# The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (B1 edition)

*Arthur Conan Doyle*

## A Scandal in Bohemia

To Sherlock Holmes, she is always *the* woman. I have rarely heard him use any other name for her. To him, she stands far above all other women. This did not mean that he felt anything like love for Irene Adler. His mind was cold and exact, but wonderfully balanced. He hated all emotions, especially love.

I believe he was the most perfect machine for reasoning and observation that the world has ever seen. But he would have been quite wrong in the position of a lover. He only spoke about love and tenderness to laugh at them. For someone studying human behaviour, these feelings were excellent subjects. They helped him understand the reasons behind people’s actions. But a trained thinker could not allow them into his own carefully balanced mind. They would disturb his thinking and make all his conclusions doubtful. Strong feeling would disturb such a man as much as sand in a delicate instrument. It would be like a crack in one of his powerful lenses. And yet, for him, there was only one woman. That woman was the late Irene Adler, whose reputation was far from good.

I had seen little of Holmes recently. My marriage had slowly drawn us apart. I was completely happy. As a new husband with my own home, I had many interests there. They were enough to fill my thoughts. Holmes, however, hated every kind of social life. His independent spirit preferred our old rooms in Baker Street, among his old books. One week he would turn to cocaine, and the next to his work. The drug made him sleepy and dreamy. His ambition brought back all the fierce energy of his sharp mind.

Crime still attracted him as strongly as ever. He used his great intelligence and remarkable powers of observation to follow clues. He solved mysteries which the official police had given up as hopeless. Sometimes I heard unclear reports of his work. He had been called to Odessa about the murder of Trepoff. He had explained the strange tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee. Finally, he had completed a very delicate task for Holland’s royal family, with great success. But I knew these things only from the newspapers, like all their other readers. Apart from these signs of activity, I knew little about my old friend and companion.

One night, on 20 March 1888, I was returning from a visit to a patient. I had started working as a doctor again, outside the army. My journey took me through Baker Street. I passed the familiar door. In my mind, it would always be connected with the days when I was winning my wife’s love. It also recalled the dark events of the Study in Scarlet. Suddenly I very much wanted to see Holmes again. I wanted to know how he was using his extraordinary abilities.

His rooms were brightly lit. As I looked up, his tall, thin shadow crossed the window blind twice. He was walking quickly and eagerly about the room. His head was bent towards his chest, and his hands were held behind his back. I knew all his moods and habits, so his movements told me everything. He was working again. He had left his drug-filled dreams and was eagerly following a new problem. I rang the bell. Someone showed me upstairs to the room which had once partly been mine.

His welcome was not warm or excited. It rarely was. But I think he was glad to see me. He hardly spoke, but his eyes were kind. He waved me towards an armchair and threw me his cigar case. He pointed to the spirits and the gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire and studied me in his strange, thoughtful way.

“Marriage suits you,” he said. “Watson, I think you have gained seven and a half pounds since we last met.”

“Seven!” I answered.

“Really? I would have thought a little more. Just a little more, Watson. And I see you are working as a doctor again. You did not tell me you intended to return to work.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I see it, and I reason from what I see. How do I know you have been getting very wet recently? And that you have a very clumsy, careless servant girl?”

“My dear Holmes,” I said, “this is too much. A few centuries ago, people would certainly have burned you. It is true that I walked in the country on Thursday. I came home in a dreadful mess. But I have changed my clothes, so I cannot imagine how you know. As for Mary Jane, nothing will improve her. My wife has told her to leave her job. But again, I cannot see how you worked that out.”

He laughed quietly and rubbed his long, restless hands together.

“It is perfectly simple,” he said. “Look at the inside of your left shoe, where the firelight falls. I can see six cuts in the leather, running almost alongside each other. Someone clearly scraped carelessly around the edge of the sole to remove dried mud. From that, I reached both conclusions. You had been out in dreadful weather. And you had a particularly destructive London servant who cuts your shoes while cleaning them.

“As for your work, you enter my room smelling of iodoform. A black silver nitrate stain marks your right forefinger. The right side of your top hat sticks out where you have hidden your stethoscope. I would be very stupid if I failed to recognize a doctor who was actively working.”

I could not help laughing at how easily he explained his reasoning.

“When you give your reasons,” I said, “everything seems so ridiculously simple. I feel I could easily do it myself. But every time, I am completely confused until you explain your method. Yet I believe my eyes are as good as yours.”

“Quite so,” he answered.

He lit a cigarette and dropped into an armchair.

“You see, but you do not observe. There is a clear difference. For example, you have often seen the stairs from the hall to this room.”

“Often.”

“How often?”

“Oh, several hundred times.”

“Then how many steps are there?”

“How many? I don’t know.”

“Exactly! You have seen them, but you have not observed them. That is my point. I know there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed. However, these little problems interest you. You are also kind enough to record one or two of my small adventures. So this may interest you.”

He threw me a sheet of thick, pink writing paper. It had been lying open on the table.

“It arrived with the last post,” he said. “Read it aloud.”

There was no date, signature or address on the note.

“A gentleman will call on you tonight at a quarter to eight,” it said. “He wishes to ask your advice about a matter of the greatest importance. Your recent services to a European royal family have shown that you can be trusted. The importance of such matters can hardly be overstated. This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your room at that time. And please do not be offended if your visitor wears a mask.”

“This certainly is a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you think it means?”

“I have no facts yet. It is a great mistake to form theories before you have facts. Without noticing, you begin to change the facts to fit your theories. You should change your theories to fit the facts. But look at the note itself. What can you work out from it?”

I carefully examined the writing and the paper.

“The man who wrote it is probably wealthy,” I said, trying to copy my friend’s method. “You could not buy paper like this for less than half a crown a packet. It is unusually strong and stiff.”

“Unusual—that is exactly the word,” said Holmes. “This is not English paper at all. Hold it against the light.”

I did so. I saw a large ‘E’ with a small ‘g’, a ‘P’, and a large ‘G’ with a small ‘t’. These letters were part of the paper itself.

“What do you make of that?” Holmes asked.

“The maker’s name, surely. Or rather, the first letters of his name.”

“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ represents the German word ‘Gesellschaft’. It is shortened in the usual way, like our ‘Co.’ for ‘Company’. The ‘P’, of course, represents ‘Papier’, the German word for paper. Now for ‘Eg’. Let us look at our Continental Gazetteer.”

He took a heavy brown book from his shelves.

“Eglow, Eglonitz—here it is, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country, Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Famous as the place where Wallenstein died, and for its many glass factories and paper mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy! What do you make of that?”

His eyes shone. He blew out a great blue cloud of cigarette smoke, delighted with his success.

“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.

“Exactly. And the man who wrote the note is German. Did you notice the strange order of the words? ‘This account of you we have from all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or a Russian could not have written that. It is the German who treats his verbs so rudely. Now we only need to discover what this German wants. He writes on Bohemian paper and prefers a mask to showing his face. And unless I am mistaken, he is coming to answer all our questions.”

As he spoke, we heard the sharp sound of horses’ feet. Carriage wheels scraped against the edge of the pavement, and someone pulled hard at the bell. Holmes whistled.

“Two horses, from the sound,” he said.

He looked out of the window.

“Yes. A fine little brougham, with two beautiful horses. A hundred and fifty guineas each. There is money in this case, Watson, even if there is nothing else.”

“I think I had better go, Holmes.”

“Certainly not, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”

“But your client—”

“Never mind him. I may need your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit in that armchair, Doctor, and listen as carefully as you can.”

Slow, heavy footsteps came up the stairs and along the passage. They stopped immediately outside the door. Then came a loud knock, full of authority.

“Come in!” said Holmes.

The man who entered could hardly have been less than six feet six inches tall. His chest, arms and legs were as powerful as those of Hercules. His clothes were rich, almost too rich for good English taste. Heavy bands of curly astrakhan fur covered the sleeves and front of his double-breasted coat. A deep blue cloak hung over his shoulders. Inside, it was lined with silk the colour of flames. A brooch held it at the neck, with one bright beryl stone.

His boots came halfway up his lower legs. Rich brown fur covered their tops. Everything about him suggested wild, foreign wealth. He held a wide hat in his hand. A black mask covered the upper part of his face, reaching below his cheekbones. He seemed to have put it straight just before entering. His hand was still raised towards it. The lower part of his face suggested a strong character. He had a thick, hanging lip and a long, straight chin. He looked determined enough to be extremely stubborn.

“Did you receive my note?” he asked. His voice was deep and rough, with a strong German accent. “I told you I would call.”

He looked from one of us to the other, uncertain whom to speak to.

“Please sit down,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. He sometimes kindly helps me with my cases. May I ask your name?”

“You may call me Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand your friend is an honourable man who can keep secrets. I may trust him with a matter of the greatest importance. If not, I would much prefer to speak to you alone.”

I stood up to leave. But Holmes caught my wrist and pushed me back into my chair.

“You speak to both of us, or neither,” he said. “You may tell this gentleman anything you would tell me.”

The Count lifted his broad shoulders.

“Then I must first ask you both to promise complete secrecy for two years,” he said. “After that, the matter will no longer be important. At present, it could affect the history of Europe. That is no exaggeration.”

“I promise,” said Holmes.

“And I.”

“Please forgive this mask,” our strange visitor continued. “The great person who employs me wishes his agent to remain unknown to you. And I admit that the title I gave you is not exactly my own.”

“I knew that,” said Holmes, without surprise.

“The situation is extremely delicate. We must take every possible care to prevent a huge scandal. It could seriously damage one of Europe’s royal families. To speak plainly, it concerns the great House of Ormstein. Its members inherit the throne of Bohemia.”

“I knew that too,” Holmes murmured.

He settled back in his armchair and closed his eyes. Our visitor seemed surprised as he looked at the relaxed figure. Someone had surely described Holmes to him as Europe’s sharpest thinker and most energetic investigator. Holmes slowly opened his eyes again and looked impatiently at his huge client.

“If your Majesty would kindly explain the case, I could advise you better,” he said.

The man jumped up and walked about the room. He was so upset that he could not control himself. Then, in despair, he tore off his mask and threw it on the floor.

“You are right!” he cried. “I am the King. Why should I try to hide it?”

“Why indeed?” Holmes murmured. “Before your Majesty spoke, I knew I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein. You are Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and the hereditary King of Bohemia.”

Our strange visitor sat down again. He passed his hand over his high, white forehead.

“But you must understand,” he said, “I am not used to dealing with such business myself. However, the matter was too delicate to trust to an agent. That would have given him power over me. I have come secretly from Prague to ask your advice.”

“Then please ask it,” said Holmes, closing his eyes again.

“These are the main facts. About five years ago, I spent a long time in Warsaw. There I met the well-known Irene Adler, a woman with a reputation for seeking adventure and powerful friends. You probably know the name.”

“Please look her up in my index, Doctor,” Holmes murmured, without opening his eyes.

For years, he had filed all the short articles he found about people and things. It was difficult to name any subject or person about which he could not immediately provide information. Here, Irene’s life story lay between two others. One concerned a Jewish rabbi. The other concerned a naval staff-commander who had written a detailed study of deep-sea fish.

“Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in 1858. Contralto singer—hum! La Scala—hum! Leading female singer at the Imperial Opera of Warsaw—yes! Retired from the opera stage—ha! Living in London—quite so! As I understand it, your Majesty became involved with this young woman. You wrote her some letters which could damage your reputation. Now you want them back.”

“Exactly. But how—”

“Was there a secret marriage?”

“No.”

“No legal documents or certificates?”

“None.”

“Then I do not understand your Majesty’s difficulty. Suppose this woman produces her letters for blackmail or some other purpose. How can she prove they are real?”

“There is my handwriting.”

“Nonsense! It could be copied.”

“My private writing paper.”

“Stolen.”

“My own seal.”

“Copied.”

“My photograph.”

“Bought.”

“We were both in the photograph.”

“Oh dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has certainly behaved without thinking.”

“I was mad—quite mad.”

“You have put yourself in serious danger.”

“I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. Even now, I am only thirty.”

“The photograph must be recovered.”

“We have tried and failed.”

“Your Majesty must pay. You must buy it.”

“She will not sell it.”

“Then steal it.”

“We have tried five times. Twice, burglars I paid searched her house from top to bottom. Once, we took her luggage while she was travelling. Twice, we stopped her and searched her. Nothing has worked.”

“No sign of it?”

“None at all.”

Holmes laughed.

“It is quite an attractive little problem,” he said.

“But a very serious one for me,” the King answered, sounding hurt.

“Very serious indeed. And what does she intend to do with the photograph?”

“Ruin me.”

“But how?”

“I am going to be married.”

“So I have heard.”

“To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, the second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You may know how strict her family’s principles are. She herself is extremely sensitive about correct behaviour. The smallest doubt about my conduct would end the marriage plans.”

“And Irene Adler?”

“She threatens to send them the photograph. And she will. I know she will. You do not know her, but her will is as strong as steel. She has the face of the most beautiful woman and the mind of the most determined man. She will do absolutely anything to stop me marrying another woman. Anything.”

“Are you sure she has not sent it yet?”

“I am sure.”

“Why?”

“She said she would send it when our engagement was publicly announced. That will be next Monday.”

“Oh, then we still have three days,” said Holmes, with a yawn. “That is very fortunate. I have one or two important things to examine just now. Your Majesty will stay in London for the present, of course?”

“Certainly. You will find me at the Langham, under the name of Count Von Kramm.”

“Then I will send a note to tell you how we are getting on.”

“Please do. I shall be extremely anxious.”

“Now, about money?”

“You may spend whatever you need.”

“Without any limit?”

“I tell you, I would give a province of my kingdom to have that photograph.”

“And for our immediate expenses?”

The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from beneath his cloak. He laid it on the table.

“There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,” he said.

Holmes quickly wrote a receipt on a page of his notebook and handed it to him.

“And the young lady’s address?” he asked.

“Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”

Holmes wrote it down.

“One other question,” he said. “Was it a cabinet photograph?”

“It was.”

“Then good night, your Majesty. I hope we shall soon have good news for you.”

The wheels of the royal brougham rolled away down the street.

“And good night, Watson,” Holmes added. “Please call tomorrow afternoon at three. I would like to discuss this little matter with you.”

I arrived at Baker Street at exactly three o’clock, but Holmes had not returned. The landlady told me he had left shortly after eight that morning. However, I sat beside the fire, ready to wait as long as necessary. I was already deeply interested in his investigation. It lacked the terrible, strange features of the two crimes I had already recorded. Still, the kind of case and the royal position of his client made it special.

But the investigation itself was not the only attraction. Holmes understood a situation so completely, and his reasoning was so sharp and clear. I enjoyed studying his working method. I liked following the quick, clever ways he untangled mysteries that seemed impossible to solve. I had become so used to his constant success that I no longer considered the possibility of failure.

It was nearly four when the door opened. A badly dressed groom entered, looking drunk, with untidy hair, whiskers along his cheeks and a red, swollen face. I knew my friend’s amazing skill with disguises. Even so, I had to look three times before I was sure it was him. He nodded and disappeared into the bedroom. Five minutes later, he came out wearing a tweed suit, as respectable as ever. He put his hands in his pockets and stretched his legs towards the fire. Then he laughed heartily for several minutes.

“Well, really!” he cried.

He choked with laughter again. At last he had to lean back in his chair, weak and helpless.

“What is it?”

“It is simply too funny. You could never guess how I spent my morning, or what I finally did.”

“I cannot imagine. I suppose you were watching Miss Irene Adler’s habits, and perhaps her house.”

“Exactly. But what followed was rather unusual. However, I will tell you. I left a little after eight this morning, dressed as an unemployed groom. There is a wonderful friendly understanding among men who work with horses. Once you are one of them, you can learn everything.

“I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a small, elegant house with two floors and a garden at the back. The front stands right beside the road. There is a Chubb lock on the door. A large sitting-room is on the right, with good furniture and long windows reaching almost to the floor. They have those ridiculous English fasteners that a child could open. Nothing at the back was unusual, except one thing. You could reach the passage window from the roof of the coach-house. I walked around the building and examined it closely from every side. But I found nothing else of interest.

“Then I wandered down the street. As I expected, I found stables in a lane beside one wall of the garden. I helped the stable workers rub down their horses. In return, I received twopence, a glass of half-and-half, and two pipefuls of shag tobacco. I also received all the information I wanted about Miss Adler. Besides that, I had to hear the life stories of six other people in the neighbourhood. They did not interest me at all.”

“And what about Irene Adler?” I asked.

“Oh, all the men in that district are mad about her. They say she is the prettiest woman wearing a bonnet anywhere in the world. Every man in Serpentine-mews agrees. She lives quietly and sings at concerts. Every day she goes out for a drive at five. She returns at exactly seven for dinner. She rarely goes out at other times, except to sing.

“She has only one male visitor, but he visits a great deal. He is dark, handsome and full of confidence. He comes at least once every day, and often twice. He is Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. You see the advantage of having a cabman share his secrets. They had driven him home from Serpentine-mews a dozen times, and knew everything about him. After hearing everything they could tell me, I walked up and down near Briony Lodge again. I was thinking about my plan.

“This Godfrey Norton was clearly an important part of the situation. He was a lawyer. That sounded worrying. What was their relationship, and why did he visit so often? Was she his client, his friend, or his lover? If she was his client, she had probably given him the photograph to keep. If she was his lover, that was less likely. The answer would decide whether I continued at Briony Lodge or examined his offices in the Temple. It was a delicate question, and it made my investigation wider. I fear these details bore you. But you must see my little difficulties to understand the situation.”

“I am following you closely,” I answered.

“I was still thinking it over when a hansom cab drove up to Briony Lodge. A gentleman jumped out. He was a remarkably handsome man, dark, with a nose like a hawk’s beak and a moustache. Clearly he was the man I had heard about. He seemed to be in a great hurry. He shouted to the cabman to wait. Then he pushed past the maid who opened the door, like a man who was completely at home there.

“He was in the house for about half an hour. Now and then I could see him through the windows of the sitting-room. He was walking up and down, talking excitedly and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing. Soon he came out, looking even more nervous and hurried than before. As he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket. He looked at it very seriously. ‘Drive like the devil,’ he shouted. ‘First to Gross & Hankey’s in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty minutes!’

“Away they went. I was just wondering whether I ought to follow them. Then a neat little landau came up the lane. The coachman’s coat was only half buttoned, and his tie was under his ear. All the ends of the straps on the horse’s harness were sticking out of the buckles. It had not even stopped before she rushed out of the hall door and into it. I only saw her for a moment. But she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for.

“‘The Church of St. Monica, John,’ she cried, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’

“This was much too good to miss, Watson. I was just deciding whether to run after them, or to climb up on the back of her landau. Then a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at such a shabby passenger. But I jumped in before he could object. ‘The Church of St. Monica,’ I said, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’ It was twenty-five minutes to twelve. Of course it was clear enough what was going to happen.

“My cabman drove fast. I don’t think I have ever been driven faster, but the others got there before us. The cab and the landau were in front of the door, and their hot horses were steaming. I paid the man and hurried into the church. There was nobody there except the two people I had followed and a clergyman in a white surplice. He seemed to be arguing with them. All three were standing close together in front of the altar. I walked slowly up the side aisle, like any idle person who has stepped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the altar turned round to face me. Godfrey Norton came running towards me as fast as he could.

“‘Thank God,’ he cried. ‘You’ll do. Come! Come!’

“‘What then?’ I asked.

“‘Come, man, come. Only three minutes, or it won’t be legal.’

“I was half dragged up to the altar. Before I knew where I was, I found myself mumbling answers that someone whispered in my ear. I was promising things that I knew nothing about. In general, I was helping to tie Irene Adler, spinster, firmly to Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in a moment. Then the gentleman was thanking me on one side and the lady on the other. In front of me, the clergyman was smiling broadly at me. It was the most ridiculous position I have ever been in. Thinking about it is what started me laughing just now. It seems that something was not quite in order with their licence. The clergyman completely refused to marry them without some kind of witness. My lucky arrival saved the bridegroom from having to rush out into the streets to look for a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign. I mean to wear it on my watch chain to remember the occasion.”

“This is a very unexpected turn of events,” I said. “And what then?”

“Well, I found my plans in serious danger. It looked as if the couple might leave at once. Then I would have to act very quickly and energetically. At the church door, however, they separated. He drove back to the Temple, and she drove to her own house. ‘I shall drive out in the park at five as usual,’ she said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in different directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements.”

“Which are?”

“Some cold beef and a glass of beer,” he answered, ringing the bell. “I have been too busy to think of food. And I am likely to be even busier this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall need your help.”

“I shall be delighted.”

“You don’t mind breaking the law?”

“Not in the least.”

“Or taking the risk of being arrested?”

“Not in a good cause.”

“Oh, the cause is excellent!”

“Then I am your man.”

“I was sure that I could depend on you.”

“But what is it you want?”

“When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray, I will explain it to you. Now,” he said, turning hungrily to the simple meal that our landlady had brought. “I must talk about it while I eat, because I don’t have much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be at the scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her.”

“And what then?”

“You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what will happen. There is only one thing that I must insist on. You must not interfere, whatever happens. Do you understand?”

“I am to stay neutral?”

“You must do nothing at all. There will probably be some small trouble. Do not join in. It will end with me being carried into the house. Four or five minutes later, the sitting-room window will open. You must place yourself close to that open window.”

“Yes.”

“You must watch me, because you will be able to see me.”

“Yes.”

“And when I raise my hand—like this—you will throw into the room what I give you to throw. At the same time, you will shout ‘Fire!’ Do you follow me completely?”

“Entirely.”

“It is nothing very dangerous,” he said. He took a long roll, shaped like a cigar, from his pocket. “It is an ordinary plumber’s smoke-rocket. It has a cap at each end, so that it lights itself. That is your only task. When you shout ‘Fire!’, quite a number of people will join in. You may then walk to the end of the street, and I will meet you there in ten minutes. I hope that I have made myself clear?”

“I am to stay neutral, get near the window and watch you. At the signal I throw in this object and shout ‘Fire!’ Then I wait for you at the corner of the street.”

“Exactly.”

“Then you may depend on me completely.”

“That is excellent. I think perhaps it is almost time to prepare for the new part I have to play.”

He disappeared into his bedroom. A few minutes later he came back as a friendly, simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman. He had a broad black hat, baggy trousers, a white tie and a sympathetic smile. He had a general look of peering, kindly curiosity. Only Mr. John Hare could have equalled it. Holmes did not simply change his clothes. His expression, his manner, even his very soul seemed to change with each new part he played. When he became a specialist in crime, the theatre lost a fine actor, just as science lost a sharp thinker.

It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street. We reached Serpentine Avenue ten minutes before seven. It was already getting dark, and the street lamps were just being lit. We walked up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for its owner to come home. The house was exactly as I had imagined it from Sherlock Holmes’s short description. But the area seemed less private than I had expected. In fact, for a small street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably busy. In one corner, a group of shabbily dressed men were smoking and laughing. There was a scissors-grinder with his wheel. Two guardsmen were flirting with a young nursemaid. Several well-dressed young men were walking lazily up and down with cigars in their mouths.

