do not practise it much. In the everyday affairs of life it is more useful to reason forwards, so the other way is neglected. There are fifty people who can reason synthetically for one who can reason analytically."

"I confess," said I, "that I do not quite follow you."

"I hardly expected that you would. Let me see if I can make it clearer. Most people, if you describe a series of events to them, will tell you what the result would be. They can put those events together in their minds and argue that something will happen. But few people can do the opposite. If you tell them a result, they cannot work out in their own minds the steps that led to it. This power is what I mean when I talk of reasoning backwards, or analytically."

"I understand," said I.

"Now this was a case in which you were given the result and had to find everything else for yourself. Let me try to show you the different steps in my reasoning. To begin at the beginning. I approached the house, as you know, on foot, with my mind completely free of any impressions. I naturally began by examining the roadway. There, as I have already explained to you, I saw clearly the marks of a cab. I found out by asking that it must have been there during the night. I was sure that it was a cab and not a private carriage, because of how narrow the space between the wheels was. The ordinary London growler is considerably less wide than a gentleman's brougham.

"This was the first point gained. Then I walked slowly down the garden path. It happened to be made of clay soil, which is very good for taking marks. No doubt it looked to you like a mere trampled line of mud. But to my trained eyes every mark on its surface had a meaning. No part of detective science is so important as the art of tracing footsteps. And none is so much neglected. Luckily, I have always put great stress on it, and much practice has made it second nature to me. I saw the heavy footmarks of the constables. But I also saw the track of the two men who had first passed through the garden. It was easy to tell that they had come first. In places their marks were completely wiped out by the other footmarks on top of them. In this way my second link was formed. It told me that the night visitors were two in number. One was remarkable for his height, as I calculated from the length of his stride. The other was fashionably dressed, to judge from the small and elegant mark left by his boots.

"When I went into the house, this last idea was confirmed. My well-booted man lay before me. The tall one, then, had done the murder, if murder there was. There was no wound on the dead man's body. But the troubled look on his face told me that he had foreseen his fate before it came upon him. Men who die of heart disease, or any sudden natural cause, never by any chance show such a look on their faces. I sniffed the dead man's lips and detected a slightly sour smell. I came to the conclusion that he had had poison forced upon him. Again, I argued that it had been forced upon him, from the hatred and fear shown on his face. I had reached this result by ruling out everything else, for no other idea would fit the facts. Do not imagine that it was a very unheard-of idea. The forcible giving of poison is by no means new in the records of crime. The cases of Dolsky in Odessa and of Leturier in Montpellier will occur at once to any expert on poisons.

"And now came the great question of why. Robbery had not been the aim of the murder, for nothing was taken. Was it politics, then, or was it a woman? That was the question facing me. From the first I leaned towards the second idea. Political assassins are only too glad to do their work and run away. This murder, on the contrary, had been done very deliberately. The murderer had left his tracks all over the room, which showed that he had been there all the time. It must have been a private wrong, and not a political one, that called for such a careful revenge. When the writing was found on the wall, I leaned more than ever to my opinion. It was too clearly meant to mislead. When the ring was found, however, that settled the question. Clearly the murderer had used it to remind his victim of some dead or absent woman. It was at this point that I asked Gregson a question. I asked whether he had enquired, in his telegram to Cleveland, about any particular point in Mr. Drebber's earlier life. He answered, you remember, that he had not.

"Then I made a careful examination of the room. It confirmed my opinion about the murderer's height. It also gave me the extra details about the Trichinopoly cigar and the length of his nails. There were no signs of a struggle. So I had already decided that the blood on the floor came from the murderer's nose, in his excitement. I could see that the track of blood matched the track of his feet. It is seldom that any man, unless he is very full-blooded, bleeds like this through emotion. So I risked the opinion that the criminal was probably a strong, red-faced man. Events proved that I had judged correctly.

"Having left the house, I did what Gregson had neglected. I telegraphed to the head of the police at Cleveland. I limited my question to the circumstances connected with the marriage of Enoch Drebber. The answer was conclusive. It told me that Drebber had already asked for the protection of the law against an old rival in love, named Jefferson Hope. It also said that this same Hope was at present in Europe. I knew now that I held the clue to the mystery in my hand. All that remained was to catch the murderer.

"I had already decided that the man who walked into the house with Drebber was the cab-driver himself. The marks in the road showed me that the horse had wandered on. That would have been impossible if anyone had been in charge of it. Where, then, could the driver be, unless he was inside the house? Again, it is absurd to think that a sane man would commit a deliberate crime in front of a third person. That person was sure to betray him. Lastly, if one man wished to follow another through London, what better way could he choose than to become a cab-driver? All this led me to the unavoidable conclusion that Jefferson Hope was among the cab-drivers of London.

"If he was a cab-driver, there was no reason to think that he had stopped being one. On the contrary, from his point of view, any sudden change would be likely to draw attention to himself. He would probably, for a time at least, go on doing his duties. There was no reason to suppose that he was using a false name. Why should he change his name in a country where no one knew his original one? So I organised my detective corps of street boys. I sent them, one after another, to every cab owner in London, until they found the man I wanted. You remember well how successful they were, and how quickly I took advantage of it. The murder of Stangerson was an event that I had not expected at all. But it could hardly have been prevented in any case. Through it, as you know, I came into possession of the pills. I had already guessed that they existed. You see the whole thing is a chain of logical sequences without a break or flaw."

"It is wonderful!" I cried. "Your merits should be publicly recognised. You should publish an account of the case. If you won't, I will for you."

"You may do what you like, Doctor," he answered. "See here!" he went on, handing me a paper. "Look at this!"

It was the *Echo* for the day, and the paragraph he pointed to was about the case.

"The public," it said, "have lost a sensational treat through the sudden death of the man Hope. He was suspected of the murder of Mr. Enoch Drebber and of Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The details of the case will probably never be known now. But we are told, on good authority, that the crime came from an old and romantic feud. Love and Mormonism played a part in it. It seems that both the victims belonged, in their younger days, to the Latter Day Saints. Hope, the dead prisoner, also comes from Salt Lake City. If nothing else, the case has shown how good our detective police force is. It has shown this in a most striking way. It will also teach all foreigners a lesson. They will be wise to settle their feuds at home and not carry them on to British soil. It is an open secret that the credit for this smart capture belongs entirely to the well-known Scotland Yard officials. They are Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson. The man was arrested, it appears, in the rooms of a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes. As an amateur, he has himself shown some talent for detective work. With such teachers, he may hope in time to reach some degree of their skill. It is expected that a testimonial of some sort will be given to the two officers as a fitting reward for their services."

"Didn't I tell you so when we started?" cried Sherlock Holmes with a laugh. "That's the result of all our Study in Scarlet: to get them a testimonial!"

"Never mind," I answered. "I have all the facts in my journal, and the public shall know them. In the meantime you must be content with the knowledge of your success, like the Roman miser—

"'Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplor in arca.'"

### Glossary

- **aneurism**: a swelling in a large blood vessel that can burst and kill
- **analytically**: by starting from the result and working back to the steps that led to it
- **synthetically**: by starting from the events and working forward to the result
- **growler**: a four-wheeled cab for hire in London
- **brougham**: a gentleman's private closed carriage
- **feud**: a long, bitter quarrel between people or families
- **testimonial**: a public gift or letter that thanks someone for good work
- **miser**: a person who loves money and keeps it all for himself
- **Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplor in arca**: Latin lines by Horace: "The people hiss at me, but I applaud myself at home when I look at the money in my box."