“You see,” Holmes remarked, as we walked up and down in front of the house, “this marriage makes things rather simpler. The photograph is now a weapon that cuts both ways. She probably wants to hide it from Mr. Godfrey Norton, just as our client wants to hide it from his princess. Now the question is, where are we to find the photograph?”

“Where, indeed?”

“It is very unlikely that she carries it with her. It is cabinet size. That is too large to hide easily in a woman’s dress. She knows that the King is capable of having her stopped and searched. Two attempts of that kind have already been made. So we may take it that she does not carry it with her.”

“Where, then?”

“Her banker or her lawyer. There are those two possibilities. But I tend to think it is neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they like to do their own hiding. Why should she give it to anyone else? She could trust herself to guard it. But she could not know what indirect or political pressure might be put on a businessman. Besides, remember that she had decided to use it within a few days. It must be somewhere she can lay her hands on it. It must be in her own house.”

“But burglars have searched it twice.”

“Pah! They did not know how to look.”

“But how will you look?”

“I will not look.”

“What then?”

“I will get her to show me.”

“But she will refuse.”

“She will not be able to. But I hear the sound of wheels. It is her carriage. Now follow my orders exactly.”

As he spoke, the side lamps of a carriage shone round the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau, and it rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it stopped, one of the idle men at the corner rushed forward to open the door. He hoped to earn a copper coin. But another idle man had rushed up with the same idea, and he pushed the first one away with his elbow. A fierce quarrel began. The two guardsmen made it worse by taking the side of one of the men. The scissors-grinder took the other side just as hotly. Someone struck a blow. In a moment the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was at the centre of a little crowd. Red-faced men were struggling around her and hitting each other wildly with their fists and sticks. Holmes rushed into the crowd to protect the lady. But just as he reached her, he gave a cry and fell to the ground. Blood was running freely down his face. When he fell, the guardsmen ran away in one direction and the other men in the other. Some better-dressed people had watched the fight without taking part. Now they crowded in to help the lady and to look after the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her, had hurried up the steps. But she stood at the top, looking back into the street. Her beautiful figure stood out against the lights of the hall.

“Is the poor gentleman badly hurt?” she asked.

“He is dead,” cried several voices.

“No, no, there’s life in him!” shouted another. “But he’ll be gone before you can get him to hospital.”

“He’s a brave fellow,” said a woman. “They would have had the lady’s purse and watch if it hadn’t been for him. They were a gang, and a rough one, too. Ah, he’s breathing now.”

“He can’t lie in the street. May we bring him in, ma’am?”

“Of course. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable sofa. This way, please!”

Slowly and solemnly, they carried him into Briony Lodge and laid him in the main room. I still watched everything from my place by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not been pulled down. So I could see Holmes as he lay on the couch. I do not know if he felt sorry at that moment for the part he was playing. But I know that I never felt more deeply ashamed of myself in my life. I saw the beautiful woman we were plotting against. I saw the grace and kindness with which she looked after the injured man. And yet it would be the worst betrayal of Holmes to draw back now from the task he had given me. I hardened my heart and took the smoke-rocket from under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not hurting her. We are only stopping her from hurting another person.

Holmes had sat up on the couch. I saw him make signs like a man who needs air. A maid rushed across and threw the window open. At the same moment I saw him raise his hand. At the signal I threw my rocket into the room and shouted “Fire!” The word was hardly out of my mouth when the whole crowd of watchers joined in. Well dressed and poorly dressed, gentlemen, stable workers and servant girls all screamed “Fire!” together. Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and out of the open window. I saw a quick view of people rushing about. A moment later I heard Holmes’s voice inside. He was telling them that it was a false alarm. I slipped through the shouting crowd and made my way to the corner of the street. Within ten minutes I was glad to find my friend’s arm in mine, and to get away from the noisy scene. He walked quickly and silently for a few minutes. Then we turned down one of the quiet streets that lead towards the Edgeware Road.

“You did it very nicely, Doctor,” he remarked. “Nothing could have been better. It is all right.”

“You have the photograph?”

“I know where it is.”

“And how did you find out?”

“She showed me, as I told you she would.”

“I am still in the dark.”

“I do not want to make a mystery of it,” he said, laughing. “The matter was perfectly simple. Of course, you saw that everyone in the street was working with me. They were all hired for the evening.”

“I guessed as much.”

“Then, when the fight began, I had a little wet red paint in the palm of my hand. I rushed forward and fell down. I pressed my hand to my face and became a pitiful sight. It is an old trick.”

“I understood that too.”

“Then they carried me in. She had to let me in. What else could she do? And they took me into her sitting-room, which was exactly the room I suspected. The photograph was either there or in her bedroom, and I was determined to find out which. They laid me on a couch. I made signs that I needed air. They had to open the window, and you had your chance.”

“How did that help you?”

“It was extremely important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire, her instinct is to rush at once to the thing she values most. It is a completely overpowering need. More than once I have taken advantage of it. It was useful to me in the case of the Darlington Substitution Scandal, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs her baby. An unmarried woman reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our lady of today had nothing in the house more precious to her than the thing we are looking for. She would rush to save it. The fire alarm was done wonderfully well. The smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel. She reacted perfectly. The photograph is in a hollow space behind a sliding panel, just above the right bell-pull. She was there in a moment. I saw it for a second as she half pulled it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm, she put it back. She glanced at the rocket and rushed from the room. I have not seen her since. I got up, made my excuses and escaped from the house. I wondered whether to try to take the photograph at once. But the coachman had come in, and he was watching me closely. So it seemed safer to wait. Acting a little too quickly may ruin everything.”

“And now?” I asked.

“Our search is almost finished. I shall call with the King tomorrow, and with you, if you would like to come with us. We will be shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady. But when she comes, she will probably find neither us nor the photograph. It might please his Majesty to get it back with his own hands.”

“And when will you call?”

“At eight in the morning. She will not be up yet, so we shall have a clear field. Besides, we must act quickly, because this marriage may completely change her life and habits. I must send a telegram to the King immediately.”

We had reached Baker Street and stopped at the door. He was searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:

“Good night, Mister Sherlock Holmes.”

There were several people on the pavement at the time. But the greeting seemed to come from a slim young man in an ulster, who had hurried past.

“I’ve heard that voice before,” said Holmes, staring down the dimly lit street. “Now, I wonder who on earth that could have been.”

I slept at Baker Street that night. In the morning we were eating our toast and coffee when the King of Bohemia rushed into the room.

“You have really got it!” he cried. He took Sherlock Holmes by both shoulders and looked eagerly into his face.

“Not yet.”

“But you have hopes?”

“I have hopes.”

“Then come. I am impatient to be gone.”

“We must get a cab.”

“No, my brougham is waiting.”

“Then that will make things simpler.”

We went down and set off once more for Briony Lodge.

“Irene Adler is married,” Holmes remarked.

“Married! When?”

“Yesterday.”

“But to whom?”

“To an English lawyer called Norton.”

“But she could not love him.”

“I hope that she does.”

“And why do you hope so?”

“Because it would free your Majesty from all fear of future trouble. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she does not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere with your Majesty’s plan.”

“It is true. And yet—! Well! I wish she had been of my own rank! What a queen she would have made!”

He fell into a moody silence. He did not speak again until we stopped in Serpentine Avenue.

The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood on the steps. She watched us with a mocking look as we stepped from the brougham.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” she said.

“I am Mr. Holmes,” my companion answered. He looked at her with a questioning and rather startled expression.

“Indeed! My mistress told me that you would probably call. She left this morning with her husband, by the 5:15 train from Charing Cross for the Continent.”

“What!” Sherlock Holmes stepped back unsteadily, white with disappointment and surprise. “Do you mean that she has left England?”

“Never to return.”

“And the papers?” asked the King in a rough voice. “All is lost.”

“We shall see.”

Holmes pushed past the servant and rushed into the drawing-room. The King and I followed him. The furniture was scattered in every direction. Shelves had been taken apart and drawers stood open. It looked as if the lady had searched through them in a hurry before she ran away. Holmes rushed to the bell-pull and pulled back a small sliding shutter. He pushed his hand in and pulled out a photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself, in evening dress. The letter was addressed to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for.” My friend tore it open, and all three of us read it together. It was dated at midnight of the night before. This is what it said:

“MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,—You really did it very well. You fooled me completely. Until after the fire alarm, I did not suspect anything. But then I realised how I had given myself away, and I began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had been told that if the King employed an agent, it would certainly be you. And I had been given your address. Yet in spite of all this, you made me show you what you wanted to know. Even after I became suspicious, I found it hard to think badly of such a dear, kind old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress myself. Men’s clothes are nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the freedom they give me. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you. I ran upstairs and put on my walking clothes, as I call them. I came down just as you were leaving.

“Well, I followed you to your door. So I made sure that I really was of interest to the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then, rather unwisely, I wished you good night and set off for the Temple to see my husband.

“We both thought that the best thing to do was to run away, with such a dangerous enemy after us. So you will find the nest empty when you call tomorrow. As for the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I love a better man than he is, and that man loves me. The King may do what he likes without any trouble from me, the woman he has treated so cruelly. I keep the photograph only to protect myself. It is a weapon that will always keep me safe from anything he might do in the future. I leave a photograph which he might like to have. And I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

“Very truly yours, IRENE NORTON, *née* ADLER.”

“What a woman—oh, what a woman!” cried the King of Bohemia, when all three of us had read this letter. “Did I not tell you how quick and determined she was? Would she not have made a wonderful queen? Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?”

“From what I have seen of the lady, she does indeed seem to be on a very different level from your Majesty,” Holmes said coldly. “I am sorry that I have not been able to bring your Majesty’s business to a more successful end.”

“On the contrary, my dear sir,” cried the King. “Nothing could be more successful. I know that she never breaks her word. The photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire.”

“I am glad to hear your Majesty say so.”

“I owe you a great deal. Please tell me how I can reward you. This ring—”

He slipped an emerald ring in the shape of a snake from his finger. He held it out on the palm of his hand.

“Your Majesty has something which I would value even more highly,” said Holmes.

“You only have to name it.”

“This photograph!”

The King stared at him in amazement.

“Irene’s photograph!” he cried. “Certainly, if you wish it.”

“I thank your Majesty. Then there is nothing more to be done in the matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good morning.”

He bowed and turned away, without noticing the hand which the King had held out to him. Then he set off with me for his rooms.

And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia. And that was how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman’s cleverness. He used to joke about the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it recently. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or mentions her photograph, it is always with the honourable title of *the* woman.

### Glossary

- **lenses**: shaped pieces of glass used to see things more clearly.
- **cocaine**: a dangerous drug that changes how the mind and body work.
- **gasogene**: an old machine for making drinks with bubbles.
- **iodoform**: a strong-smelling substance once used to clean wounds.
- **stethoscope**: a doctor’s instrument for listening to sounds inside the body.
- **brougham**: a closed carriage pulled by horses.
- **blackmail**: threatening to reveal a secret to get money or control someone.
- **cabinet photograph**: a photograph fixed to a card of a particular size.
- **hansom cab**: a small carriage for two passengers, pulled by one horse.
- **landau**: a four-wheeled carriage with a roof that can be folded back.
- **surplice**: a long white piece of clothing that a priest wears in church.
- **spinster**: an old word for a woman who has never been married.
- **Nonconformist**: a member of a Protestant church that is not the Church of England.
- **smoke-rocket**: a tube that makes a lot of smoke when it is lit.
- **ulster**: a long, heavy coat for men.
- **bell-pull**: a cord or handle on the wall that you pull to ring a bell for a servant.
- **née**: a word used before a married woman’s family name from birth.

## The Red-Headed League

One day last autumn, I called on my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He was deep in conversation with an elderly gentleman. The man was very fat, with a red face and bright red hair. I apologized for interrupting and began to leave. But Holmes suddenly pulled me into the room and closed the door behind me.

“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said warmly.

“I was afraid you were busy.”

“So I am. Very busy.”

“Then I can wait in the next room.”

“Certainly not. Mr. Wilson, this gentleman has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases. I have no doubt he will be extremely useful in yours too.”

The fat gentleman half rose and nodded a greeting. His small eyes, surrounded by fat, gave me a quick, questioning look.

“Try the sofa,” said Holmes, settling back into his armchair. He put his fingertips together, as he usually did when carefully judging a problem.

“My dear Watson, I know you share my love of strange things. We both enjoy anything outside the rules and dull routines of everyday life. Your enthusiasm has led you to record so many of my little adventures. And, if you forgive me, you sometimes make them rather more exciting than they were.”

“Your cases have certainly interested me greatly,” I said.

“Remember our conversation the other day, just before Miss Mary Sutherland’s very simple problem? I said we must look at real life for strange events and extraordinary combinations. Life is always far more daring than the imagination.”

“An opinion which I allowed myself to doubt.”

“You did, Doctor. But you must eventually agree with me. Otherwise, I shall keep adding fact after fact until your reason gives way and admits I am right.

“Mr. Jabez Wilson kindly called this morning. He has begun one of the strangest accounts I have heard for some time. You have heard me say that the most unusual things often concern smaller crimes, rather than great ones. Sometimes we cannot even be certain that any crime has happened.

“I cannot yet say whether this present case involves a crime. But its events are certainly among the strangest I have ever heard. Perhaps you would kindly begin your account again, Mr. Wilson. My friend Dr. Watson has missed the beginning. Also, the story is so unusual that I want every possible detail from you.

“Usually, a small suggestion about events brings thousands of similar cases to my mind. Those memories help guide me. Here, I must admit that the facts seem completely different from anything I know.”

Our large client pushed out his chest with a little pride. He pulled a dirty, wrinkled newspaper from his overcoat’s inner pocket. He leaned forward and searched the advertisements, spreading the paper flat on his knee. I studied him carefully. Like Holmes, I tried to read the signs in his clothes and appearance.

However, I learned very little. Our visitor seemed a completely ordinary British shopkeeper. He was fat, slow, and rather too pleased with his own importance. He wore loose grey trousers with small black and white checks. His black frock-coat was not very clean and hung open at the front. His dull brown waistcoat carried a heavy, brassy Albert watch-chain. A square piece of metal hung from it as an ornament, with a hole through it.

Beside him, on a chair, lay a worn top-hat and a faded brown overcoat. The coat’s velvet collar was wrinkled. However carefully I looked, I could see nothing remarkable except his brilliant red hair. His face also showed extreme disappointment and annoyance.

Holmes quickly noticed what I was doing. He smiled and shook his head at my questioning looks.

“Apart from the obvious facts, I can work out nothing else. He has done physical work, takes snuff, and is a Freemason. He has been in China and has done a great deal of writing recently.”

Mr. Jabez Wilson suddenly straightened in his chair. His finger stayed on the newspaper, but his eyes turned towards Holmes.

“How on earth did you know all that, Mr. Holmes? How did you know, for example, that I did physical work? It’s absolutely true. I began as a ship’s carpenter.”

“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is considerably larger than your left. You have worked with it, so its muscles have grown stronger.”

“Well, then, what about the snuff and the Freemasons?”

“I won’t insult your intelligence by explaining those signs. You wear an arc-and-compass pin on your chest, rather against your society’s strict rules.”

“Ah, of course. I forgot that. But the writing?”

“Your right cuff is very shiny for five inches. The left sleeve has a smooth patch near the elbow, where it rests on the desk. What else could those things mean?”

“Well, but China?”

“The fish tattoo just above your right wrist could only have been made in China. I have studied tattoos a little and even published something on the subject. The delicate pink colour on the fish’s scales is a special Chinese method. A Chinese coin hangs from your watch-chain too. That makes it even simpler.”

Mr. Wilson gave a heavy laugh.

“Well, I never! At first I thought you had done something clever. Now I see there was nothing difficult about it.”

“Watson, I begin to think explaining is a mistake,” said Holmes. “People think unknown things are wonderful. My poor little reputation will be ruined if I am so honest. Have you found the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”

“Yes, here it is,” he answered. His thick red finger pointed halfway down the column. “This began it all. Read it for yourself, sir.”

I took the newspaper and read:

“TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: The late Ezekiah Hopkins left money for this purpose. He lived in Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U.S.A. Another position is now open to a member of the League. It pays £4 a week for very little work. All red-headed men over twenty-one may apply, if healthy in body and mind. Apply in person on Monday at eleven o’clock. Ask for Duncan Ross at the League’s offices, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”

“What on earth does this mean?” I cried, after reading the extraordinary announcement twice.

Holmes laughed quietly and moved about in his chair. He often did that when in particularly good spirits.

“It’s rather unusual, isn’t it? Now, Mr. Wilson, begin at the beginning. Tell us about yourself, your household, and how this advertisement changed your life. First, Doctor, note the newspaper and its date.”

“It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.”

“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”

“Well, it’s just as I was telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” Jabez Wilson wiped his forehead. “I have a small pawnbroker’s business in Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not a large business. For the last few years, it has only just supported me.

“I used to employ two assistants, but now I only have one. Even paying him would be difficult, except that he accepts half wages to learn the business.”

“What is this helpful young man’s name?” asked Holmes.

“Vincent Spaulding. And he isn’t so young, either. It’s difficult to guess his age. I couldn’t wish for a more capable assistant, Mr. Holmes. I know he could improve his position and earn twice what I can pay. But if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas into his head?”

“Why, indeed? You’re very fortunate to employ someone for less than the usual price. Employers don’t often have that experience these days. Your assistant may be as remarkable as your advertisement.”

“Oh, he has his faults too,” said Mr. Wilson. “I’ve never known anyone so interested in photography. He’s always taking photographs when he ought to be improving his mind. Then he rushes into the cellar to develop them, like a rabbit into its hole. That’s his main fault. But generally, he’s a good worker. There’s no badness in him.”

“I suppose he is still with you?”

“Yes, sir. There’s also a fourteen-year-old girl. She does some simple cooking and keeps the place clean. That’s my whole household. I’m a widower and never had any children. The three of us live very quietly. We manage to pay our debts and keep our home, even if we do nothing more.

“That advertisement was the first thing to disturb our lives. Exactly eight weeks ago today, Spaulding came down into the office. He had this very newspaper in his hand.

“‘I wish to God I was a red-headed man, Mr. Wilson,’ he said.

“‘Why?’ I asked.

“‘Another job is available in the League of the Red-headed Men. It’s worth quite a little fortune to whoever gets it. I understand there are more jobs than men to fill them. The trustees hardly know what to do with all the money. If only my hair would change colour! There’s a comfortable little job ready for me.’

“‘But what is it?’ I asked.

“You see, Mr. Holmes, I stay at home a great deal. Customers come to me. I don’t have to go out looking for business. I often spent whole weeks without stepping outside my door. So I knew little about the outside world and was always glad to hear some news.

“‘Haven’t you heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?’ he asked, opening his eyes wide.

“‘Never.’

“‘I’m surprised. You could apply for one of the jobs yourself.’

“‘And how much are they worth?’

“‘Oh, only a couple of hundred pounds a year. But there’s little work, and it needn’t interfere much with your other work.’

“Well, naturally that caught my attention. Business had been poor for several years. An extra couple of hundred pounds would have been very useful.

“‘Tell me all about it,’ I said.

“He showed me the advertisement.

“‘You can see the League has a job available. There’s the address where you can ask for details. As I understand it, an American millionaire founded the League. His name was Ezekiah Hopkins, and he had some very unusual ways. He had red hair himself and felt great sympathy for other red-headed men.

“‘When he died, people discovered he had left his huge fortune to trustees. His instructions were to use the interest to provide easy jobs for red-headed men. From everything I hear, the pay is excellent and there’s very little to do.’

“‘But millions of red-headed men would apply,’ I said.

“‘Not as many as you might think. It’s really only for Londoners, and only grown men. This American left London when he was young. He wanted to do something kind for his old town.

“‘Also, I hear it’s useless to apply with light red or dark red hair. It must be really bright, burning red. If you applied, Mr. Wilson, they would accept you at once. But perhaps a few hundred pounds aren’t worth the trouble.’

“Gentlemen, you can see for yourselves that my hair has a very strong, rich colour. I thought my chances in any competition were as good as those of anyone I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding knew so much about it that I thought he might be useful. I told him to close the shop’s shutters and come with me immediately. He was very willing to take a holiday. So we shut the business and left for the address in the advertisement.

“I never expect to see such a sight again, Mr. Holmes. Men had walked into the City from north, south, east, and west. Every man with a little red in his hair seemed to be answering that advertisement. Fleet Street was packed with red-headed people. Pope’s Court looked like an orange-seller’s cart.

“I wouldn’t have thought the whole country contained as many as that single advertisement had brought together. Their hair was every possible colour. There were straw-yellow, lemon-yellow, orange, and brick-red heads. Others were reddish brown like setter dogs, dark brown like liver, or dull like clay. But Spaulding pointed out that few had truly bright, flame-coloured hair.

“When I saw the crowds waiting, I wanted to give up in despair. Spaulding would not allow it. I cannot imagine how he managed. He pushed and pulled and forced his way forward until we reached the steps leading to the office. Two streams of people filled the stairs. Some were going up hopefully; others came down looking miserable. We squeezed through as best we could and soon reached the office.”

Our client paused and took a huge pinch of snuff to refresh his memory.

“Your experience has been very entertaining,” said Holmes. “Please continue this most interesting account.”

“The office contained only two wooden chairs and a plain pine table. A small man sat behind it. His hair was even redder than mine. He spoke a few words to every man who came up. Then he always found some fault which made the man unsuitable. Getting one of these jobs didn’t seem so easy after all.

“However, when our turn came, he treated me much more favourably than the others. He closed the door behind us to speak privately.

“‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ my assistant said. ‘He is willing to take a position in the League.’

“‘And he is wonderfully suited to it,’ the other answered. ‘He meets every condition. I cannot remember seeing anything so fine.’

“He stepped back, put his head on one side, and stared at my hair. I began to feel embarrassed. Suddenly, he rushed forward, shook my hand firmly, and warmly congratulated me on my success.

“‘It would be unfair to hesitate,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure you’ll forgive me for taking an obvious precaution.’

“He seized my hair with both hands and pulled until I shouted with pain.

“‘Your eyes are watering,’ he said, letting go. ‘I see everything is as it should be. But we must be careful. Wigs have deceived us twice, and paint once. I could tell you stories about shoemakers’ wax that would destroy your faith in human nature.’

“He went to the window and shouted as loudly as possible that the job was taken. A disappointed groan rose from below. Everyone went away in different directions. Soon the only red-headed men left were the manager and myself.

“‘My name is Mr. Duncan Ross,’ he said. ‘I also receive money from the fund our generous friend left. Are you married, Mr. Wilson? Do you have a family?’

“I answered that I had not.

“His face immediately became unhappy.

“‘Dear me!’ he said seriously. ‘That’s very serious indeed. I’m sorry to hear it. Naturally, this fund was intended to increase the number of red-headed people, as well as support them. It’s extremely unfortunate that you’re an unmarried man.’

“My own face fell at that, Mr. Holmes. I thought I would lose the position after all. But he considered for a few minutes and said it would be all right.

“‘With anyone else, that objection might prevent us accepting him. But we must make an exception for hair like yours. When can you begin your new duties?’

“‘Well, it’s rather awkward. I already have a business,’ I said.

“‘Don’t worry about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vincent Spaulding. ‘I can look after it for you.’

“‘What are the hours?’ I asked.

“‘Ten until two.’

“Now, Mr. Holmes, most of a pawnbroker’s business happens in the evening. Thursday and Friday evenings are especially busy, just before payday. Earning something extra in the mornings would suit me very well. Also, I knew my assistant was capable and would deal with anything that came up.

“‘That would suit me very well,’ I said. ‘And the pay?’

“‘Four pounds a week.’

“‘And the work?’

“‘Almost nothing.’

“‘What do you call almost nothing?’

“‘You must stay in the office, or at least in the building, the whole time. If you leave, you lose your position for ever. The will is very clear about that. You break its conditions if you step outside the office during those hours.’

“‘It’s only four hours a day. I wouldn’t think of leaving,’ I said.

“‘No excuse will be accepted,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross. ‘Not illness, business, or anything else. You must stay there, or lose your job.’

“‘And the work?’

“‘Copying the Encyclopædia Britannica. Its first volume is in that cupboard. You must bring your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper. We provide this table and chair. Will you be ready tomorrow?’

“‘Certainly,’ I answered.

“‘Then goodbye, Mr. Jabez Wilson. Let me congratulate you again on your good fortune in gaining this important position.’

“He bowed as he showed me out. I went home with my assistant. I hardly knew what to say or do, I was so pleased with my luck.

“I thought about it all day. By evening, I was unhappy again. I had completely convinced myself the whole thing was a big trick or a fraud. But I couldn’t imagine its purpose. It seemed impossible that anyone would make such a will. Why pay so much for something as simple as copying the Encyclopædia Britannica?

“Vincent Spaulding tried to cheer me up. But by bedtime, I had argued myself out of believing any of it. However, next morning I decided to go and see anyway. I bought a penny bottle of ink. Then I left for Pope’s Court with a quill-pen and seven large sheets of foolscap paper.

“To my surprise and delight, everything was exactly right. The table was ready. Mr. Duncan Ross was there to make sure I started work properly. He set me to work on the letter A, then left. He came back occasionally to check that everything was going well. At two, he said goodbye and praised the amount I had written. Then he locked the office door behind me.

“This continued day after day, Mr. Holmes. On Saturday, the manager came and put down four gold sovereigns for my week’s work. It was the same the following week, and the week after that. Every morning I arrived at ten, and every afternoon I left at two.

“Gradually, Mr. Duncan Ross began coming only once each morning. Later, he stopped coming altogether. Naturally, I still never dared leave the room, even for a moment. I couldn’t be sure when he might arrive. The position was so good, and suited me so well, that I wouldn’t risk losing it.

“Eight weeks passed like that. I had written about Abbots, Archery, Armour, Architecture, and Attica. With hard work, I hoped to reach the B’s before long. I had spent some money on foolscap paper. My writing had almost filled a shelf. Then suddenly, the whole business ended.”

“Ended?”

“Yes, sir. This very morning. I went to work as usual at ten, but the door was shut and locked. A small square of cardboard was nailed to the middle of it. Here it is. You can read it yourself.”

He held up a piece of white cardboard, about the size of a sheet of notepaper. It said:

“THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED. October 9, 1890.”

Holmes and I looked at this brief announcement and the unhappy face behind it. The situation’s funny side gradually drove every other thought away. We both burst into loud laughter.

“I don’t see anything very funny,” our client cried. His face turned red right up to his bright hair. “If all you can do is laugh at me, I can go somewhere else.”

“No, no!” cried Holmes. Wilson had half risen, and Holmes pushed him back into his chair. “I wouldn’t miss your case for anything. It’s wonderfully unusual. But, if you forgive me, it is also a little funny. What did you do when you found the card on the door?”

“I was shocked, sir. I didn’t know what to do. I asked at the nearby offices, but nobody seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord. He’s an accountant who lives on the ground floor. I asked what had happened to the Red-headed League. He said he had never heard of such an organization. Then I asked who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He had never heard that name either.

“‘I mean the gentleman at No. 4,’ I said.

“‘What, the red-headed man?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Oh, his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor. He was using my room temporarily until his new offices were ready. He moved out yesterday.’

“‘Where could I find him?’

“‘At his new offices. He told me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’

“I went there, Mr. Holmes. But that address was a factory making artificial knee-caps. Nobody there had heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.”

“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.

“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square and asked my assistant’s advice. But he couldn’t help me at all. He only said I should wait, and I would hear by post. That wasn’t good enough, Mr. Holmes. I didn’t want to lose such a position without a struggle.

“I had heard you were kind enough to advise poor people who needed help. So I came straight to you.”

“You acted very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is extremely remarkable, and I shall be happy to investigate it. From your account, I think it may involve more serious matters than it first appears.”

“Serious enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “I’ve lost four pounds a week!”

“As far as your own interests go, I don’t see what complaint you have against this extraordinary League. As I understand it, you are about thirty pounds richer. You also know a great deal about every subject beginning with A. You haven’t lost anything through them.”

“No, sir. But I want to know who they are. What was their purpose in playing this joke on me, if it was a joke? It was an expensive one for them. It cost them thirty-two pounds.”

“We shall try to explain those points. First, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. Your assistant first showed you the advertisement. How long had he worked for you then?”

“About a month.”

“How did he come to you?”

“He answered an advertisement.”

“Was he the only person who applied?”

“No, there were a dozen.”

“Why did you choose him?”

“He was useful and willing to work cheaply.”

“At half wages, in fact.”

“Yes.”

“What does this Vincent Spaulding look like?”

“He’s small and strongly built, and very quick in his movements. He has no hair on his face, although he’s at least thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead.”

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought as much,” said he. “Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?”

“Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a boy.”

“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back into deep thought. “He is still with you?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I have only just left him.”

“And has your business been looked after while you were away?”

“I have nothing to complain about, sir. There’s never very much to do in the morning.”

“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you my opinion on the matter in a day or two. Today is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may reach a conclusion.”

“Well, Watson,” said Holmes, when our visitor had left us, “what do you make of it all?”

“I can make nothing of it,” I answered honestly. “It is a most mysterious business.”

“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the stranger a thing is, the less mysterious it turns out to be. It is the ordinary crimes, without any special features, which are really puzzling. In the same way, an ordinary face is the most difficult to identify. But I must act quickly in this matter.”

“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.

“Smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three-pipe problem. Please don’t speak to me for fifty minutes.”

He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees pulled up to his nose, which was like a hawk’s. There he sat with his eyes closed. His black clay pipe stuck out like the beak of some strange bird. I had decided that he had fallen asleep. In fact, I was starting to fall asleep myself. Then suddenly he jumped out of his chair, like a man who has made up his mind. He put his pipe down on the mantelpiece.

“Sarasate is playing at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked. “What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours?”

“I have nothing to do today. My work as a doctor never keeps me very busy.”

“Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I notice that there is a good deal of German music on the programme. That is rather more to my taste than Italian or French music. It makes you look inside yourself, and I want to look inside myself. Come along!”

We travelled on the Underground as far as Aldersgate. A short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the strange story we had heard that morning. It was a small, cramped, shabby place that tried hard to look respectable. Four rows of dirty two-storey brick houses looked out onto a small garden with railings around it. There was a lawn of weedy grass and a few groups of faded laurel bushes. They were fighting hard to live in the smoky, unfriendly air. On a corner house there were three gilded balls and a brown board with “JABEZ WILSON” in white letters. This showed the place where our red-headed client did his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side. He looked the whole place over, and his eyes shone brightly between half-closed lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner. All the time he looked closely at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s. He hit the pavement hard with his stick two or three times. Then he went up to the door and knocked. It was opened at once by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young man, who asked him to step in.

“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I only wanted to ask you how to get from here to the Strand.”

“Third right, fourth left,” the assistant answered quickly, and he closed the door.

“A clever fellow, that,” Holmes remarked as we walked away. “In my opinion he is the fourth cleverest man in London. And for daring, he may even have a claim to be third. I have known something of him before.”

“Clearly,” I said, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant is very important in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you asked the way only so that you could see him.”

“Not him.”

“What then?”

“The knees of his trousers.”

“And what did you see?”

“What I expected to see.”

“Why did you hit the pavement?”

“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s country. We know something about Saxe-Coburg Square. Now let us explore the streets which lie behind it.”

We turned the corner from the quiet Saxe-Coburg Square. The road we came into was as different from it as the front of a picture is from the back. It was one of the main roads that carried the City’s traffic to the north and west. The road was blocked by a huge stream of business traffic. It flowed in two directions, into the City and out of it. The pavements were black with crowds of hurrying people. We looked at the line of fine shops and grand business buildings. It was hard to believe that, on the other side, their backs touched the faded, lifeless square we had just left.

“Let me see,” said Holmes. He stood at the corner and looked along the row. “I should just like to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, and the little newspaper shop. Then there is the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane’s carriage-building depot. That takes us right on to the next block. And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time for some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land. There everything is sweet and delicate and in harmony. And there are no red-headed clients to annoy us with their puzzles.”

My friend loved music. He was not only a very skilful player but also a composer of unusual talent. All afternoon he sat in the stalls, wrapped in the most perfect happiness. He gently waved his long, thin fingers in time to the music. His face smiled gently, and his eyes were lazy and dreamy. He looked as different as possible from Holmes the bloodhound, Holmes the detective who never gave up. That Holmes was sharp-minded and quick to act against criminals. His unusual character had two sides, and each of them came forward in turn. I have often thought that his extreme exactness and cleverness were a reaction against his poetic, thoughtful mood. That mood sometimes took control of him. His nature swung from complete laziness to burning energy. And I knew well that he was never so truly dangerous as after such lazy times. For days on end he would lounge in his armchair. He would make up music on his violin and read his old books in black-letter print. Then the desire for the chase would suddenly come over him. His brilliant reasoning would rise until it was almost like intuition. People who did not know his methods would look at him with suspicion. To them, his knowledge did not seem like that of other human beings. That afternoon I saw him so lost in the music at St. James’s Hall. And I felt that a bad time might be coming for the people he had decided to hunt down.

“No doubt you want to go home, Doctor,” he remarked as we came out.

“Yes, that would be best.”

“And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg Square is serious.”

“Why serious?”

“A large crime is being planned. I have every reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But today is Saturday, and that rather complicates matters. I shall want your help tonight.”

“At what time?”

“Ten will be early enough.”

“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”

“Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be a little danger, so please put your army revolver in your pocket.”

He waved his hand, turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd in a moment.

I hope that I am not more stupid than other people. But in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes, I always felt heavily aware of my own stupidity. Here I had heard what he had heard, and I had seen what he had seen. Yet from his words it was clear that he saw everything clearly. He knew not only what had happened but what was about to happen. To me, the whole business was still confused and absurd. As I drove home to my house in Kensington, I thought it all over. I went from the extraordinary story of the red-headed man who copied the *Encyclopædia* to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square. And I thought about the threatening words he had said as we parted. What was this night-time expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we going to do? Holmes had hinted that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a dangerous man. He was a man who might be playing a deep and clever game. I tried to work it out, but I gave up in despair. I put the matter aside until the night would bring an explanation.

It was a quarter past nine when I left home. I went across the Park, and then through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door. As I entered the passage, I heard voices from upstairs. When I went into his room, I found Holmes talking excitedly with two men. I recognised one of them as Peter Jones, the official police agent. The other was a long, thin, sad-faced man. He had a very shiny hat and a frock-coat that was almost painfully respectable.

“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes. He buttoned up his pea-jacket and took his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather. He is to be our companion in tonight’s adventure.”

“We’re hunting in pairs again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones, in his self-important way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he needs is an old dog to help him run the animal down.”

“I hope that this will not turn out to be a wild-goose chase,” Mr. Merryweather said gloomily.

“You may trust Mr. Holmes a good deal, sir,” said the police agent proudly. “He has his own little methods. If he won’t mind my saying so, they are just a little too theoretical and imaginative. But he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say that once or twice he has been closer to the truth than the official police. That was so in the business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure.”

“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger respectfully. “Still, I must admit that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night in twenty-seven years that I have not had my rubber.”

“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for a higher stake tonight than ever before. And the game will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be about £30,000. And for you, Jones, it will be the man you want to catch.”

“John Clay, the murderer, thief, counterfeiter and forger. He’s a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the top of his profession. I would rather put my handcuffs on him than on any other criminal in London. He’s a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as clever as his fingers. We find signs of him everywhere, but we never know where to find the man himself. One week he’ll break into a house in Scotland. The next week he’ll be collecting money to build an orphanage in Cornwall. I’ve been following him for years, and I have never seen him yet.”

“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to him tonight. I’ve had one or two little contests with Mr. John Clay myself. I agree with you that he is at the top of his profession. But it is past ten, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second.”

Sherlock Holmes did not talk much during the long drive. He lay back in the cab, humming the tunes he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless maze of gas-lit streets until we came out into Farrington Street.

“We are close to the place now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather is a bank director, and he is personally interested in the matter. I thought it best to have Jones with us too. He is not a bad fellow, though he is a complete fool in his profession. He has one real virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog. And if he gets his claws into anyone, he holds on as tightly as a lobster. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.”

We had reached the same busy street where we had been that morning. We sent our cabs away. Mr. Merryweather led us down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us. Inside there was a small corridor, which ended in a very heavy iron gate. This was opened too. It led down a flight of winding stone steps, which ended at another strong gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern. Then he led us down a dark passage that smelled of earth. After he opened a third door, we came into a huge vault or cellar. Crates and heavy boxes were piled all round it.

“You are not easy to attack from above,” Holmes remarked, as he held up the lantern and looked around.

“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather. He struck his stick on the stones of the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he said, looking up in surprise.

“I must really ask you to be a little quieter!” said Holmes sharply. “You have already put the whole success of our expedition in danger. Could I ask you kindly to sit down on one of those boxes, and not to interfere?”

The serious Mr. Merryweather sat on a crate, looking very offended. Holmes dropped to his knees on the floor. With the lantern and a magnifying lens, he began to examine the cracks between the stones very closely. A few seconds were enough to satisfy him. He jumped to his feet again and put his lens in his pocket.

“We have at least an hour,” he remarked. “They can hardly do anything until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a minute. The sooner they do their work, the longer they will have for their escape. At present, Doctor, as you have no doubt guessed, we are in the cellar of the City branch of one of the main London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of the directors. He will explain why the more daring criminals of London should take a great interest in this cellar at present.”

“It is our French gold,” the director whispered. “We have had several warnings that someone might try to steal it.”

“Your French gold?”

“Yes. Some months ago we needed to strengthen our resources. For that purpose we borrowed 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. People have found out that we have never needed to unpack the money. It is still lying in our cellar. The crate I am sitting on contains 2,000 napoleons, packed between layers of lead foil. At present our store of gold is much larger than is usually kept in a single branch. The directors have been worried about it.”

“And they were quite right to be worried,” Holmes remarked. “And now it is time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour the decisive moment will come. In the meantime, Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern.”

“And sit in the dark?”

“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket. I thought that, as we were a *partie carrée*, you might have your rubber after all. But I see that the enemy’s preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk having a light. And first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men. We shall catch them at a disadvantage, but they may still do us some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and you must hide behind those. Then, when I flash a light on them, close in quickly. If they fire, Watson, don’t hesitate to shoot them down.”

I put my revolver, cocked and ready, on top of the wooden case behind which I crouched. Holmes slid the cover across the front of his lantern. He left us in pitch darkness. I had never before known such absolute darkness. The smell of hot metal told us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at any moment. My nerves were tight with expectation. To me, there was something depressing and heavy in the sudden darkness, and in the cold, damp air of the vault.

“They have only one way to escape,” Holmes whispered. “That is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope you have done what I asked you, Jones?”

“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”

“Then we have blocked all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait.”

What a long time it seemed! We compared notes afterwards, and it was only an hour and a quarter. Yet it seemed to me that the night must be almost over, and the dawn must be breaking above us. My arms and legs were tired and stiff, because I was afraid to change my position. Yet my nerves were tense to the highest point. My hearing was so sharp that I could hear the gentle breathing of my companions. I could even tell the deeper, heavier breath of the large Jones from the thin, sighing breath of the bank director. From my position I could look over the case towards the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the shine of a light.

At first it was only a strange, glowing spark on the stone floor. Then it grew longer until it became a yellow line. Then, without any warning or sound, a gap seemed to open, and a hand appeared. It was a white, almost womanly hand. It felt about in the centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more, the hand stuck up out of the floor, with its fingers twisting. Then it was pulled back as suddenly as it had appeared. All was dark again, except for the single glowing spark which marked a narrow crack between the stones.

However, it was gone only for a moment. With a tearing, breaking sound, one of the broad white stones turned over on its side. It left a square, open hole, and the light of a lantern streamed through it. Over the edge looked a clean-cut, boyish face. It looked sharply about. Then, with a hand on each side of the opening, he pulled himself up to his shoulders, and then to his waist. At last one knee rested on the edge. In another moment he stood beside the hole. He was pulling up after him a companion, small and quick like himself. This man had a pale face and a mass of very red hair.

“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you got the chisel and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!”

Sherlock Holmes had jumped out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other man dived down the hole. I heard the sound of tearing cloth as Jones grabbed at the tails of his coat. The light flashed on the barrel of a revolver. But Holmes’s hunting crop came down on the man’s wrist, and the pistol fell with a clink on the stone floor.

“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes calmly. “You have no chance at all.”

“So I see,” the other answered, perfectly cool. “I think my friend is all right, though I see you have got the tails of his coat.”

“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes.

“Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very thoroughly. I must congratulate you.”

“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and effective.”

“You’ll see your friend again soon,” said Jones. “He’s quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out your hands while I put the handcuffs on.”

“I ask you not to touch me with your filthy hands,” said our prisoner, as the handcuffs closed with a clatter around his wrists. “You may not know that I have royal blood in my veins. Please be kind enough, also, always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please’ when you speak to me.”

“All right,” said Jones, staring at him and laughing unkindly. “Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs? There we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the police station.”

“That is better,” said John Clay calmly. He made a wide, sweeping bow to the three of us. Then he walked quietly off with the detective.

“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather, as we followed them out of the cellar, “I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt about it. You have discovered and defeated one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery that I have ever known. And you have done it in the most complete way.”

“I have had one or two little old quarrels of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay,” said Holmes. “I have spent a little money on this matter, and I shall expect the bank to pay me back. But apart from that, I am well rewarded. I have had an experience which is in many ways unique. And I have heard the very remarkable story of the Red-headed League.”

“You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning, as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly clear from the start. This rather fantastic business of the League’s advertisement and the copying of the *Encyclopædia* could have only one purpose. It must be to get this not very clever pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a strange way of doing it. But really, it would be hard to suggest a better one. No doubt the colour of his partner’s hair gave Clay’s clever mind the idea. The £4 a week was bait that was sure to attract Wilson. And what was that to them, when they were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement. One criminal takes the office for a short time, and the other criminal encourages Wilson to apply for the job. Together they manage to keep him away every morning of the week. I heard that the assistant had come for half wages. From that moment it was clear to me that he had some strong reason for getting the job.”

“But how could you guess what the reason was?”

“If there had been women in the house, I would have suspected a mere common love affair. But that was impossible. The man’s business was small. Nothing in his house could explain such careful preparations, or so much money spent. So it must be something outside the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant’s love of photography, and his habit of disappearing into the cellar. The cellar! That was the end of this tangled thread. Then I made inquiries about this mysterious assistant. I found that I was dealing with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the cellar. It was something which took many hours a day, for months on end. What could it be, once again? I could think of nothing except that he was digging a tunnel to some other building.

“I had got that far when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by hitting the pavement with my stick. I was finding out whether the cellar stretched out in front of the house or behind it. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell. As I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some little contests before, but we had never seen each other. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I wanted to see. You must have noticed yourself how worn, wrinkled and stained they were. They told of those hours of digging. The only remaining question was what they were digging for. I walked round the corner and saw that the City and Suburban Bank backed onto our friend’s building. Then I felt that I had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert, I called at Scotland Yard and on the chairman of the bank directors. The result you have seen.”

“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt tonight?” I asked.

“Well, when they closed their League offices, that was a sign. They no longer cared whether Mr. Jabez Wilson was at home. In other words, they had finished their tunnel. But they had to use it soon. It might be discovered, or the gold might be moved. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, because it would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come tonight.”

“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I cried, with real admiration. “It is such a long chain, and yet every link rings true.”

“It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I already feel it closing in on me. My life is one long effort to escape from the ordinary, everyday things of life. These little problems help me to do so.”

“And you do good for the whole human race,” I said.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use,” he remarked. “‘*L’homme c’est rien—l’œuvre c’est tout*,’ as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand.”

### Glossary

- **pawnbroker**: someone who lends money in exchange for valuable things kept until repayment.
- **snuff**: tobacco powder that people take through their nose.
- **Freemason**: a member of an old private society with special signs and rules.
- **tattoo**: a permanent picture made in someone’s skin.
- **trustees**: people responsible for looking after money or property for others.
- **quill-pen**: a pen made from a large bird’s feather.
- **sovereigns**: old British gold coins, each worth one pound.
- **DISSOLVED**: officially closed or ended as an organization.
- **three gilded balls**: the sign that hung outside a pawnbroker’s shop.
- **black-letter**: an old style of thick, dark printing used in very old books.
- **wild-goose chase**: a search that is useless and finds nothing.
- **rubber**: a set of card games, played by four people.
- **napoleons**: French gold coins.
- **partie carrée**: French for a group of four people.
- **dark lantern**: a lamp with a cover that can hide its light.
- **swing for it**: be hanged as punishment for a crime.
- **ennui**: a feeling of being bored and tired of life.
- **L’homme c’est rien**: l’œuvre c’est tout** — French words meaning “The man is nothing, the work is everything.”

## A Case of Identity

“My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes, “life is far stranger than anything a person could invent.”

We were sitting on opposite sides of the fire in his rooms at Baker Street.

“We would not dare to imagine things which are really quite ordinary parts of life. Imagine flying out of that window, hand in hand. We could float above this great city and gently lift away the roofs. We could look inside at all the strange things happening there. Think of the surprising accidents, the plans, and the people working against each other without knowing it. Think of wonderful chains of events, continuing through generations and producing the strangest results. Beside these things, all invented stories would seem dull and useless. Their familiar patterns and expected endings could not interest us.”

“And yet I am not convinced,” I answered. “The cases that appear in newspapers are usually plain and unpleasant enough. Police reports give us the most complete picture of real life possible. Yet we must admit that the result is neither exciting nor beautiful.”

“A writer must choose details carefully to give a true picture of life,” Holmes remarked. “Police reports do not do this. Perhaps they give more attention to the judge’s ordinary remarks than to the details. But to a careful observer, those details contain the real meaning of the whole matter. Believe me, nothing is so unnatural as the ordinary.”

I smiled and shook my head.

“I can quite understand why you think so,” I said. “You give unofficial advice and help to completely puzzled people across three continents. Naturally, you meet everything that is strange and unusual. But here, let us test your idea.”

I picked up the morning newspaper from the floor.

“This is the first heading I see: ‘A husband’s cruelty to his wife.’ There is half a column about it. But without reading a word, I know that everything in it is completely familiar. Of course, there is another woman, and there is drink. There is a push, a blow, a mark on the skin. There is a sympathetic sister or landlady. Even the least skilled writer could not invent anything so simple and ugly.”

“Actually, you have chosen a poor example for your argument,” said Holmes.

He took the newspaper and looked quickly down the report.

“This is the Dundas separation case. As it happens, I helped to make a few small points clear. The husband never drank alcohol. There was no other woman. His wife complained about a habit he had developed. At the end of every meal, he took out his false teeth and threw them at her. You must admit that an ordinary storyteller would be unlikely to imagine such an action. Take a little snuff, Doctor. And admit that your own example has helped me win our argument.”

He held out his snuffbox. It was made of old gold, with a large amethyst in the centre of its lid. Its beauty seemed so different from his plain habits and simple life that I had to mention it.

“Ah,” he said, “I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It is a small gift from the King of Bohemia. He gave it in return for my help with the Irene Adler papers.”

“And the ring?” I asked.

I looked at a remarkable bright stone which shone on his finger.

“It came from the royal family of Holland. But the matter in which I helped them was very private. I cannot share it even with you. And you have been kind enough to record one or two of my little problems.”

“Are you working on any now?” I asked with interest.

“About ten or twelve, but none has anything interesting about it. They are important, you understand, but not interesting. In fact, I usually find more opportunities for careful observation in unimportant matters. Those cases allow quick study of causes and results. That is what makes an investigation enjoyable. Bigger crimes are often simpler. Usually, the greater the crime, the clearer the reason for it. Among my present cases, only one rather complicated matter from Marseilles offers anything interesting. However, I may have something better within a few minutes. Unless I am very much mistaken, that is one of my clients.”

He had risen from his chair. He stood between the partly opened blinds, looking down into the dull, grey-brown London street. I looked over his shoulder. A large woman stood on the opposite pavement, with a heavy fur boa around her neck. A large, curling red feather rose from her broad hat. The hat rested at a playful angle over her ear, in the style of the Duchess of Devonshire. Beneath all this fine clothing, she looked nervously up at our windows. She seemed uncertain, moving backwards and forwards and playing with the buttons of her gloves. Suddenly she rushed across the road, like a swimmer throwing herself into the water from the bank. We heard the sharp ring of the bell.

“I have seen those signs before,” said Holmes.

He threw his cigarette into the fire.

“That backwards and forwards movement on the pavement always means a love problem. She wants advice, but she is unsure whether the matter is too private to discuss. Even here, though, we can see differences. When a man has seriously hurt a woman, she no longer moves about like that. The usual result is a broken bell wire. Here, we can expect a love affair. But the young woman is more puzzled or sad than angry. However, she is coming herself to answer our questions.”

As he spoke, there was a tap at the door. The boy in his buttoned uniform entered and announced Miss Mary Sutherland. The lady herself stood behind his small, black figure. She looked like a great trading ship with full sails behind a tiny boat guiding it into port. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with his usual relaxed politeness. He closed the door and bowed as he showed her to an armchair. Then he examined her in his own special way, looking closely while seeming to think about something else.

“Do you not find all that typing rather difficult with your short sight?” he asked.

“I did at first,” she answered. “But now I know where the letters are without looking.”

Then she suddenly understood what his words meant. She gave a sharp jump and looked up. Fear and surprise appeared on her broad, good-natured face.

“You have heard about me, Mr. Holmes!” she cried. “Otherwise, how could you know all that?”

“Never mind,” said Holmes, laughing. “Knowing things is my business. Perhaps I have trained myself to notice what others miss. If not, why would you come to ask my advice?”

“I came because Mrs. Etherege told me about you, sir. You found her husband so easily. The police and everyone else had already decided that he was dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I am not rich. Still, I have a hundred pounds a year of my own, besides the little I earn by typing. I would give it all to know what has happened to Mr. Hosmer Angel.”

“Why did you leave home in such a hurry to visit me?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

He held his fingertips together and looked up at the ceiling.

Another surprised expression appeared on Miss Mary Sutherland’s rather empty-looking face.

“Yes, I did rush out of the house,” she said. “Mr. Windibank, my father, made me angry. He treated the whole thing so lightly. He would not go to the police, and he would not come to you. He did nothing and kept saying that no harm had been done. In the end, I became so angry that I put on my things and came straight here.”

“Your father?” said Holmes. “Surely your stepfather, since his name is different.”

“Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds strange, too. He is only five years and two months older than I am.”

“And your mother is alive?”

“Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I was not very pleased when she married again so soon after father’s death, Mr. Holmes. And her new husband was nearly fifteen years younger than she was. Father was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road. He left a good business behind him. Mother continued it with Mr. Hardy, the foreman. But when Mr. Windibank came, he made her sell the business. He thought himself much better than that, because he travelled about selling wines. They received £4,700 for the business, its customers and its good name. That was far less than father could have got if he had been alive.”

Her account wandered about and seemed to contain many unimportant details. I had expected Sherlock Holmes to become impatient. Instead, he had listened with the greatest attention.

“Does your own small income come from the business?” he asked.

“Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate. My uncle Ned in Auckland left it to me. It is invested in New Zealand stock and pays four and a half per cent. The amount was two thousand five hundred pounds, but I can only use the interest.”

“You interest me very much,” said Holmes. “You receive a large sum, a hundred a year, besides what you earn. No doubt you travel a little and buy yourself everything you want. I believe an unmarried lady can live very comfortably on about sixty pounds a year.”

“I could manage with much less than that, Mr. Holmes. But while I live at home, I do not want them to pay for my needs. So they have the use of the money while I stay with them. Of course, that is only for the time I am there. Mr. Windibank collects my interest every three months and gives it to mother. I find I can manage quite well with what I earn by typing. I get twopence a sheet. I can often type fifteen to twenty sheets in a day.”

“You have made your situation very clear,” said Holmes. “This is my friend, Dr. Watson. You can speak as freely in front of him as you can with me. Now, please tell us everything about your connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel.”

Miss Sutherland’s face turned a little red. She picked nervously at the fringe of her jacket.

“I first met him at the gasfitters’ ball,” she said. “They used to send father tickets when he was alive. Afterwards, they remembered us and sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not want us to go. He never wanted us to go anywhere. He became very angry if I even wanted to join a Sunday-school outing. But this time I had decided to go, and I would go. What right had he to stop me? He said the people there were not suitable friends for us. Yet all father’s friends would be there. He said I had nothing suitable to wear. But I had my purple plush dress, which I had never even taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else worked, he went to France on business for his firm. But mother and I went to the ball with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman. That was where I met Mr. Hosmer Angel.”

“I suppose Mr. Windibank was very annoyed when he returned from France,” said Holmes. “I mean, because you had gone to the ball.”

“Oh, he was very good about it. I remember that he laughed and raised his shoulders. He said there was no use refusing a woman anything, because she would always get her way.”

“I see. So at the gasfitters’ ball, you met a gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel.”

“Yes, sir. I met him that night. He called the next day to ask whether we had got home safely. After that, we met him. Or rather, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks. But then father came back, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not visit the house any more.”

“No?”

“Well, you know, father did not like anything of that sort. He would not have any visitors if he could avoid it. He used to say a woman should be happy within her own family. But, as I used to tell mother, a woman wants her own family first. And I had not got mine yet.”

“But what about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?”

“Well, father was going to France again in a week. Hosmer wrote and said we should wait until he had gone before seeing each other. That would be safer and better. Meanwhile, we could write, and he wrote every day. I collected the letters when they arrived in the morning. So father did not need to know.”

“Were you engaged to him at this time?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We became engaged after our first walk together. Hosmer—Mr. Angel—was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall Street, and—”

“What office?”

“That is the worst of it, Mr. Holmes. I do not know.”

“Where did he live, then?”

“He slept at the office.”

“And you do not know his address?”

“No, except that it was Leadenhall Street.”

“Where did you send your letters, then?”

“To the Leadenhall Street Post Office. They were kept there until he collected them. He said the other clerks would laugh at him if my letters arrived at the office. They would tease him about receiving letters from a lady. So I offered to type them, as he typed his. But he would not let me. He said my handwritten letters seemed to come from me. With typed letters, he always felt that the machine had come between us. That shows how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes. It shows the little things he thought about.”

“It suggests a great deal,” said Holmes. “I have long believed that little things are much the most important. Can you remember any other small things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?”

“He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He preferred to walk with me in the evening, rather than during the day. He said he hated people noticing him. He was very quiet and gentlemanly. Even his voice was gentle. He told me he had suffered a serious throat illness when he was young. The glands in his neck had become swollen, and his throat had remained weak. He spoke with difficulty, in a whisper. He was always well dressed, very neat and plain. But his eyes were weak, just like mine. He wore coloured glasses to protect them from bright light.”

“Well, what happened when your stepfather, Mr. Windibank, went back to France?”

“Mr. Hosmer Angel visited the house again. He suggested that we should marry before father returned. He was terribly serious. He made me put my hands on the Testament and promise always to be faithful to him, whatever happened. Mother said he was quite right to make me promise. She said it showed his strong love for me. Mother had supported him from the beginning. She was even fonder of him than I was. Then they talked about marrying within the week, and I began to ask about father. But they both told me not to worry about him. They said we should simply tell him afterwards. Mother said she would make everything right with him. I did not quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed strange to ask his permission, because he was only a few years older than I was. But I did not want to do anything secretly. So I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the company has its French offices. But the letter came back to me on the very morning of the wedding.”

“It missed him, then?”

“Yes, sir. He had started for England just before it arrived.”

“Ah! That was unfortunate. So your wedding was arranged for the Friday. Was it to be in church?”

“Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour’s, near King’s Cross. Afterwards, we were to have breakfast at the St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom. But as there were two of us, he put mother and me into it. He himself got into a four-wheeled cab, the only other cab in the street. We reached the church first. When the four-wheeler arrived, we waited for him to get out. But he never did. The cabman climbed down from his driving seat and looked inside. There was no one there! He said he could not imagine what had happened to Hosmer. He had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes. Since then, I have seen or heard nothing to explain what became of him.”

“It seems to me that you have been treated very shamefully,” said Holmes.

“Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me like that. All that morning, he kept telling me to be faithful, whatever happened. Even if something completely unexpected separated us, I must remember my promise to him. He would ask me to keep it, sooner or later. It seemed strange talk for a wedding morning. But what has happened since gives it a meaning.”

“It certainly does. So you believe some unexpected terrible event has happened to him?”

“Yes, sir. I believe he expected some danger. Otherwise, he would not have talked like that. Then I think the thing he feared actually happened.”

“But you have no idea what it could have been?”

“None.”

“One more question. How did your mother react?”

“She was angry. She said I must never speak of the matter again.”

“And your father? Did you tell him?”

“Yes. Like me, he seemed to think something had happened. He thought I would hear from Hosmer again. As he said, why would anyone bring me to the church doors and then leave me? If Hosmer had borrowed my money, there might be a reason. Or he might have married me and got control of my money. But Hosmer was very independent about money. He would never take a shilling of mine. Yet what can have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, thinking about it nearly drives me mad. I cannot sleep at all at night.”

She took a small handkerchief out of her muff and began to cry heavily into it.

“I shall look into the case for you,” said Holmes, rising. “I have no doubt that we shall reach a clear result. Let me carry the worry now, and do not keep thinking about it. Above all, try to forget Mr. Hosmer Angel. Let him disappear from your memory as he has disappeared from your life.”

“Then you do not think I shall see him again?”

“I fear not.”

“Then what has happened to him?”

“Leave that question with me. I would like an exact description of him and any letters of his you can leave here.”

“I put a notice about him in last Saturday’s Chronicle,” she said. “Here is the cutting, and here are four letters from him.”

“Thank you. And your address?”

“No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell.”

“I understand that you never had Mr. Angel’s address. Where does your father work?”

“He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great company that imports red wine in Fenchurch Street.”

“Thank you. You have told your story very clearly. Leave the papers here and remember my advice. Put the whole incident behind you, and do not let it affect your life.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be faithful to Hosmer. He will find me ready when he comes back.”

Her hat was ridiculous, and her face looked rather empty. Yet there was something noble in our visitor’s simple faith, and we had to respect it. She placed her small bundle of papers on the table and left. She promised to return whenever she was called.

Sherlock Holmes sat silently for a few minutes, with his fingertips still pressed together. His legs stretched out in front of him, and he looked up at the ceiling. Then he took his old, oily clay pipe from the rack. This pipe seemed to help him think, like a wise adviser. He lit it and leaned back in his chair. Thick blue clouds of smoke rose and turned above him. His face looked completely relaxed and almost without energy.

“That young woman is quite an interesting study,” he observed. “I found her more interesting than her little problem. By the way, the problem is rather a familiar one. Look in my index, and you will find similar cases at Andover in ’77. There was something of the same kind at The Hague last year. However, although the idea is old, one or two details were new to me. But the young woman herself taught us a great deal.”

“You seemed to read many things about her which were quite invisible to me,” I remarked.

“Not invisible, Watson, but unnoticed. You did not know where to look, so you missed everything important. I can never make you understand the importance of sleeves. Or the things that thumbnails can suggest. Or the great matters that may depend on a bootlace. Now, what did you learn from that woman’s appearance? Describe it.”

“Well, she had a broad straw hat, dark grey in colour, with a brick-red feather. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn on it. It had a fringe of little shining black stones. Her dress was brown, a little darker than coffee. There was a little purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish, with a hole over the right forefinger. I did not notice her boots. She had small, round gold earrings which hung down. Generally, she looked fairly well-off, comfortable and relaxed, but without much taste.”

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands gently together and laughed softly.

“Really, Watson, you are improving wonderfully. You have done very well indeed. It is true that you missed everything important. But you have found the right method, and you notice colours quickly. Never trust general impressions, my boy. Give your attention to details. My first glance is always at a woman’s sleeve. With a man, perhaps it is better to look at the trouser knees first. As you noticed, this woman had plush on her sleeves. That material is very useful for showing marks. A clear double line appeared a little above her wrist. A typist presses that part of her arm against the table. A sewing machine worked by hand leaves a similar mark. But that mark appears only on the left arm, on the side furthest from the thumb. It does not cross the widest part of the arm, as this one did. Then I looked at her face. I noticed the marks of a pince-nez on either side of her nose. So I made a remark about short sight and typing, which seemed to surprise her.”

“It surprised me.”

“But surely it was obvious. Then I glanced down, and something surprised and interested me very much. Her boots looked rather alike, but they were not a pair. One had a little decoration over the toe. The other was plain. Each had five buttons. On one, only the bottom two were fastened. On the other, the first, third and fifth were fastened. Here was a young lady who was otherwise neatly dressed. Yet she had left home in different boots, with half their buttons open. It needed no great skill to work out that she had left in a hurry.”

“And what else?” I asked.

My friend’s sharp reasoning always interested me greatly.

“I also noticed that she had written a note before leaving home, but after she was fully dressed. You saw the hole over the forefinger of her right glove. But apparently you missed the violet ink on both glove and finger. She had written quickly and dipped her pen too deep. It must have happened this morning. Otherwise, the mark would not have remained clear on her finger. All this is amusing, though rather simple. But I must return to business, Watson. Would you read me the description of Mr. Hosmer Angel from the newspaper notice?”

I held the small printed cutting to the light.

“Missing on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel,” I read. “About five feet seven inches tall. Strongly built, with yellowish skin and black hair, slightly bald in the centre. Thick black hair on the sides of his face, and a black moustache. Coloured glasses and a slight difficulty in speaking. When last seen, he wore a black frock-coat with silk on the front. Also a black waistcoat, a gold Albert chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers. He wore brown gaiters over boots with elastic sides. Known to have worked in an office in Leadenhall Street. Anyone bringing—”

The notice continued in the usual way.

“That will do,” said Holmes. “As for the letters,” he continued, looking through them, “they are very ordinary. They give absolutely no clue about Mr. Angel, except that he once quotes Balzac. However, there is one remarkable point which you will certainly notice.”

“They are typed,” I remarked.

“Not only that. The signature is typed too. Look at the neat little ‘Hosmer Angel’ at the bottom. There is a date, you see. But the only address at the top is Leadenhall Street, which is rather unclear. The signature suggests a great deal. In fact, we may call it definite proof.”

“Of what?”

“My dear fellow, can you really not see how strongly it affects the case?”

“I cannot say that I do. Unless he wanted to be able to deny his signature. She might take him to court for breaking his promise to marry her.”

“No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City. The other is to the young lady’s stepfather, Mr. Windibank. I shall ask whether he can meet us here at six tomorrow evening. It is just as well to deal with the male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the answers arrive. So we may leave our little problem alone for the moment.”

I had seen many reasons to trust my friend’s fine reasoning and remarkable energy. I felt sure he had firm grounds for his relaxed confidence about this strange mystery. I had known him to fail only once. That was the case of the King of Bohemia and the Irene Adler photograph. But I remembered the strange business of the Sign of Four. I also remembered the extraordinary events of the Study in Scarlet. A problem would have to be very complicated indeed to defeat him.

I left him still smoking his black clay pipe. I felt sure that, by the following evening, he would have all the clues he needed. They would lead him to the identity of Miss Mary Sutherland’s disappearing bridegroom.

At that time, a very serious medical case needed my attention. I spent the whole of the next day beside the sick person’s bed. It was nearly six before I was free. Then I jumped into a hansom and drove to Baker Street. I was a little afraid that I might arrive too late to see the little mystery explained.

However, I found Sherlock Holmes alone and half asleep. His long, thin body was curled up deep in his armchair. An impressive collection of bottles and test tubes stood about him. There was a sharp, clean smell of hydrochloric acid. These things told me that he had spent the day doing the chemical work he loved.

“Well, have you solved it?” I asked as I entered.

“Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta.”

“No, no, the mystery!” I cried.

“Oh, that! I was thinking of the chemical salt I have been studying. There was never any mystery about the matter. However, as I said yesterday, some details are interesting. The only difficulty is that, I fear, no law can punish the villain.”

“Who was he, then? And what was his purpose in leaving Miss Sutherland?”

I had hardly finished my question. Before Holmes could reply, we heard a heavy step in the passage and a tap at the door.

“This is the girl’s stepfather, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “He wrote to say he would be here at six. Come in!”

The man who entered was strongly built and of medium height, about thirty years old. He was clean-shaven, with yellowish skin. He had a smooth, pleasant manner, as if he wanted us to like him. His grey eyes were remarkably sharp and searching. He gave each of us a questioning look. Then he placed his shining top hat on the sideboard. With a slight bow, he moved sideways into the nearest chair.

“Good evening, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “I believe this typed letter is from you. In it, you arranged to meet me at six o’clock.”

“Yes, sir. I am afraid I am a little late. But I am not entirely free to arrange my own time, you know. I am sorry Miss Sutherland has troubled you about this small matter. I think family troubles of this kind are much better kept private. She came completely against my wishes. But she is a very excitable girl who acts without thinking, as you may have noticed. Once she decides on something, she is not easily controlled. Of course, I did not mind her coming to you quite so much. You have no connection with the official police. Still, it is unpleasant to have a family misfortune spread about. Besides, it is a useless expense. How could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?”

“On the contrary,” said Holmes quietly. “I have every reason to believe I shall succeed in finding Mr. Hosmer Angel.”

Mr. Windibank gave a sharp jump and dropped his gloves.

“I am delighted to hear it,” he said.

“It is a curious thing,” Holmes remarked. “A typewriter has its own special character, just as a person’s handwriting does. Unless they are completely new, no two machines write exactly alike. Some letters become more worn than others. Some wear down only on one side. Now, look at your note, Mr. Windibank. Every ‘e’ is a little unclear, and there is a slight fault in the tail of every ‘r’. There are fourteen other special features, but those are the most obvious.”

“We use that machine for all our letters at the office. No doubt it is a little worn,” our visitor answered.

His bright little eyes watched Holmes closely.

“Now I shall show you a really interesting study, Mr. Windibank,” Holmes continued. “One day, I think I shall write another short paper, on the typewriter and its connection with crime. I have given the subject some attention. Here I have four letters which claim to come from the missing man. They are all typed. In every one, the ‘e’s’ are unclear and the ‘r’s’ have no tails. You can also use my magnifying glass, if you wish. You will find all the fourteen other special features I mentioned.”

Mr. Windibank jumped from his chair and picked up his hat.

“I cannot waste time on such ridiculous talk, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “If you can catch the man, catch him. Let me know when you have done it.”

“Certainly,” said Holmes.

He stepped to the door and turned the key in the lock.

“Then I am telling you that I have caught him!”

“What! Where?” shouted Mr. Windibank.

His face turned white, even around his lips. He looked about like a rat caught in a trap.

“Oh, that will not work. It really will not,” said Holmes pleasantly. “There is no possible way out of this, Mr. Windibank. It is all much too clear. You insulted me by saying I could not solve such a simple problem. That is right! Sit down, and let us talk about it.”

Our visitor collapsed into a chair. His face looked terrible, and drops of sweat shone on his forehead.

“It—it is not something you can take to court,” he said with difficulty.

“I am very much afraid you are right. But, between ourselves, Windibank, I have rarely seen such a cruel, selfish and heartless little trick. Now, let me describe what happened. Correct me if I am wrong.”

The man sat bent up in his chair, with his head hanging on his chest. He looked completely defeated. Holmes put his feet on the corner of the shelf above the fireplace. He leaned back with his hands in his pockets and began. He seemed to be talking to himself rather than to us.

“The man married a woman much older than himself for her money,” he said. “He also enjoyed the use of her daughter’s money while the girl lived with them. For people in their position, it was a considerable sum. Losing it would have made a serious difference. It was worth making an effort to keep it. The daughter was good-natured and pleasant, but also loving and warm-hearted. She had a reasonably attractive appearance and a small income. Clearly, she would not remain unmarried for long. But her marriage would mean losing a hundred a year. So what did her stepfather do to prevent it? He chose the obvious method. He kept her at home and forbade her to meet people of her own age. But soon he found this would not work for ever. She grew unhappy with the rules and insisted on her rights. Finally, she announced her firm decision to go to a certain ball. What did her clever stepfather do then? He thought of an idea which showed more intelligence than kindness. His wife knowingly helped him. He disguised himself, hiding those sharp eyes behind coloured glasses. He covered his face with a moustache and thick hair on either side. He changed his clear voice into a soft whisper. The girl’s short sight made him even safer. Then he appeared as Mr. Hosmer Angel. By pretending to love her himself, he kept other lovers away.”

“It was only a joke at first,” our visitor groaned. “We never thought she would fall so deeply in love.”

“Very likely not. However, the young lady certainly did fall deeply in love. She was completely sure her stepfather was in France. So she never suspected any dishonesty for a moment. The gentleman’s attention pleased her. Her mother’s loudly expressed admiration increased the effect. Then Mr. Angel began to visit. Clearly, the business had to go as far as possible to produce a real effect. There were meetings and an engagement. That would finally stop the girl’s love turning towards anyone else. But they could not continue the trick for ever. These pretended journeys to France were rather difficult to arrange. Clearly, they needed to end the business in a very dramatic way. It must leave a lasting impression on the young lady’s mind. It must prevent her from considering another man’s love for some time. That explains the promises of faithfulness he demanded with her hands on the Testament. It also explains his warnings on the very morning of the wedding. He suggested that something might happen. James Windibank wanted Miss Sutherland’s promise to Hosmer Angel to hold her fast. She must also remain uncertain about what had happened to him. Then, for at least ten years, she would not listen to another man. He brought her as far as the church door. He could go no further, so he conveniently disappeared. He used the old trick of entering a four-wheeler by one door and leaving by the other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!”

While Holmes spoke, our visitor had recovered some of his confidence. Now he rose from his chair. A cold smile of contempt appeared on his pale face.

“That may be true, or it may not, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “But if you are so clever, you should know who is breaking the law now. It is you, not me. I have done nothing that anyone can take to court. But while you keep that door locked, you can be taken to court yourself. You could be accused of assault and keeping me here against the law.”

“As you say, the law cannot punish you,” said Holmes.

He unlocked the door and threw it open.

“Yet no man ever deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or friend, he ought to whip you across the shoulders. By Jove!”

His face grew red at the sight of the man’s cruel smile.

“It is no part of my duty to my client. But there is a hunting crop within reach, and I think I shall give myself the pleasure of—”

He took two quick steps towards the whip. Before he could grasp it, we heard a wild rush of feet down the stairs. The heavy front door banged. From the window, we could see Mr. James Windibank running down the road as fast as he could.

“What a cold-hearted villain!” said Holmes, laughing.

He threw himself into his chair again.

“That fellow will go from one crime to another. In the end, he will do something very bad and finish on the gallows. In some ways, the case has not been completely without interest.”

“I still cannot quite follow every step of your reasoning,” I remarked.

“Well, of course, one thing was obvious from the start. This Mr. Hosmer Angel must have had some strong purpose behind his strange behaviour. Another thing was equally clear, as far as we could see. The stepfather was the only man who really gained anything from the incident. Then there was the fact that the two men were never together. One always appeared when the other was away. That suggested something. So did the coloured glasses and the strange voice. Both suggested a disguise, as did the thick hair on his face. His strange decision to type his signature confirmed all my suspicions. Clearly, his handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognise even the smallest example. You see, all these separate facts pointed in the same direction. So did many smaller facts.”

“And how did you check them?”

“Once I had identified my man, finding supporting evidence was easy. I knew the firm he worked for. I took the printed description and removed everything that could be part of a disguise. I removed the hair on his face, the glasses and the voice. Then I sent it to the firm. I asked whether it matched any of the men who travelled for them. I had already noticed the typewriter’s special features. So I wrote to the man himself at his business address, asking him to come here. As I expected, his reply was typed. It showed the same small but particular faults. The same post brought a letter from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street. They said the description matched their employee, James Windibank, in every way. That is all!”

“And Miss Sutherland?”

“If I tell her, she will not believe me. You may remember the old Persian saying. ‘There is danger for anyone who takes a tiger cub. There is also danger for anyone who takes away a woman’s false belief.’ There is as much good sense in Hafiz as in Horace. And as much knowledge of the world.”

### Glossary

- **snuffbox**: a small box for tobacco powder that people breathed into their noses.
- **amethyst**: a purple stone used in jewellery.
- **boa**: a long piece of fur or feathers worn around the neck.
- **plumber**: someone who repairs water pipes and related equipment.
- **interest**: money regularly paid on savings or investments.
- **gasfitters**: workers who put in or repair gas pipes and equipment.
- **hansom**: a two-wheeled cab pulled by a horse.
- **muff**: a warm tube of fur or cloth for keeping both hands inside.
- **plush**: a soft, thick cloth with a surface like short fur.
- **pince-nez**: glasses held in place by pressure on the nose.
- **frock-coat**: a formal man’s coat reaching down towards the knees.
- **Albert chain**: a watch chain worn across the front of a waistcoat.
- **gaiters**: coverings worn over the ankles and lower legs.
- **bisulphate of baryta**: an old name for a chemical substance containing barium.
- **hunting crop**: a short whip used when riding a horse.
- **gallows**: a structure used to kill a person by hanging.

## The Boscombe Valley Mystery

One morning, my wife and I were having breakfast. Our maid brought in a telegram from Sherlock Holmes. It said:

“Can you spare a couple of days? Someone in western England has sent for me about the Boscombe Valley tragedy. I would be glad if you came with me. The air and scenery are perfect. I leave Paddington on the 11:15 train.”

“What do you say, dear?” my wife asked, looking across at me. “Will you go?”

“I really don’t know what to say. I have quite a long list of patients at present.”

“Oh, Anstruther could do your work for you. You have looked a little pale lately. I think a change would do you good. And Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s cases always interest you so much.”

“I would be ungrateful if they didn’t, considering what I gained through one,” I answered. “But I must pack immediately if I’m going. I only have half an hour.”

Camp life in Afghanistan had at least taught me to prepare quickly for journeys. I needed few things, and they were simple. Before half an hour had passed, I was in a cab with my travelling bag. We went noisily towards Paddington Station.

Sherlock Holmes was walking up and down the platform. His long grey travelling cloak and close cloth cap made him look even taller and thinner.

“It is really very good of you to come, Watson,” he said. “Having someone I can completely trust makes a great difference. Local helpers are always either useless or unable to judge fairly. Please keep the two corner seats while I get the tickets.”

We had the railway carriage to ourselves, except for the great untidy pile of newspapers Holmes had brought. He searched through them and read. Sometimes he took notes, and sometimes he sat thinking. This continued until we had passed Reading. Then he suddenly rolled all the papers into an enormous ball and threw it onto the luggage shelf.

“Have you heard anything about the case?” he asked.

“Not a word. I haven’t seen a newspaper for several days.”

“The London newspapers haven’t reported it very fully. I’ve just examined all the recent papers to learn the details. From what I understand, this is one of those simple cases that are extremely difficult.”

“That sounds rather strange. How can it be both?”

“But it is completely true. An unusual detail is nearly always a clue. An ordinary crime, with nothing unusual about it, is much harder to prove. However, the evidence in this case points strongly against the murdered man’s son.”

“Then it is a murder?”

“Well, people believe so. I shall accept nothing as certain until I can examine the matter myself. I’ll briefly explain the situation, as far as I understand it.

“Boscombe Valley is a country district near Ross, in Herefordshire. Mr. John Turner owns more land there than anyone else. He made his money in Australia and returned to England some years ago. He rented one of his farms, Hatherley, to Mr. Charles McCarthy. McCarthy had also lived in Australia.

“They had known each other there. It was therefore natural for them to settle as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently richer, so McCarthy rented his farm. But they still seemed to treat each other as equals, and they often met.

“McCarthy had one son, a boy of eighteen. Turner’s only daughter was the same age. Both men’s wives were dead. They seem to have avoided the other English families nearby and lived quietly apart. However, both McCarthys enjoyed sport, and people often saw them at local horse races.

“McCarthy had two servants, a man and a girl. Turner had a much larger household, with at least six servants. That is everything I have discovered about the families. Now for the facts.

“On June 3rd, last Monday, McCarthy left his house at Hatherley at about three in the afternoon. He walked down to Boscombe Pool. This small lake is formed where the stream through Boscombe Valley spreads out. He had spent the morning in Ross with his male servant. He told the servant that he had to hurry, because he had an important appointment at three. He never returned alive from that appointment.

“Hatherley Farmhouse is a quarter of a mile from Boscombe Pool. Two people saw him walk between them. One was an old woman whose name is not given. The other was William Crowder, a gamekeeper who worked for Mr. Turner. Both witnesses said McCarthy was alone.

“The gamekeeper added that he saw James McCarthy, the son, a few minutes later. James was going the same way, carrying a gun under his arm. Crowder believed the father was still in sight, and the son was following him. He thought nothing more about it until he heard of the tragedy that evening.

“Someone else saw the two McCarthys after they passed out of William Crowder’s sight. Thick woods surround Boscombe Pool. Only a narrow band of grass and reeds grows around its edge. Patience Moran, a fourteen-year-old girl, was picking flowers in one of those woods. Her father looks after the entrance lodge of the Boscombe Valley estate.

“She said she saw McCarthy and his son beside the lake, at the edge of the wood. They seemed to be having a violent quarrel. She heard the older McCarthy speak very angrily to his son. Then she saw the son raise his hand, as though he meant to hit his father.

“Their violence frightened her so much that she ran away. At home, she told her mother she had left the McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe Pool. She was afraid they were going to fight.

“She had hardly finished speaking when young McCarthy ran up to the lodge. He said he had found his father dead in the wood, and asked for her father’s help. He was very upset and had neither his gun nor his hat. People noticed fresh blood on his right hand and sleeve.

“They followed him and found the body stretched out on the grass beside the pool. Repeated blows from a heavy weapon with no sharp edge had crushed the head. The back end of the son’s gun could easily have caused these injuries. The gun lay on the grass, a few steps from the body.

“In these circumstances, the police immediately arrested the young man. At Tuesday’s inquest, the jury decided that the death was deliberate murder. On Wednesday, he appeared before the magistrates at Ross. They sent his case to the next Assizes. Those are the main facts heard at the inquest and the police court.”

“I can hardly imagine stronger evidence against anyone,” I remarked. “If circumstances ever pointed to a criminal, they do here.”

“Evidence from circumstances is very difficult to judge,” Holmes answered thoughtfully. “It may seem to point directly to one thing. But change your point of view a little, and it may point just as firmly towards something completely different.

“Still, I admit that the case looks very serious for the young man. He may indeed be guilty. However, several local people believe he is innocent. One is Miss Turner, the neighbouring landowner’s daughter. They have employed Lestrade to investigate for him. You may remember Lestrade from the Study in Scarlet case.

“Lestrade is rather puzzled and has asked for my help. That explains why two middle-aged gentlemen are travelling west at fifty miles an hour. We could have stayed quietly at home after breakfast instead.”

“I’m afraid the facts are so obvious that this case won’t bring you much credit,” I said.

“Nothing deceives us more than an obvious fact,” he answered, laughing. “Besides, we may find other obvious facts that were not at all obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me too well to think I’m boasting. I shall either prove or destroy his theory by methods he cannot use, or even understand.

“Let me take the first example available. I can clearly see that your bedroom window is on your right. But I doubt whether Lestrade would notice even such a clear fact.”

“How on earth—”

“My dear fellow, I know you well. Your army habits have made you very neat. You shave every morning, and at this time of year you shave by sunlight. But your shaving becomes less complete further back on your left side. Around the corner of your jaw, it becomes positively untidy.

“Clearly, that side receives less light than the other. A man with your habits would never accept that result if both sides had equal light. This is only a small example of noticing details and drawing conclusions. That is my special skill. Perhaps it may help in the investigation ahead. One or two small points from the inquest are worth considering.”

“What are they?”

“Apparently, they did not arrest him immediately. They waited until he returned to Hatherley Farm. When the police inspector told him he was under arrest, he said he was not surprised. He added that he deserved it. Naturally, this remark removed any doubts that the inquest jury might still have had.”

“It was a confession!” I cried.

“No, because afterwards he said he was innocent.”

“After all those events against him, it was at least a very suspicious remark.”

“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “it is the most hopeful thing I can see at present. However innocent he was, he could not be stupid enough to miss the danger. He must have seen how strongly the circumstances stood against him.

“I would have been very suspicious if he had seemed surprised by his arrest or pretended to be angry. Surprise or anger would not have been natural in those circumstances. Yet a dishonest man might think that was his best course.

“His honest acceptance suggests an innocent man, or a man with great strength and self-control. His remark about deserving punishment was also natural. He had stood beside his father’s dead body. That very day, he had forgotten his duty as a son and quarrelled with his father. According to the important evidence of the little girl, he had even raised his hand to hit him. His words show regret and anger with himself. To me, those feelings suggest a healthy mind, not a guilty one.”

I shook my head.

“Many men have been hanged on far less evidence,” I remarked.

“They have. And many men have been hanged although they were innocent.”

“What does the young man himself say happened?”

“I’m afraid his account does not offer his supporters much encouragement. However, one or two points suggest possibilities. Here it is. You can read it yourself.”

He pulled a local Herefordshire newspaper from his bundle. He folded the page and pointed to the unfortunate young man’s account. I settled into my corner seat and read it very carefully. It said:

“James McCarthy, the dead man’s only son, was called to give evidence. His statement follows:

“‘I had been away in Bristol for three days. I only returned home last Monday morning, the 3rd. My father was out when I arrived. The maid told me he had driven to Ross with John Cobb, the groom.

“‘Soon after I returned, I heard the wheels of his trap in the yard. I looked out of my window. I saw him get out and walk quickly out of the yard. I did not know which way he went.

“‘Then I took my gun and walked towards Boscombe Pool. I intended to visit the rabbit warren, where the rabbits live, on the other side. On the way, I saw William Crowder, the gamekeeper, as he has said. But he is wrong to think I was following my father. I had no idea my father was ahead of me.

“‘About a hundred yards from the pool, I heard a cry of “Cooee!” My father and I often used this signal. I hurried forward and found him standing beside the pool. He seemed very surprised to see me and asked roughly what I was doing there.

“‘Our conversation became an angry quarrel, and we almost fought. My father had a very violent temper. When I saw that he was losing control, I left and walked back towards Hatherley Farm.

“‘I had gone no more than 150 yards when I heard a terrible cry behind me. I ran back and found my father dying on the ground. His head was terribly injured. I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he died almost immediately.

“‘I knelt beside him for several minutes. Then I went to ask Mr. Turner’s lodge-keeper for help, because his house was nearest. I saw nobody near my father when I returned. I have no idea how he received his injuries.

“‘He was not popular, because his manner was rather cold and unfriendly. But as far as I know, he had no enemies who wished to harm him. I know nothing more about it.’

“The coroner asked, ‘Did your father say anything to you before he died?’

“‘He said a few words very unclearly. I could only hear something about a rat.’

“‘What did you understand by that?’

“‘It meant nothing to me. I thought his mind was confused.’

“‘What caused this last quarrel between you and your father?’

“‘I would prefer not to answer.’

“‘I’m afraid I must insist.’

“‘It is really impossible for me to tell you. I promise that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy afterwards.’

“‘That is for the court to decide. Surely you understand that refusing to answer will seriously harm your case in any future trial.’

“‘I must still refuse.’

“‘I understand that you and your father often used “Cooee” as a signal?’

“‘We did.’

“‘Then why did he call before he saw you? He didn’t even know you had returned from Bristol.’

“Clearly confused, the witness answered, ‘I don’t know.’

“A juryman asked, ‘Did you see anything suspicious when you returned after the cry and found your father fatally injured?’

“‘Nothing certain.’

“The coroner asked, ‘What do you mean?’

“‘I was so upset as I rushed into the open that I could think only of my father. Yet I have an uncertain memory of something on the ground to my left. I noticed it as I ran forward. It seemed grey, perhaps some kind of coat, or a plaid. When I stood up after leaving my father, I looked for it. It had gone.’

“‘Do you mean it disappeared before you went for help?’

“‘Yes, it had gone.’

“‘You cannot say what it was?’

“‘No. I had a feeling something was there.’

“‘How far from the body?’

“‘About a dozen yards.’

“‘And how far from the edge of the wood?’

“‘About the same.’

“‘Then, if someone removed it, you were within a dozen yards at the time?’

“‘Yes, but my back was towards it.’

“That ended the questioning of the witness.”

“I see the coroner was rather hard on young McCarthy in his final remarks,” I said, reading down the column. “He rightly points out the problem of the father’s signal before seeing his son. He also mentions the son’s refusal to explain their conversation, and his strange account of the dying words. As he says, all these points strongly suggest the son is guilty.”

Holmes laughed softly and stretched out on the soft seat.

“You and the coroner have carefully selected the strongest points in the young man’s favour,” he said. “Don’t you see? First you give him too much imagination, then too little. Too little, if he couldn’t invent a quarrel that would make the jury feel sorry for him. Too much, if he invented something as strange as a dying remark about a rat. The disappearing cloth is equally strange.

“No, sir. I shall begin by supposing this young man is telling the truth. We shall see where that idea leads us. Now, here is my pocket copy of Petrarch. I won’t say another word about the case until we arrive at the scene. We shall have lunch at Swindon. I see we will be there in twenty minutes.”

We passed through the beautiful Stroud Valley and crossed the wide, shining Severn. It was nearly four when we finally reached Ross, a pretty little country town. A thin man with a narrow face like a ferret’s waited on the platform. He looked secretive and rather dishonest. He wore a light brown dustcoat and leather coverings over his lower legs to suit the countryside. Nevertheless, I easily recognised Lestrade of Scotland Yard. We drove with him to the Hereford Arms. A room had already been reserved for us there.

“I have ordered a carriage,” Lestrade said as we drank tea. “I know how energetic you are. You won’t be happy until you have visited the crime scene.”

“That was very kind, and you have a flattering opinion of me,” Holmes answered. “It depends entirely on the air pressure.”

Lestrade looked surprised.

“I don’t quite understand,” he said.

“What does the barometer show? Twenty-nine, I see. There is no wind and not a cloud in the sky. I have a full case of cigarettes that need smoking. And this sofa is far better than the usual dreadful country hotel sofa. I doubt I shall use the carriage tonight.”

Lestrade laughed with patient amusement.

“No doubt you have already decided everything from the newspapers,” he said. “The case is perfectly clear. The more you examine it, the clearer it becomes. Still, of course, one cannot refuse a lady, especially one who is so determined. She has heard of you and insisted on having your opinion. I told her repeatedly that you could do nothing I hadn’t already done. Good heavens! Her carriage is at the door.”

He had hardly spoken when a young woman rushed into the room. She was one of the loveliest women I had ever seen. Her violet eyes shone, her lips were parted, and her cheeks were pink. Her powerful excitement and worry had made her forget her usual quiet manner.

“Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” she cried.

She looked from one of us to another. Then, with a woman’s quick understanding, she chose my companion.

“I’m so glad you have come. I drove down to tell you. I know James didn’t do it. I know it, and I want you to know it as you begin your work. Never doubt that. We have known each other since we were little children. I know his faults better than anyone. But he is too kind-hearted to hurt a fly. Anyone who really knows him must think this accusation ridiculous.”

“I hope we can prove his innocence, Miss Turner,” Sherlock Holmes said. “You can depend on me to do everything possible.”

“But you have read the evidence. Have you reached a conclusion? Can’t you see some mistake or weakness? Don’t you think he is innocent?”

“I think it is very likely.”

“There!” she cried.

She threw back her head and gave Lestrade a challenging look.

“You hear! He gives me hope.”

Lestrade raised his shoulders.

“I’m afraid my colleague has reached his conclusions a little quickly,” he said.

“But he is right. Oh, I know he is right. James never did it. And I’m sure he wouldn’t tell the coroner about the quarrel because it concerned me.”

“In what way?” Holmes asked.

“This is no time to hide anything. James and his father often disagreed about me. Mr. McCarthy very much wanted us to marry. James and I have always loved each other as brother and sister. But of course he is young and has seen very little of life. And—and—well, naturally, he didn’t want anything like that yet. So they quarrelled. I’m sure this was another of those quarrels.”

“And your father?” Holmes asked. “Did he want this marriage?”

“No, he was against it too. Only Mr. McCarthy wanted it.”

Holmes gave her a sharp, questioning glance. She blushed suddenly.

“Thank you for this information,” he said. “May I see your father if I visit tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid the doctor won’t allow it.”

“The doctor?”

“Yes. Haven’t you heard? Poor father hasn’t been strong for years, but this has broken him completely. He has gone to bed. Dr. Willows says he is terribly weak and his nerves have suffered a great shock. Mr. McCarthy was the only living man who knew Dad in the old days in Victoria.”

“Ah! In Victoria! That is important.”

“Yes, at the mines.”

“Exactly. At the gold mines, where I understand Mr. Turner made his money.”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Thank you, Miss Turner. You have helped me greatly.”

“Will you tell me tomorrow if you have any news? No doubt you will visit James in prison. Oh, Mr. Holmes, if you do, please tell him I know he is innocent.”

“I will, Miss Turner.”

“I must go home now. Dad is very ill, and he misses me so much when I leave him. Goodbye, and may God help you in your work.”

She hurried out as suddenly as she had entered. We heard her carriage wheels going noisily down the street.

After several minutes of silence, Lestrade spoke with great seriousness.

“I’m ashamed of you, Holmes. Why give her hopes that you are certain to disappoint? I’m not too soft-hearted, but I call that cruel.”

“I think I can see a way to prove James McCarthy’s innocence,” Holmes said. “Do you have permission to visit him in prison?”

“Yes, but only for you and me.”

“Then I shall change my decision about going out. Do we still have time to catch a train to Hereford and visit him tonight?”

“Plenty.”

“Then let us go. Watson, I’m afraid you will be rather bored. But I shall only be away for a couple of hours.”

I walked to the station with them. Then I wandered through the little town’s streets before finally returning to the hotel. I lay on the sofa and tried to interest myself in a novel with a yellow cover. But its weak, simple plot seemed nothing beside the deep mystery we were struggling to understand. My thoughts kept wandering from the invented story to the real events. Finally, I threw the book across the room and thought only about the day’s events.

Suppose this unhappy young man’s story was completely true. What terrible, unexpected disaster could have happened after he left his father? What had happened before the screams brought him running back into that open space? It was something dreadful and deadly. What could it be?

Could my medical knowledge tell me something from the injuries? I rang the bell and asked for the weekly county newspaper. It contained a complete, word-for-word report of the inquest.

The surgeon’s evidence described the broken bones. A heavy blow from a weapon without a sharp edge had shattered two areas of the skull. One was the back third of the left parietal bone. The other was the left half of the occipital bone.

I touched the place on my own head. Clearly, the blow must have come from behind. That helped the accused man a little. When people saw the quarrel, he had been facing his father. But it proved little, because the older man might have turned before the blow. Still, perhaps I should point it out to Holmes.

Then there were the strange dying words about a rat. What could they mean? They could not be confused nonsense. A sudden blow does not usually confuse a dying man’s mind in that way. More likely, he was trying to explain what had happened to him. But what could his words tell us? I struggled to find any possible explanation.

And what about the grey cloth young McCarthy had seen? If that was true, the murderer had dropped some clothing as he escaped, probably his overcoat. Then he had dared to return and collect it. Meanwhile, the son had been kneeling less than a dozen steps away, with his back turned.

What a mass of mysteries and unlikely events! I could understand Lestrade’s opinion. Yet I trusted Sherlock Holmes’s understanding so much that I could not give up hope. I would not, as long as every new fact seemed to strengthen his belief in young McCarthy’s innocence.

It was late when Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, because Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.

“The glass still keeps very high,” he remarked as he sat down. “It is important that it should not rain before we are able to examine the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and sharpest for such delicate work. I did not want to do it when I was tired out by a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy.”

“And what did you learn from him?”

“Nothing.”

“Could he throw no light on it at all?”

“None at all. At one time I thought that he knew who had done it and was protecting him or her. But I am sure now that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-thinking young man, though he is good-looking. And I should think he is good at heart.”

“I cannot admire his taste,” I remarked, “if it is really true that he did not want to marry such a charming young lady as this Miss Turner.”

“Ah, there is rather a painful story behind that. This fellow is madly, insanely in love with her. But about two years ago, he was only a boy and did not really know her yet. She had been away at a boarding school for five years. And what does the idiot do? He gets caught by a barmaid in Bristol and marries her at a registry office. Nobody knows a word about it. But you can imagine how maddening it must be for him. People blame him for not doing something he would give anything to do. But he knows that it is completely impossible. It was pure madness of this kind that made him throw his hands up into the air. That was when his father, at their last meeting, was pushing him to propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no money to support himself. And his father was by all accounts a very hard man. He would have dropped his son completely if he had known the truth. He had spent the last three days in Bristol with his barmaid wife, and his father did not know where he was. Note that point. It is important. However, good has come out of evil. The barmaid has read in the newspapers that he is in serious trouble and may be hanged. So she has dropped him completely. She has written to tell him that she already has a husband in the Bermuda Dockyard. So there is really no tie between them. I think that piece of news has comforted young McCarthy for all that he has suffered.”

“But if he is innocent, who did it?”

“Ah! Who? I would particularly ask you to notice two points. The first is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the pool. That someone could not have been his son, because his son was away, and the father did not know when he would return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry ‘Cooee!’ before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the key points on which the case depends. And now, if you don’t mind, let us talk about George Meredith. We shall leave all smaller matters until tomorrow.”

There was no rain, as Holmes had predicted, and the morning was bright and cloudless. At nine o’clock Lestrade called for us with the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.

“There is serious news this morning,” Lestrade remarked. “People say that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that there is no hope for his life.”

“An elderly man, I suppose?” said Holmes.

“About sixty. But his life abroad ruined his health, and he has been getting weaker for some time. This business has had a very bad effect on him. He was an old friend of McCarthy’s. And I may add that he was very generous to him. I have learned that he let him have Hatherley Farm without paying rent.”

“Indeed! That is interesting,” said Holmes.

“Oh, yes! He has helped him in a hundred other ways. Everybody around here speaks of his kindness to him.”

“Really! Does it not seem a little strange to you? This McCarthy seems to have had little of his own, and he owed Turner so much. Yet he still talked of marrying his son to Turner’s daughter. She is probably the heiress to the estate. And he talked about it so very confidently, as if his son only had to propose and everything else would follow. It is even stranger because we know that Turner himself did not like the idea. The daughter told us so. Do you not deduce something from that?”

“Now we have come to the deductions and the inferences,” said Lestrade, winking at me. “I find it hard enough to deal with facts, Holmes, without flying off after theories and fancies.”

“You are right,” said Holmes, with a straight face. “You do find it very hard to deal with the facts.”

“Anyway, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find difficult to get hold of,” Lestrade replied, a little heatedly.

“And that is—”

“That McCarthy senior was killed by McCarthy junior. And all theories that say otherwise are the merest moonshine.”

“Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog,” said Holmes, laughing. “But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm on the left.”

“Yes, that is it.”

It was a large, comfortable-looking building with two floors and a slate roof. There were great yellow patches of lichen on the grey walls. But the blinds were drawn, and no smoke came from the chimneys. This gave it a stricken look, as if the weight of this horror still lay heavily on it. We called at the door. At Holmes’s request, the maid showed us the boots which her master was wearing when he died. She also showed us a pair of the son’s boots, though not the pair he had worn then. Holmes measured these very carefully from seven or eight different points. Then he asked to be taken to the courtyard. From there we all followed the winding path which led to Boscombe Pool.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was following a trail like this. People who only knew the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would not have recognised him. His face became red and dark. His eyebrows were drawn into two hard black lines, and his eyes shone out from beneath them like steel. His face was bent downwards and his shoulders were bowed. His lips were pressed together, and the veins stood out like cords in his long, strong neck. His nostrils seemed to widen with a purely animal desire for the hunt. His mind was so completely fixed on the matter in front of him that he did not hear questions or remarks. At most, they only produced a quick, impatient growl in reply. Quickly and silently he made his way along the path through the meadows, and then through the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, like all that district. There were marks of many feet, both on the path and in the short grass on either side of it. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, and sometimes he would stop completely. Once he made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind him. The detective looked uninterested and scornful. But I watched my friend with great interest. I was sure that every one of his actions had a definite purpose.

The Boscombe Pool is a little sheet of water, about fifty yards across, with reeds all round it. It lies on the border between Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. There were woods along the far side of the pool. Above them we could see the red, pointed towers which marked the rich landowner’s house. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick. There was a narrow strip of soaking wet grass, twenty paces wide, between the edge of the trees and the reeds by the lake. Lestrade showed us the exact spot where the body had been found. The ground was so wet that I could clearly see the marks left by the fall of the injured man. But I could see from Holmes’s eager face and searching eyes that he could read many other things in the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog which is picking up a scent. Then he turned to my companion.

“What did you go into the pool for?” he asked.

“I searched about in it with a rake. I thought there might be a weapon or some other trace. But how on earth—”

“Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours, which turns inward, is all over the place. A mole could follow it, and there it disappears among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been if I had been here before they came! They came like a herd of buffalo and rolled about all over it. Here is where the group with the lodge-keeper came. They have covered all the tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of the same feet.”

He took out a lens and lay down on his waterproof coat to see better. All the time he talked, more to himself than to us.

“These are young McCarthy’s feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran fast. You can see that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That supports his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father’s feet as he walked up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt of the gun, where the son stood listening. And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! Tiptoes! Square ones, too, quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again—of course, that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?”

He ran up and down. Sometimes he lost the track and sometimes he found it again. At last we were well inside the edge of the wood, under the shadow of a great beech tree. It was the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes followed the track to the far side of it. Once more he lay down on his face, with a little cry of satisfaction. He stayed there for a long time. He turned over the leaves and dry sticks. He gathered up what looked to me like dust and put it into an envelope. With his lens he examined not only the ground but even the bark of the tree, as far up as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss. He examined this carefully too, and kept it. Then he followed a path through the wood until he came to the main road. There all the traces were lost.

“It has been a very interesting case,” he remarked, returning to his normal manner. “I think that this grey house on the right must be the lodge. I think I will go in and have a word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. After that, we may drive back to our lunch. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you soon.”

It was about ten minutes before we got back to our cab and drove back into Ross. Holmes was still carrying the stone which he had picked up in the wood.

“This may interest you, Lestrade,” he remarked, holding it out. “The murder was done with it.”

“I see no marks.”

“There are none.”

“Then how do you know?”

“The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days. There was no sign of a place where it had been taken from. It matches the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon.”

“And the murderer?”

“He is a tall man. He is left-handed and limps with his right leg. He wears thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak. He smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar-holder and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There are several other signs, but these may be enough to help us in our search.”

Lestrade laughed. “I am afraid that I still don’t believe it,” he said. “Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed British jury.”

“*Nous verrons*,” Holmes answered calmly. “You work your own method, and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon. I shall probably return to London by the evening train.”

“And leave your case unfinished?”

“No, finished.”

“But the mystery?”

“It is solved.”

“Who was the criminal, then?”

“The gentleman I described.”

“But who is he?”

“Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not a crowded neighbourhood.”

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am a practical man,” he said. “And I really cannot go around the countryside looking for a left-handed gentleman with a bad leg. I would become the joke of Scotland Yard.”

“All right,” said Holmes quietly. “I have given you the chance. Here are your lodgings. Goodbye. I shall send you a note before I leave.”

We left Lestrade at his rooms and drove to our hotel, where we found lunch on the table. Holmes was silent and lost in thought. There was a pained expression on his face, like a man who finds himself in a difficult position.

“Look here, Watson,” he said, when the table had been cleared. “Just sit down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don’t quite know what to do, and I would value your advice. Light a cigar and let me explain.”

“Please do.”

“Well, now. In this case, two points in young McCarthy’s story struck us both immediately. They made me think better of him, but they made you think worse of him. One was the fact that, according to his story, his father cried ‘Cooee!’ before seeing him. The other was his strange dying mention of a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that the son heard. Now our research must start from these two points. And we will begin by supposing that what the young man says is completely true.”

“What about this ‘Cooee!’ then?”

“Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. As far as the father knew, the son was in Bristol. It was pure chance that he was close enough to hear. The ‘Cooee!’ was meant to attract the attention of the person he had the appointment with. But ‘Cooee’ is a typically Australian cry, and it is used between Australians. So it is very likely that the person McCarthy expected to meet at Boscombe Pool had been in Australia.”

“What about the rat, then?”

Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it out on the table.

“This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,” he said. “I sent a telegram to Bristol for it last night.” He put his hand over part of the map. “What do you read?”

“ARAT,” I read.

“And now?” He raised his hand.

“BALLARAT.”

“Exactly. That was the word the man said. His son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to say the name of his murderer. So-and-so, of Ballarat.”

“It is wonderful!” I cried.

“It is obvious. And now, you see, I had made the field much narrower. There was a third point. If the son’s statement is correct, it was certain that the man owned a grey piece of clothing. So we have moved from complete vagueness to a definite idea. We are looking for an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak.”

“Certainly.”

“And for one who knew the district well. You can only reach the pool through the farm or through the estate, and strangers could hardly wander there.”

“Exactly.”

“Then comes our trip today. By examining the ground, I learned the small details about the criminal which I gave to that fool Lestrade.”

“But how did you learn them?”

“You know my method. It is based on the observation of small things.”

“I know that you could roughly judge his height from the length of his stride. You could also tell something about his boots from their marks.”

“Yes, they were unusual boots.”

“But his limp?”

“The mark of his right foot was always less clear than his left. He put less weight on it. Why? Because he limped—he was lame.”

“But his left-handedness?”

“You yourself noticed the kind of injury which the surgeon described at the inquest. The blow was struck from directly behind, and yet it was on the left side. Now, how can that be, unless it was struck by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree while the father and son were talking. He had even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar. My special knowledge of tobacco ash allows me to say that it was an Indian cigar. As you know, I have given some attention to this. I have written a little monograph on the ash of 140 different kinds of pipe, cigar and cigarette tobacco. After I found the ash, I looked around. I discovered the end of the cigar among the moss, where he had thrown it. It was an Indian cigar, of the kind which are rolled in Rotterdam.”

“And the cigar-holder?”

“I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. So he used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off. But the cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife.”

“Holmes,” I said, “you have drawn a net round this man, and he cannot escape from it. You have saved an innocent human life, just as truly as if you had cut the rope which was hanging him. I see where all this points. The guilty man is—”

“Mr. John Turner,” cried the hotel waiter. He opened the door of our sitting-room and showed in a visitor.

The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow, limping walk and bent shoulders made him look old and weak. And yet his hard, deeply lined, rough features and his enormous arms and legs showed unusual strength of body and of character. He had a tangled beard, grey hair and thick, hanging eyebrows. Together they gave him an air of dignity and power. But his face was ash-white, and his lips and the corners of his nostrils had a blue tinge. I saw at once that he was in the grip of some deadly, long-lasting disease.

“Please sit down on the sofa,” said Holmes gently. “You got my note?”

“Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wanted to see me here to avoid scandal.”

“I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall.”

“And why did you want to see me?” He looked across at my companion with despair in his tired eyes, as if his question had already been answered.

“Yes,” said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. “It is so. I know all about McCarthy.”

The old man buried his face in his hands. “God help me!” he cried. “But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my word that I would have spoken out if things had gone against him at the Assizes.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Holmes seriously.

“I would have spoken now, if it were not for my dear girl. It would break her heart—it will break her heart when she hears that I am arrested.”

“It may not come to that,” said Holmes.

“What?”

“I am not an official police agent. I understand that it was your daughter who asked me to come here, and I am acting in her interests. However, young McCarthy must be set free.”

“I am a dying man,” said old Turner. “I have had diabetes for years. My doctor says it is doubtful whether I shall live a month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a prison.”

Holmes got up and sat down at the table, with his pen in his hand and a pile of paper in front of him.

“Just tell us the truth,” he said. “I shall write down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it. Then, if it became absolutely necessary, I could produce your confession to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed.”

“That is fine,” said the old man. “It is doubtful whether I shall live until the Assizes, so it matters little to me. But I would like to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you. It took a long time to happen, but it will not take me long to tell.

“You didn’t know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil in human form. I tell you that. God keep you out of the hands of a man like him. He has held me in his grip for these twenty years, and he has ruined my life. I’ll tell you first how I came to be in his power.

“It was in the early ’60s at the gold diggings. I was a young fellow then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to try anything. I got into bad company and started drinking. I had no luck with my claim. So I went off into the bush. In a word, I became what you would call a highway robber over here. There were six of us, and we lived a wild, free life. From time to time we robbed a station, or we stopped the wagons on the road to the diggings. I was known as Black Jack of Ballarat. Our group is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.

“One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne. We lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of us, so it was a close fight. But with our first shots we knocked four of them out of their saddles. However, three of our boys were killed before we got the gold. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver. He was this very man, McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him then. But I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face. It was as if he wanted to remember every feature. We got away with the gold and became rich men. We made our way to England without anyone suspecting us. There I said goodbye to my old friends and decided to settle down to a quiet, respectable life. I bought this estate, which happened to be for sale. I tried to do a little good with my money, to make up for the way I had got it. I married too. My wife died young, but she left me my dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby, her tiny hand seemed to lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I started a new life and did my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy got his grip on me.

“I had gone up to town about an investment. I met him in Regent Street. He had hardly a coat on his back or a boot on his foot.

“‘Here we are, Jack,’ he said, touching me on the arm. ‘We’ll be as good as a family to you. There’s two of us, me and my son, and you can look after us. If you don’t—well, England is a fine, law-abiding country, and there’s always a policeman within call.’

“Well, they came down to the west country, and there was no getting rid of them. They have lived on my best land without paying rent ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetting. Wherever I turned, there was his cunning, grinning face beside me. It grew worse as Alice grew up. He soon saw that I was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted, he had to have. And whatever it was, I gave it to him without question: land, money, houses. At last he asked for something which I could not give. He asked for Alice.

“His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl. Everyone knew that my health was weak. So it seemed a clever move to him for his boy to take over the whole property. But there I was firm. I would not have his cursed family mixed with mine. It was not that I disliked the boy. But he had his father’s blood in him, and that was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened me. I dared him to do his worst. We agreed to meet at the pool, halfway between our houses, to talk it over.

“When I went down there, I found him talking with his son. So I smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he was alone. But as I listened to his talk, all the black and bitter feelings in me seemed to rise up. He was urging his son to marry my daughter. He cared as little about what she might think as if she were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I and everything I loved most were in the power of such a man. Could I not break the bond? I was already a dying and desperate man. My mind was clear and my body was fairly strong, but I knew that my own fate was decided. But my memory and my girl! I could save both if I could only silence that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. I have sinned deeply. But I have suffered all my life like a martyr to make up for it. And I could not bear to see my girl caught in the same net that held me. I struck him down with no more regret than if he had been some foul, poisonous animal. His cry brought his son back. But I had reached the cover of the wood. However, I had to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped as I ran. That is the true story, gentlemen, of everything that happened.”

“Well, it is not for me to judge you,” said Holmes, as the old man signed the statement which had been written out. “I pray that we may never face such a temptation.”

“I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?”

“Because of your health, nothing. You know yourself that you will soon have to answer for what you did at a higher court than the Assizes. I will keep your confession. If McCarthy is found guilty, I shall be forced to use it. If not, no human eye shall ever see it. And your secret will be safe with us, whether you are alive or dead.”

“Goodbye, then,” said the old man solemnly. “When your own deathbeds come, they will be easier because of the peace which you have given to mine.”

Trembling and shaking in all his giant body, he stumbled slowly from the room.

“God help us!” said Holmes, after a long silence. “Why does fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? Whenever I hear of a case like this, I think of Baxter’s words. And I say, ‘There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.’”

James McCarthy was found not guilty at the Assizes. This was because of a number of objections which Holmes had prepared and given to the lawyer for the defence. Old Turner lived for seven months after our meeting, but he is now dead. And there is every hope that the son and daughter may come to live happily together. They know nothing of the black cloud which lies over their past.

### Glossary

- **telegram**: a message sent quickly over wires and delivered on paper.
- **gamekeeper**: someone who protects wild animals and birds on private land.
- **inquest**: an official investigation into how someone died.
- **Assizes**: courts that dealt with serious crimes in different towns.
- **coroner**: the official who leads an investigation into an unusual death.
- **plaid**: a thick cloth that can be worn around the shoulders.
- **barometer**: an instrument that measures air pressure to help predict the weather.
- **skull**: the bones of the head that protect the brain.
- **glass**: here, a barometer, which shows the air pressure and helps to predict the weather.
- **registry office**: an office where people can get married without a church service.
- **moonshine**: foolish ideas that are not real; also the light of the moon.
- **lichen**: a small plant that grows in flat patches on walls, rocks and trees.
- **butt**: the thick end of a gun, which rests against the shoulder.
- **Nous verrons**: French for “We shall see.”
- **monograph**: a short book or study about one special subject.
- **station**: in Australia, a large farm for sheep or cattle.
- **troopers**: soldiers or police on horses.
- **martyr**: a person who suffers greatly, often for a long time.

## The Five Orange Pips

I often look through my notes on Sherlock Holmes’s cases between 1882 and 1890. So many are strange and interesting that choosing between them is difficult. Newspapers have already made some of them public. Others did not give my friend a chance to use his special abilities. These accounts aim to show those abilities, which he possessed to an extraordinary degree.

Some mysteries defeated his powers of reasoning. Written as stories, they would have beginnings but no endings. Other cases were only partly solved. Their explanations depended more on guesses than on the complete logical proof that Holmes loved.

One of these partly solved cases had such remarkable details and such shocking results that I am tempted to describe it. I will do so even though some points remain unexplained, and probably always will.

In 1887, we dealt with a long series of cases. Some were more interesting than others, and I kept records of them. My headings for those twelve months include the adventure of the Paradol Chamber and the Amateur Mendicant Society. That society held a luxurious club in the cellar beneath a furniture warehouse. There were also the events surrounding the loss of the British sailing ship, the *Sophy Anderson*. I recorded the strange adventures of the Grice Patersons on the island of Uffa. Finally, there was the Camberwell poisoning case.

Readers may remember Holmes’s discovery in that last case. He wound up the dead man’s watch. This proved that somebody had wound it two hours earlier. Therefore, the dead man had gone to bed within those two hours. This conclusion was extremely important in solving the case. I may describe all these adventures at some future time. Yet none was as strange as the connected events that I am now preparing to describe.

It was late September, and the storms of that season had arrived with unusual violence. All day, the wind had screamed and rain had beaten against the windows. We were in the heart of great London, a city built by human hands. Even there, we had to pause in our daily business and recognise nature’s great forces. They seemed to scream at humanity through the bars of its civilisation, like wild animals in a cage.

As evening came, the storm grew stronger and louder. In the chimney, the wind cried and sobbed like a child. Sherlock Holmes sat on one side of the fireplace in a dark mood. He was adding references between his records of crimes. I sat opposite, deep in one of Clark Russell’s excellent sea stories. The wind outside seemed to mix with the words I read. The beating rain seemed to become the long, rolling splash of sea waves. My wife was visiting her mother. For a few days, I was living in my old rooms in Baker Street again.

“Surely that was the bell,” I said, looking up at my companion. “Who could come tonight? Perhaps a friend of yours?”

“I have no friends except you,” he answered. “I don’t encourage visitors.”

“A client, then?”

“If so, the case must be serious. Nothing less would bring a man out in this weather, at this hour. But a friend of the landlady seems more likely.”

However, Sherlock Holmes had guessed wrongly. Footsteps sounded in the passage, followed by a tap at the door. He stretched out his long arm and turned the lamp away from himself. Its light now fell towards the empty chair where a visitor would sit.

“Come in!” he said.

The man who entered was young, no more than twenty-two. His appearance was neat, and his clothes fitted well. His manner suggested a fine, sensitive nature. Water streamed from the umbrella in his hand. His long, shining waterproof coat also showed the fierce weather he had passed through. He looked around anxiously in the bright lamplight. His face was pale, and his eyes looked tired. He seemed like a man carrying a terrible worry.

“I must apologise,” he said, lifting his gold pince-nez to his eyes. “I hope I am not disturbing you. I’m afraid I have brought some of the storm into your comfortable room.”

“Give me your coat and umbrella,” said Holmes. “They can hang here and will soon be dry. You have come from the south-west, I see.”

“Yes, from Horsham.”

“That mixture of clay and chalk on your shoe tips is very easy to recognise.”

“I have come for advice.”

“That is easy to get.”

“And help.”

“That is not always so easy.”

“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. Major Prendergast told me how you saved him during the Tankerville Club scandal.”

“Ah, of course. He was wrongly accused of cheating at cards.”

“He said you could solve anything.”

“He said too much.”

“He said you are never beaten.”

“I have been beaten four times. Three times by men, and once by a woman.”

“But what is that beside all your successes?”

“It is true that I have usually succeeded.”

“Then perhaps you will succeed with me.”

“Please bring your chair up to the fire and tell me about your case.”

“It is not an ordinary one.”

“None of the cases brought to me are ordinary. People come to me when their last hope elsewhere has failed.”

“Even so, sir, I doubt whether you have ever heard anything more mysterious in all your experience. My family has suffered a whole series of events that seem impossible to explain.”

“You interest me greatly,” said Holmes. “Please give us the main facts from the beginning. Afterwards, I can ask about the details that seem most important.”

The young man moved his chair closer and stretched his wet feet towards the flames.

“My name,” he said, “is John Openshaw. As far as I understand, my own affairs have little connection with this terrible business. It is something that has passed down through my family. To explain the facts, I must go back to its beginning.

“My grandfather had two sons, my uncle Elias and my father Joseph. My father owned a small factory at Coventry. He enlarged it when bicycles were invented. He held the patent for the Openshaw unbreakable tire. His business succeeded so well that he could sell it and retire with a comfortable income.

“My uncle Elias went to America as a young man. He became a plantation owner in Florida and reportedly did very well there. During the war, he fought in Jackson’s army, and later under Hood. He rose to the rank of colonel. When Lee surrendered, my uncle returned to his plantation. He stayed there for three or four years.

“Around 1869 or 1870, he returned to Europe. He bought a small estate near Horsham, in Sussex. He had made a very large fortune in the States. He left because he hated Black people and disliked the Republican policy of giving them voting rights.

“He was an unusual man, fierce and quick to anger. When angry, he used extremely bad language. He also liked to be completely alone. I doubt he ever entered Horsham during all the years he lived nearby. His house had a garden and two or three fields around it. He took his exercise there. But he often stayed in his room for weeks without leaving it.

“He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked heavily. He refused to meet people and wanted no friends, not even his own brother.

“He did not mind me. In fact, he became fond of me. I was a boy of about twelve when he first saw me. That would have been in 1878, after he had spent eight or nine years in England. He begged my father to let me live with him. In his own way, he was very kind to me.

“When sober, he liked playing backgammon and draughts with me. He also made me speak for him when dealing with servants and tradespeople. By sixteen, I was really in charge of the house. I held all the keys. I could go anywhere and do anything, provided I did not disturb his private life.

“There was one strange exception. A storage room among the attics was always locked. He would never let me or anyone else enter it. With a boy’s curiosity, I looked through its keyhole. But I could only see old trunks and bundles. They were just the things you would expect in such a room.

“One day in March 1883, a letter with a foreign stamp lay before the colonel’s plate. He rarely received letters. He paid all his bills in cash and had no friends of any kind.

“‘From India!’ he said as he picked it up. ‘A Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?’

“He opened it quickly. Five little dried orange pips jumped out and fell onto his plate with a light tapping sound. I began to laugh. Then I saw his face, and my laughter died. His lower lip hung down, his eyes seemed to push out, and his skin was a dull, pale grey. He stared at the envelope in his shaking hand.

“‘K. K. K.!’ he screamed. Then he cried, ‘My God, my God, my sins have caught up with me!’

“‘What is it, uncle?’ I cried.

“‘Death,’ he said.

“He rose from the table and went to his room. My heart beat wildly with fear. I picked up the envelope. On the inside flap, just above the gum, someone had roughly written three letters in red ink. They were K. K. K. There was nothing else except the five dried pips.

“What could have frightened him so terribly? I left the breakfast table and went upstairs. On the stairs, I met him coming down. In one hand, he held an old rusty key. It must have belonged to the attic. In the other, he carried a small brass box, rather like a cashbox.

“‘They may do what they like, but I’ll defeat them yet,’ he said, swearing. ‘Tell Mary I want a fire in my room today. And send for Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.’

“I obeyed him. When the lawyer arrived, I was asked to come up to the room. The fire was burning brightly. A heap of light, black ashes lay in the grate. They looked like burned paper. Beside the fire, the brass box stood open and empty. I glanced at it and gave a start. The three Ks from the envelope were also printed on its lid.

“‘John,’ my uncle said, ‘I want you to witness my will. I leave my estate, with all its advantages and disadvantages, to my brother, your father. No doubt it will pass from him to you. If you can enjoy it in peace, that is excellent. If you cannot, take my advice, my boy. Leave it to your worst enemy. I’m sorry to give you something that may either help or hurt you. But I cannot say how things will develop. Please sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you.’

“I signed as directed, and the lawyer took the paper away. You can imagine how deeply this strange event affected me. I considered it again and again, from every possible side, but could understand nothing. I could not escape the uncertain fear it left behind. Yet the feeling slowly weakened as the weeks passed. Nothing happened to disturb our usual lives.

“However, I could see a change in my uncle. He drank more than ever and wanted to see people even less. He spent most of his time in his room, with the door locked from inside. Sometimes, though, he came out in a wild, drunken rage. He would burst out of the house and rush around the garden with a revolver. He screamed that he feared no man. No man or devil would shut him up like a sheep in a pen.

“But when these violent moods passed, he rushed noisily back into the house. He locked the door and pushed the bar across it. He seemed unable to face the terror that filled his soul any longer. At such times, I saw his face shine with sweat, even on cold days. It looked as wet as if he had just lifted it from a basin.

“To finish this part without trying your patience, Mr. Holmes, one night he went out drunk and never returned. We searched for him. We found him lying face down in a small pool at the bottom of the garden. Green growth covered its surface. There were no signs of violence, and the water was only two feet deep. The jury considered his known strange behaviour and gave a verdict of suicide.

“But I knew how he feared even the thought of death. I could hardly believe he had deliberately gone out to meet it. However, the matter ended there. My father took possession of the estate and about £14,000 in my uncle’s bank account.”

“One moment,” Holmes interrupted. “I believe your account will prove one of the most remarkable I have ever heard. Give me the date when your uncle received the letter, and the date of his supposed suicide.”

“The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death came seven weeks later, on the night of May 2nd.”

“Thank you. Please continue.”

“When my father took over the Horsham property, I asked him to examine the locked attic carefully. He did so. We found the brass box there, though everything inside had been destroyed. Inside the lid was a paper label. Again, it carried the letters K. K. K. Beneath them were the words, ‘Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register.’ We suppose these described the papers that Colonel Openshaw had destroyed.

“There was little else of importance in the attic. Many loose papers and notebooks concerned my uncle’s life in America. Some came from the war years. They showed that he had performed his duties well and was known as a brave soldier. Others came from the years when the Southern states were being rebuilt after the war. These mostly concerned politics. He had clearly fought strongly against the ‘carpet-bag’ politicians sent down from the North.

“My father moved to Horsham early in 1884. Everything went as well as possible until January 1885. On January 4, we were sitting together at breakfast. Suddenly, I heard my father give a sharp cry of surprise. He sat holding a newly opened envelope in one hand. On the open palm of his other hand lay five dried orange pips.

“He had always laughed at my story about the colonel. He called it a ridiculous invention. But now the same thing had happened to him. He looked very frightened and confused.

“‘What on earth does this mean, John?’ he said, struggling to speak.

“I felt a terrible weight of fear inside me.

“‘It is K. K. K.,’ I said.

“He looked inside the envelope.

“‘So it is!’ he cried. ‘Here are those very letters. But what is written above them?’

“I looked over his shoulder and read, ‘Put the papers on the sundial.’

“‘What papers? What sundial?’ he asked.

“‘The sundial in the garden. There is no other,’ I said. ‘But the papers must be the ones that were destroyed.’

“‘Nonsense!’ he said, trying hard to hold on to his courage. ‘We live in a civilised country. We cannot allow this sort of foolishness here. Where does the thing come from?’

“‘From Dundee,’ I answered, looking at the postmark.

“‘Some ridiculous practical joke,’ he said. ‘What have sundials and papers to do with me? I shall ignore this nonsense.’

“‘I should certainly speak to the police,’ I said.

“‘And have them laugh at me for my trouble? Certainly not.’

“‘Then may I speak to them?’

“‘No, I forbid it. I won’t have a fuss made about such nonsense.’

“Arguing was useless because he was a very stubborn man. But I went about my business with a heart full of fear for the future.

“On the third day after the letter arrived, my father left home to visit an old friend. This was Major Freebody, who commands one of the forts on Portsdown Hill. I was glad he was going. I thought he would be further from danger away from home. However, I was wrong.

“On the second day of his visit, I received a telegram from the major. He begged me to come immediately. My father had fallen into one of the many deep chalk-pits in that area. He was unconscious, and his skull was badly broken. I hurried to him, but he died without ever becoming conscious again.

“Apparently, he had been returning from Fareham as daylight was fading. He did not know the countryside, and there was no fence around the chalk-pit. The jury had no doubts. Their verdict was death by accident.

“I carefully examined every fact connected with his death. I could find nothing to suggest murder. There were no signs of violence, no footprints, and no robbery. Nobody had reported seeing strangers on the roads. Yet you can understand that my mind was far from peaceful. I felt almost certain that some evil plan had trapped him.

“That was the terrible way I received my inheritance. You will ask why I did not sell it. I was sure our troubles depended on some event in my uncle’s life. The danger would be just as great in one house as another.

“My poor father died in January 1885. Two years and eight months have passed since then. During that time, I have lived happily at Horsham. I began to hope that this curse had left the family. Perhaps it had ended with my father’s generation. But I began to feel safe too soon. Yesterday morning, the blow fell, in exactly the same form as it had fallen on my father.”

The young man took a crumpled envelope from his waistcoat. He turned towards the table and shook five little dried orange pips onto it.

“This is the envelope,” he continued. “The postmark is London, eastern division. Inside are the exact words that appeared on my father’s last message. ‘K. K. K.’, and then, ‘Put the papers on the sundial.’”

“What have you done?” asked Holmes.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“To tell the truth, I have felt helpless.”

He dropped his face into his thin, white hands.

“I have felt like a poor rabbit as a snake twists its way towards it. Some terrible, unstoppable evil seems to hold me in its power. No planning or safety measures seem able to protect me.”

“Come, come!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “You must act, man, or you are lost. Only energetic action can save you. This is no time to give up hope.”

“I have seen the police.”

“Ah!”

“But they listened to my story with a smile. I am certain the inspector believes all the letters were practical jokes. He thinks my relatives’ deaths were accidents, just as the juries said. He sees no connection between the deaths and the warnings.”

Holmes shook his closed fists in the air.

“Unbelievable stupidity!” he cried.

“However, they have given me a policeman who can stay in the house with me.”

“Has he come with you tonight?”

“No. His orders were to stay in the house.”

Again Holmes shook his fists in the air in fury.

“Why did you come to me?” he said. “And above all, why did you not come at once?”

“I did not know. Only today I spoke to Major Prendergast about my troubles. He advised me to come to you.”

“It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted before this. I suppose you have no more evidence than what you have shown us? Is there no detail that might help us?”

“There is one thing,” said John Openshaw. He searched in his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of faded, blue-coloured paper. He laid it out on the table.

“I remember something from the day my uncle burned the papers,” he said. “The small, unburned edges among the ashes were this same colour. I found this single sheet on the floor of his room. I think it may be one of those papers. Perhaps it flew out from among the others, and in that way it escaped the fire. It mentions pips, but apart from that I don’t think it helps us much. I believe it is a page from a private diary. The writing is certainly my uncle’s.”

Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper. Its rough edge showed that it had really been torn from a book. At the top it said, “March, 1869.” Below were these mysterious notes:

“4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.

“7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John Swain of St. Augustine.

“9th. McCauley cleared.

“10th. John Swain cleared.

“12th. Visited Paramore. All well.”

“Thank you!” said Holmes. He folded up the paper and gave it back to our visitor. “And now you must not lose another moment. We do not even have time to discuss what you have told me. You must go home at once and act.”

“What shall I do?”

“There is only one thing to do, and it must be done at once. Put this piece of paper into the brass box that you described. Put in a note as well. Say that your uncle burned all the other papers, and that this is the only one left. You must say it in words that people will believe. When you have done this, put the box out on the sundial immediately, as the letter told you. Do you understand?”

“Completely.”

“Do not think of revenge, or anything like it, for now. I think we may get that through the law. But we still have to weave our web, and theirs is already woven. The first thing is to remove the danger that threatens you right now. The second is to solve the mystery and to punish the guilty people.”

“Thank you,” said the young man. He stood up and pulled on his overcoat. “You have given me new life and hope. I shall certainly do as you advise.”

“Do not lose a moment. And above all, take care of yourself until then. I have no doubt that you are in very real danger, and it is very near. How are you going back?”

“By train from Waterloo.”

“It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I hope you will be safe. And yet you cannot be too careful.”

“I am armed.”

“That is good. Tomorrow I shall start work on your case.”

“I shall see you at Horsham, then?”

“No, your secret lies in London. I shall look for it there.”

“Then I shall visit you in a day or two, with news about the box and the papers. I shall follow your advice exactly.” He shook hands with us and left.

Outside, the wind still screamed, and the rain splashed and beat against the windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come to us out of the mad storm. It had been blown in on us like a piece of seaweed in a strong wind. Now the storm seemed to have swallowed it up again.

Sherlock Holmes sat in silence for some time. His head was bent forward, and his eyes were fixed on the red glow of the fire. Then he lit his pipe and leaned back in his chair. He watched the blue rings of smoke as they chased each other up to the ceiling.

“I think, Watson,” he said at last, “that none of our cases has been more fantastic than this one.”

“Except, perhaps, the Sign of Four.”

“Well, yes. Except, perhaps, that one. And yet this John Openshaw seems to be in even greater danger than the Sholtos were.”

“But have you formed any clear idea of what these dangers are?” I asked.

“There can be no question about what they are,” he answered.

“Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he follow this unhappy family?”

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes. He placed his elbows on the arms of his chair and put his fingertips together.

“The ideal reasoner,” he said, “needs to be shown only one fact, with all its connections. From it, he could work out the whole chain of events that led up to it. He could also work out all the results that would follow from it. Cuvier could correctly describe a whole animal just by studying a single bone. An observer can do the same with a series of events. If he fully understands one link, he should be able to describe all the others. He could state the ones before and the ones after.

“We have not yet understood how much can be achieved by reasoning alone. Some problems have defeated everyone who tried to solve them with their senses. Yet these problems may be solved by a man sitting in his study. But to take this art to its highest level, the reasoner must be able to use every fact he knows. As you will easily see, this means that he must possess all knowledge. Even in these days of free education and encyclopædias, that is rather rare. However, a man can possess all the knowledge that is likely to be useful in his work. I have tried to do this in my own case. If I remember rightly, you once described my limits very exactly. It was in the early days of our friendship.”

“Yes,” I answered, laughing. “It was a strange document. I remember that philosophy, astronomy and politics were marked at zero. Botany was variable. Geology was deep, but only for mud stains from any area within fifty miles of London. Chemistry was eccentric, and anatomy was unsystematic. Knowledge of sensational literature and crime records was unique. You were also a violin player, a boxer, a swordsman and a lawyer. And you poisoned yourself with cocaine and tobacco. I think those were the main points of my analysis.”

Holmes grinned at the last item.

“Well,” he said, “I say now what I said then. A man should fill the little attic of his brain with all the furniture that he is likely to use. He can put the rest away in the storeroom of his library. There he can get it if he wants it. Now, for a case like the one brought to us tonight, we certainly need all our resources. Please hand me the letter K of the *American Encyclopædia*. It is on the shelf beside you. Thank you.

“Now let us consider the situation and see what we can work out from it. To begin with, we can strongly suppose that Colonel Openshaw had a very good reason for leaving America. Men of his age do not change all their habits. They do not happily give up the charming climate of Florida for a lonely life in an English country town. In England he loved being alone so much that he seemed afraid of someone or something. So, as a working idea, let us suppose that fear drove him from America. What did he fear? We can only work that out from the terrible letters that he and his family received. Did you notice the postmarks on those letters?”

“The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third from London.”

“From East London. What does that tell you?”

“They are all seaports. So the writer was on board a ship.”

“Excellent. We already have a clue. There can be no doubt about the probability, the strong probability, that the writer was on board a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of Pondicherry, seven weeks passed between the threat and the murder. In the case of Dundee, it was only about three or four days. Does that suggest anything to you?”

“A greater distance to travel.”

“But the letter also had a greater distance to come.”

“Then I do not see the point.”

“There is at least a good reason to suppose that the man, or men, are on a sailing ship. It seems that they always send their strange warning ahead of them when they start on their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the warning when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamship, they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But in fact, seven weeks passed. I think those seven weeks show the difference in speed. The mail-boat brought the letter, and the slower sailing ship brought the writer.”

“It is possible.”

“More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of this new case. You see why I told young Openshaw to be careful. The blow has always fallen after the time it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this letter comes from London, so we cannot count on any delay.”

“Good God!” I cried. “What can it mean, this cruel hunt that never stops?”

“The papers that Openshaw carried away must be extremely important to the person or persons on the sailing ship. I think it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not have caused two deaths in a way that fooled a coroner’s jury. There must have been several men in it. They must have been clever and determined. They mean to get their papers, whoever has them. So you see, K. K. K. stops being the initials of one person. It becomes the sign of a society.”

“But what society?”

“Have you never—” said Sherlock Holmes. He bent forward and lowered his voice. “Have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?”

“I never have.”

Holmes turned over the pages of the book on his knee. “Here it is,” he said after a moment.

“‘Ku Klux Klan. The name comes from an imagined likeness to the sound of a rifle being made ready to fire. This terrible secret society was formed by some former Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after the Civil War. It quickly formed local groups in different parts of the country, especially in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia and Florida. It used its power for political purposes. Mainly, it terrorised Black voters. It also murdered people who were against its views, or drove them from the country.

“‘Before an attack, it usually sent a warning to the chosen man. The warning had a strange shape, but everyone recognised it. In some parts it was a small branch of oak leaves. In others it was melon seeds or orange pips. When the victim received it, he could openly give up his former ways. Or he could escape from the country. If he bravely ignored it, death always came to him. Usually, it came in some strange and unexpected way.

“‘The society was perfectly organised, and its methods were very careful. So there is hardly a single recorded case of success against it. Hardly anyone ignored its warning and escaped unharmed. And its crimes were hardly ever traced to the men who did them. For some years the organisation grew strong. This happened in spite of the efforts of the United States government. It also happened in spite of the better classes of people in the South. Finally, in the year 1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed. However, there have been similar outbreaks from time to time since then.’

“You will notice,” said Holmes, putting down the book, “that the society broke up suddenly. And it happened at the same time as Openshaw disappeared from America with their papers. One may well have caused the other. It is no wonder that some of its most unforgiving members are hunting him and his family. This register and diary may show the guilt of some of the leading men in the South. You can understand that. Many of them may not sleep peacefully at night until it is found.”

“Then the page we have seen—”

“Is just what we might expect. If I remember rightly, it said, ‘sent the pips to A, B and C.’ That means it sent the society’s warning to them. Then there are later notes saying that A and B cleared, or left the country. Finally, it says that C was visited. I fear that the result was an evil one for C.

“Well, Doctor, I think we may let some light into this dark place. In the meantime, I believe young Openshaw’s only chance is to do what I have told him. There is nothing more to say or do tonight. So hand me my violin. Let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the even more miserable ways of our fellow men.”

The weather had cleared by the morning. The sun shone with a soft brightness through the thin grey cloud that hangs over the great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.

“Please excuse me for not waiting for you,” he said. “I can see that I have a very busy day ahead of me. I must look into young Openshaw’s case.”

“What steps will you take?” I asked.

“That will depend very much on the results of my first inquiries. I may have to go down to Horsham, after all.”

“You will not go there first?”

“No, I shall begin with the City. Just ring the bell, and the maid will bring up your coffee.”

While I waited, I picked up the unopened newspaper from the table and looked over it. My eye stopped at a heading that sent a chill to my heart.

“Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.”

“Ah!” he said, putting down his cup. “I feared as much. How was it done?” He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

“I noticed the name of Openshaw and the heading ‘Tragedy Near Waterloo Bridge.’ Here is the report:

“‘Between nine and ten o’clock last night, Police-Constable Cook, of the H Division, was on duty near Waterloo Bridge. He heard a cry for help and a splash in the water. However, the night was extremely dark and stormy. Several people passing by tried to help, but it was quite impossible to rescue anyone. The alarm was given, though, and with the help of the water-police the body was finally recovered.

“‘It was the body of a young gentleman. An envelope was found in his pocket. It showed that his name was John Openshaw, and that he lived near Horsham. People think he may have been hurrying to catch the last train from Waterloo Station. In his haste and the great darkness, he may have missed his way. He may have walked over the edge of one of the small landing places for river steamboats. The body showed no signs of violence. There can be no doubt that the dead man was the victim of an unlucky accident. It should make the authorities pay attention to the condition of the landing places along the river.’”

We sat in silence for some minutes. I had never seen Holmes so depressed and shaken.

“That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said at last. “It is a small feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. Now it has become a personal matter for me. If God gives me health, I shall catch this gang. He came to me for help, and I sent him away to his death—!”

He jumped up from his chair and walked up and down the room. He could not control his agitation. His pale cheeks were red, and his long, thin hands kept closing and opening nervously.

“They must be clever devils,” he cried at last. “How could they have tricked him into going down there? The Embankment is not on the direct way to the station. No doubt the bridge was too crowded for their plan, even on such a night. Well, Watson, we shall see who wins in the end. I am going out now!”

“To the police?”

“No, I shall be my own police. When I have spun my web, they may take the flies, but not before.”

I was busy with my work as a doctor all day. It was late in the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o’clock when he came in, looking pale and tired. He walked up to the sideboard and tore a piece from the loaf. He ate it hungrily and washed it down with a long drink of water.

“You are hungry,” I said.

“Starving. I forgot all about it. I have had nothing since breakfast.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a bite. I had no time to think of it.”

“And how have you done?”

“Well.”

“You have a clue?”

“I have them in the palm of my hand. Young Openshaw’s death will soon be avenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish mark on them. That is a good idea!”

“What do you mean?”

He took an orange from the cupboard. He tore it to pieces and squeezed the pips out onto the table. He took five of them and pushed them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote “S. H. for J. O.” Then he sealed it and addressed it to “Captain James Calhoun, Barque *Lone Star*, Savannah, Georgia.”

“That will be waiting for him when he reaches port,” he said, laughing quietly. “It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it just as sure a sign of his fate as Openshaw did before him.”

“And who is this Captain Calhoun?”

“The leader of the gang. I shall catch the others too, but him first.”

“How did you trace it, then?”

He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket. It was covered with dates and names.

“I have spent the whole day,” he said, “studying Lloyd’s registers and the files of old newspapers. I followed the later history of every ship that stopped at Pondicherry in January and February of ’83. Thirty-six ships of good size were reported there during those months. One of them, the *Lone Star*, caught my attention at once. It was reported as having sailed from London. But its name is the name given to one of the states of the Union.”

“Texas, I think.”

“I was not sure which, and I am still not sure. But I knew that the ship must come from America.”

“What then?”

“I searched the Dundee records. The barque *Lone Star* was there in January ’85. When I found that, my suspicion became a certainty. Then I asked about the ships that are in the port of London at present.”

“Yes?”

“The *Lone Star* arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert Dock. I found that she had gone down the river with the early tide this morning. She is going home to Savannah. I sent a telegram to Gravesend and learned that she passed there some time ago. The wind is from the east. So I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins, and not very far from the Isle of Wight.”

“What will you do, then?”

“Oh, I have my hand on him. I have learned that he and his two mates are the only Americans by birth on the ship. The others are Finns and Germans. I also know that all three of them were away from the ship last night. The stevedore who has been loading their cargo told me. Their sailing ship will reach Savannah, but the mail-boat will carry this letter there first. And the cable will tell the police of Savannah about these three gentlemen. They are badly wanted here, on a charge of murder.”

However, even the best human plans always have a weakness. The murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips. The pips would have shown them that someone as clever and determined as themselves was hunting them. The storms of that autumn were very long and very violent. We waited a long time for news of the *Lone Star* of Savannah, but none ever reached us. At last we did hear something. Somewhere far out in the Atlantic, someone had seen the broken stern-post of a boat. It was swinging between the waves, and the letters “L. S.” were carved on it. That is all we shall ever know about the fate of the *Lone Star*.

### Glossary

- **pips**: small seeds inside a fruit
- **pince-nez**: glasses that stay in place by holding the nose
- **patent**: a legal right to make or sell an invention
- **plantation**: a large farm where crops are grown
- **estate**: a large house and the land belonging to it
- **memoranda**: written notes kept to remember facts or events
- **verdict**: an official decision made after hearing evidence
- **sundial**: an object that uses the sun’s shadow to show the time
- **web**: a net of threads; here, a careful plan to catch someone
- **seaports**: towns with a harbour where ships come and go
- **mail-boat**: a fast ship that carries letters
- **coroner’s jury**: a group of people who decide officially how someone died
- **terrorised**: made people very afraid by using violence
- **barque**: a type of sailing ship with three or more masts
- **stevedore**: a man who loads and unloads ships
- **cable**: a message sent by a telegraph wire under the sea
- **stern-post**: the main piece of wood at the back of a boat

## The Man with the Twisted Lip

Isa Whitney was the brother of the late Elias Whitney, a doctor of religion. Elias had led the Theological College of St. George’s. Isa was badly addicted to opium.

As I understood it, his habit began with a foolish experiment at college. He had read De Quincey’s account of his dreams and feelings. To experience them himself, he soaked his tobacco in laudanum. He discovered what many others have discovered. The habit was easier to begin than to stop.

For many years the drug controlled his life. His friends and relatives felt both horror and pity for him. I can still see him now, curled up in a chair. His face was yellow and unhealthy, his eyelids hung low, and his pupils were tiny points. He was the broken remains of a fine man.

One night in June, 1889, someone rang my doorbell. It was about the time when a man first yawns and looks at the clock. I sat up in my chair. My wife put her sewing down in her lap and looked a little disappointed.

“A patient!” she said. “You’ll have to go out.”

I groaned. I had only just returned from a tiring day’s work.

We heard the front door open, followed by a few hurried words. Then quick footsteps crossed the smooth floor covering. Our sitting-room door flew open. A lady entered, wearing dark clothes and a black veil.

“Please forgive me for coming so late,” she began.

Then she suddenly lost control of her feelings. She ran forward, put her arms round my wife’s neck, and cried on her shoulder.

“Oh, I’m in such trouble!” she cried. “I need some help so badly.”

My wife lifted the lady’s veil.

“Why, it’s Kate Whitney! How you frightened me, Kate! I had no idea who you were when you came in.”

“I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.”

It was always like that. People in trouble came to my wife as birds fly towards a lighthouse.

“It was very kind of you to come,” my wife said. “Now, have some wine and water. Sit here comfortably and tell us everything. Or would you prefer me to send James off to bed?”

“Oh, no, no! I want the doctor’s advice and help too. It’s about Isa. He hasn’t been home for two days. I’m so frightened about him!”

She had spoken to us about her husband’s trouble before. She spoke to me as his doctor. My wife was her old friend from school. We tried to comfort her with whatever kind words we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Could we bring him back to her?

It seemed that we could. She had reliable information about his recent habits. When his need for the drug became strong, he visited an opium den in the far east of the City.

Until now, these periods of heavy drug use had lasted only one day. He had returned in the evening, shaking and exhausted. But this time the drug had held him for forty-eight hours. She was certain he was still there, among the worst people from the docks. He would be breathing in the poison or sleeping after its effects.

She knew where to find him: the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what could she do? She was young and easily frightened. How could she enter such a place? How could she pull her husband away from the violent men around him?

That was the situation, and there was only one answer. Could I take her there? Then I had another thought. Why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney’s doctor, and he would listen to me. I could manage better alone.

I gave her my word. If he was at that address, I would send him home in a cab within two hours. Ten minutes later, I had left my armchair and comfortable sitting-room. I was travelling east in a hansom on what already seemed a strange errand. Only the future would show me how strange it would become.

The first part of my adventure was not difficult. Upper Swandam Lane was a dreadful little street behind the tall wharves beside the river. These stood on the north bank, east of London Bridge. I found the den between a cheap clothing shop and a gin shop.

Steep steps led down to a black opening like the mouth of a cave. I told my cabman to wait and went down. Countless drunken feet had worn hollows in the middle of the steps. An oil lamp shook its light above the door. By its light, I found the door handle and entered.

The room was long and low. Heavy brown opium smoke filled the air. Wooden sleeping spaces rose in rows, like those in a ship carrying emigrants.

In the darkness, I could just see bodies lying in strange positions. Some had rounded shoulders or bent knees. Others had their heads thrown back and their chins pointing up. Here and there, a dull, dark eye turned towards me.

Small red circles shone out of the shadows. They grew brighter and weaker as the drug burned in metal pipes. Most of the men were silent. Some whispered to themselves. Others spoke together in strange, low, flat voices. Their conversations came in sudden flows and then stopped. Each man muttered his own thoughts, hardly listening to his neighbour.

At the far end stood a small brazier of burning charcoal. A tall, thin old man sat beside it on a three-legged wooden stool. His jaw rested on his two fists, and his elbows rested on his knees. He stared into the fire.

As I entered, a Malay attendant with unhealthy yellow skin hurried towards me. He brought a pipe and some of the drug, then waved me towards an empty sleeping space.

“Thank you. I haven’t come to stay,” I said. “A friend of mine is here, Mr. Isa Whitney. I want to speak to him.”

Someone moved and cried out on my right. I looked through the darkness and saw Whitney staring at me. He was pale, worn out, and untidy.

“My God! It’s Watson,” he said.

The drug’s effects had left him in a miserable state. Every nerve in his body seemed to shake.

“I say, Watson, what time is it?”

“Nearly eleven.”

“On what day?”

“Friday, June 19th.”

“Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. Why are you trying to frighten me?”

He dropped his face onto his arms and began to cry in a high voice.

“I tell you, it’s Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting for you for two days. You should be ashamed!”

“I am. But you’re confused, Watson. I’ve only been here a few hours. Three pipes, four pipes—I forget how many. But I’ll go home with you. I wouldn’t frighten Kate—poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have you got a cab?”

“Yes, I have one waiting.”

“Then I’ll go in it. But I must owe some money. Find out what I owe, Watson. I feel terribly unwell. I can’t do anything for myself.”

I walked along the narrow passage between the two rows of sleeping men. I held my breath against the horrible smoke that made people lose their senses. I was looking for the manager.

As I passed the tall man beside the brazier, someone suddenly pulled the bottom of my coat. A low voice whispered, “Walk past me, and then look back at me.”

I heard the words clearly and looked down. Only the old man beside me could have spoken. Yet he still seemed completely lost in his thoughts. He was very thin and wrinkled, and age had bent his body. An opium pipe hung between his knees. It looked as though weakness had made him drop it from his fingers.

I took two steps and looked back. It took all my self-control to avoid crying out in surprise. He had turned his back to the others, so only I could see him. His body looked fuller, his wrinkles had disappeared, and his dull eyes were bright again. Sherlock Holmes was sitting beside the fire, smiling at my surprise.

He made a small movement, asking me to come closer. Then he turned his face halfway towards the other men. Instantly, he became a shaking old man again, with a weak, hanging mouth.

“Holmes!” I whispered. “What on earth are you doing in this den?”

“Speak as softly as possible,” he answered. “My hearing is excellent. Please get rid of that drunken friend of yours. I would be very glad to talk to you.”

“I have a cab outside.”

“Then please send him home in it. You can safely trust him. He seems too weak to get into trouble. Also, send your wife a note with the cabman. Tell her that you have decided to join me. Wait outside, and I’ll be with you in five minutes.”

It was difficult to refuse Sherlock Holmes anything. His requests were always so clear, and he made them with such quiet authority. Besides, my task would be almost finished once Whitney was safely in the cab. After that, nothing could please me more than joining my friend in another strange adventure. Such adventures were an ordinary part of his life.

Within a few minutes, I had written my note and paid Whitney’s bill. I led him to the cab and watched him drive away into the darkness. Soon afterwards, a weak old figure came out of the opium den. Then I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes.

For two streets he walked slowly, bending his back and moving uncertainly. Then he looked quickly round, stood straight, and burst into cheerful laughter.

“I suppose you think I now smoke opium too, Watson,” he said. “I already inject cocaine and have other little weaknesses. You have kindly given me your medical opinions about them.”

“I was certainly surprised to find you there.”

“No more surprised than I was to find you.”

“I came to find a friend.”

“And I came to find an enemy.”

“An enemy?”

“Yes. One of my natural enemies—or perhaps I should say, one of the men I hunt. I’m investigating a very remarkable case, Watson. I hoped to find a clue in those drunken men’s confused talk. I have found clues that way before.

“If anyone had recognised me there, I might not have lived another hour. I have used that place for my own purposes before. The wicked Lascar who runs it has sworn to take revenge on me. At the back of the building, near the corner of Paul’s Wharf, there is a trap-door. It could tell strange stories about things that passed through it on nights without moonlight.”

“What! You don’t mean bodies?”

“Yes, bodies, Watson. We would be rich if we received £1,000 for every poor man murdered in that den. It’s the worst murder-trap along the whole river. I fear Neville St. Clair entered it and never came out again. But our carriage should be here.”

He put his two first fingers between his teeth and gave a sharp whistle. A similar whistle answered from far away. Soon we heard wheels rattling and horses’ feet ringing on the road.

A tall dog-cart rushed towards us through the darkness. Its side lamps threw two golden tunnels of yellow light ahead.

“Now, Watson,” said Holmes. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

“If I can be useful.”

“Oh, a trusted friend is always useful. Someone who records my cases is even more useful. My room at The Cedars has two beds.”

“The Cedars?”

“Yes. That’s Mr. St. Clair’s house. I’m staying there during the investigation.”

“Where is it?”

“Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive ahead of us.”

“But I know nothing about all this.”

“Of course you don’t. You’ll know everything soon. Climb up here. All right, John, we won’t need you. Here’s half a crown. Expect me tomorrow, about eleven. Let the horse move freely. Goodbye, then!”

He touched the horse with his whip, and we rushed away. We passed through an endless line of dark, empty streets. These gradually widened until we were crossing a broad bridge with a stone railing. The dark river moved slowly beneath us.

Beyond it, more dull buildings spread into the distance. Only a policeman’s heavy, regular footsteps broke the silence. Sometimes a late group of people passed, singing and shouting after their evening’s pleasure. Dark clouds drifted slowly across the sky. Through gaps, one or two stars shone weakly.

Holmes drove without speaking, his head bent down on his chest. He seemed completely lost in thought. I sat beside him, eager to learn about this new case. It seemed to be testing his abilities severely. Yet I was afraid to interrupt his thoughts.

We drove several miles and reached the outer houses of the suburbs. Then he shook himself, lifted his shoulders, and lit his pipe. He seemed to have decided that he was doing the best thing possible.

“You have a wonderful gift for silence, Watson,” he said. “It makes you a very valuable companion. Truly, it’s a great comfort to have someone to talk to. My own thoughts aren’t very pleasant. I was wondering what to tell that dear little woman tonight. She’ll meet me at the door.”

“You forget that I know nothing about it.”

“I have just enough time to tell you the facts before we reach Lee. It seems absurdly simple. Yet somehow I can find nothing to guide me. There are plenty of loose threads, but I cannot find the right end to pull. I’ll explain the case clearly and briefly, Watson. Perhaps you’ll see some light where everything seems dark to me.”

“Go on, then.”

“A few years ago, in May 1884, a gentleman named Neville St. Clair came to Lee. He seemed to have plenty of money. He rented a large villa, arranged the gardens beautifully, and lived comfortably. Gradually, he made friends in the area.

“In 1887, he married the daughter of a local brewer. They now have two children. He had no job, but had interests in several companies. He usually went into London each morning. Every evening, he returned on the 5:14 train from Cannon Street.

“Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven. He lives sensibly and does not drink too much. He is a good husband and a very loving father. Everyone who knows him likes him.

“As far as we can discover, he owes £88 and ten shillings altogether. He has £220 in the Capital and Counties Bank. So there is no reason to think he was worried about money.

“Last Monday, Mr. Neville St. Clair went into London rather earlier than usual. Before leaving, he said he had two important errands. He also promised to bring his little boy a box of building bricks.

“By pure chance, his wife received a telegram soon after he left that same Monday. She was expecting a small, valuable parcel. The telegram said it was waiting at the Aberdeen Shipping Company’s office.

“If you know London well, you’ll know that office is in Fresno Street. That street leads off Upper Swandam Lane, where you found me tonight. Mrs. St. Clair had lunch, went into the City, and did some shopping. Then she collected her parcel from the office.

“At exactly 4:35, she was walking through Swandam Lane towards the station. Have you followed me so far?”

“It’s very clear.”

“You may remember that Monday was extremely hot. Mrs. St. Clair walked slowly, looking round in the hope of seeing a cab. She did not like the area.

“As she walked down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard a cry. She looked up and saw her husband looking down at her. The shock left her cold. He was at a second-floor window and seemed to be calling her towards him with his hands.

“The window was open, and she saw his face clearly. She says he looked terribly upset. He waved his hands wildly, then disappeared so suddenly that she thought someone had pulled him backwards. It seemed that a powerful force had dragged him away.

“Her sharp eyes noticed one strange detail. He wore a dark coat like the one he had worn that morning. But he had neither a collar nor a necktie.

“She was certain that something was wrong. She rushed down the steps, for the house was that very opium den where you found me tonight. She ran through the front room and tried to climb the stairs to the first floor.

“At the bottom, she met the Lascar villain I mentioned. He forced her back. A Dane who works as his assistant helped him push her into the street.

“Almost mad with doubts and fears, she ran down the lane. By extraordinary good luck, she met some policemen and an inspector in Fresno Street. They were going to the streets they were to patrol.

“The inspector and two constables returned with her. The owner continued to resist them, but they forced their way upstairs. They entered the room where Mr. St. Clair had last appeared. There was no sign of him.

“On that whole floor, they found only one man. He was an ugly, unpleasant-looking man with a damaged leg, who apparently lived there. Both he and the Lascar swore that nobody else had entered the front room that afternoon.

“They denied it so firmly that the inspector became uncertain. He had almost decided Mrs. St. Clair had imagined everything. Then she cried out and rushed towards a small wooden box on the table. She pulled off its lid, and children’s building bricks poured out. They were the toy her husband had promised to bring home.

“This discovery, and the obvious confusion of the man with the damaged leg, alarmed the inspector. He now knew the matter was serious. The police examined the rooms carefully. Everything they found suggested a horrible crime.

“The front room was a simply furnished sitting-room. Beyond it was a small bedroom, facing the back of one of the wharves. A narrow strip of ground lies between the wharf and the bedroom window. It is dry at low tide. At high tide, at least four and a half feet of water cover it.

“The bedroom window was wide, and its lower half could be pushed upwards. The police found blood on the windowsill. Several drops also lay across the bedroom’s wooden floor.

“Behind a curtain in the front room, they found all Mr. Neville St. Clair’s clothes except his coat. His boots, socks, hat, and watch were all there. None of the clothes showed signs of violence. They found no other trace of him.

“Apparently, he must have gone out through the window. They could find no other exit. The worrying bloodstains on the sill gave little hope that he could have saved himself by swimming. At the time of the tragedy, the tide was at its highest.

“Now let us consider the villains who seemed directly involved. The Lascar was known to have a very bad past. However, Mrs. St. Clair’s account placed him at the bottom of the stairs. She had seen him within seconds of seeing her husband at the window. So he could hardly have done more than help with the crime.

“He claimed complete ignorance. He said he knew nothing about the activities of his lodger, Hugh Boone. He could not explain the missing gentleman’s clothes either.

“That is all about the Lascar manager. Now consider the threatening-looking man with the damaged leg, who lives on the den’s second floor. He was certainly the last person to see Neville St. Clair.

“His name is Hugh Boone. Anyone who often visits the City knows his ugly face. He earns his living by begging. To avoid the police rules, he pretends to sell matches.

“A little way down Threadneedle Street, on the left, there is a small corner in a wall. Perhaps you have noticed it. He sits there every day with his legs crossed and his few matches on his lap. His miserable appearance brings a small rain of gifts. People drop money into the greasy leather cap on the pavement beside him.

“I watched him several times before I ever expected to investigate him. I was surprised by how much he collected in a short time. His appearance is so unusual that everyone notices him.

“He has a mass of orange hair and a pale face with a horrible scar. The scar pulls the outer edge of his upper lip upwards. His chin is like a bulldog’s. His dark eyes are very sharp, and their colour looks strange beside his orange hair.

“These things separate him from ordinary beggars. His clever humour does too. He always has a ready answer when people passing him make jokes about him.

“Now we have discovered that he lives at the opium den. He was also the last man to see the gentleman we are seeking.”

“But his leg is damaged!” I said. “What could he do alone against a man in the strongest years of his life?”

“His leg is damaged enough to make him walk with a limp. Otherwise, he seems strong and well fed. Surely your medical experience tells you this, Watson. When one arm or leg is weak, the others often become unusually strong.”

“Please continue your story.”

“Mrs. St. Clair fainted when she saw the blood on the window. The police took her home in a cab. Staying there could not help their investigation.

“Inspector Barton was in charge. He examined the building very carefully, but found nothing that explained the mystery. The police made one mistake. They did not arrest Boone immediately. He had a few minutes when he might have spoken to his friend, the Lascar.

“They soon corrected their mistake. They arrested and searched him, but found nothing to prove his guilt. There were some bloodstains on his right shirt sleeve. However, he showed them a cut near the nail of his ring-finger. He said the blood came from that.

“He added that he had recently been at the window. The bloodstains there must surely have come from the same cut. He strongly denied ever seeing Mr. Neville St. Clair. He swore that the clothes in his room puzzled him as much as they puzzled the police.

“As for Mrs. St. Clair’s claim that she had seen her husband at the window, he rejected it completely. He said she must have been mad or dreaming.

“They took him to the police station while he loudly protested. The inspector stayed behind, hoping that the falling tide would reveal a fresh clue.

“It did. However, they did not find the thing they feared on the muddy bank. As the water fell, Neville St. Clair’s coat appeared, not Neville St. Clair himself. What do you think they found in its pockets?”

“I cannot imagine.”

“No, I don’t think you would guess. Every pocket was full of pennies and half-pennies: 421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. No wonder the tide had not carried it away.

“But a human body is different. The water turns in a powerful circle between the wharf and the house. It seemed quite likely that the heavy coat had stayed there. Meanwhile, the body without clothes could have been pulled into the river.”

“But I thought they found all the other clothes in the room. Would the body have worn only a coat?”

“No, sir. But we could offer an explanation that seems to fit the facts. Suppose Boone pushed Neville St. Clair through the window. Nobody could have seen him do it. What would he do next?

“He would immediately realise that he must remove the clothes, which could reveal his crime. He would seize the coat and prepare to throw it out. Then he would remember that it would float, not sink.

“He has little time. He has heard the struggle downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up. Perhaps his Lascar partner has already told him that the police are hurrying along the street.

“He cannot lose a moment. He rushes to a secret hiding place, where he keeps the money he has collected by begging. He takes every coin he can reach and fills the pockets. That will make the coat sink.

“He throws it out. He would throw out the other clothes too, but he hears footsteps rushing up from below. He only just has time to close the window before the police arrive.”

“It certainly sounds possible.”

“Well, we will accept it as a working idea until we find a better one. As I told you, Boone was arrested and taken to the police station. But nobody could show that he had ever done anything wrong before. For years he had been known as a professional beggar. Yet his life seemed to have been very quiet and innocent.

“That is where the matter stands at present. There are several questions to answer. What was Neville St. Clair doing in the opium den? What happened to him there? Where is he now? And what did Hugh Boone have to do with his disappearance? We are as far from answering them as ever. I must admit that I cannot remember any case in my experience like it. At first sight it looked so simple, and yet it has given me such difficulties.”

Sherlock Holmes had been describing this strange series of events. Meanwhile, we had been rushing through the edges of the great city. At last we left the last scattered houses behind us. We rattled along with a country hedge on each side of us. Just as he finished, we drove through two small villages. A few lights still shone in the windows.

“We are on the edge of Lee,” said my companion. “In our short drive we have touched three English counties. We started in Middlesex, crossed a corner of Surrey, and are ending in Kent. Do you see that light among the trees? That is The Cedars. Beside that lamp sits a woman. I have little doubt that her anxious ears have already heard the sound of our horse’s feet.”

“But why are you not working on the case from Baker Street?” I asked.

“Because there are many inquiries that must be made out here. Mrs. St. Clair has very kindly given me two rooms to use. You can be sure that she will welcome my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!”

We had stopped in front of a large villa which stood in its own grounds. A stable-boy had run out to hold the horse’s head. I jumped down and followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel path to the house.

As we came near, the door flew open. A little blonde woman stood in the doorway. She was dressed in some kind of light, fine silk material. There was a touch of soft pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. Her figure stood out against the flood of light behind her. One hand was on the door, and the other was half-raised in her eagerness. Her body was bent slightly forward, and her head and face were pushed out. Her eyes were eager, and her lips were parted. She was like a question standing there.

“Well?” she cried. “Well?”

Then she saw that there were two of us, and she gave a cry of hope. But it sank into a groan when she saw my companion shake his head and shrug his shoulders.

“No good news?”

“None.”

“No bad?”

“No.”

“Thank God for that. But come in. You must be tired, for you have had a long day.”

“This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been extremely useful to me in several of my cases. By a lucky chance, I have been able to bring him out here and include him in this investigation.”

“I am delighted to see you,” she said, pressing my hand warmly. “Please forgive anything that is missing in our arrangements. This blow has fallen on us so suddenly.”

“My dear madam,” I said, “I am an old soldier, used to hard conditions. And even if I were not, I can see very well that no apology is needed. If I can help you or my friend here in any way, I shall be very happy.”

We entered a well-lit dining-room, where a cold supper had been laid out on the table.

“Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said the lady, “I would very much like to ask you one or two plain questions. Please give me a plain answer.”

“Certainly, madam.”

“Don’t worry about my feelings. I am not hysterical, and I do not faint easily. I simply want to hear your real, real opinion.”

“About what?”

“Deep in your heart, do you think that Neville is alive?”

The question seemed to embarrass Sherlock Holmes. He was leaning back in a basket-chair. She stood on the rug and looked sharply down at him.

“Tell me honestly!” she repeated.

“Honestly, then, madam, I do not.”

“You think that he is dead?”

“I do.”

“Murdered?”

“I don’t say that. Perhaps.”

“And on what day did he die?”

“On Monday.”

“Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be kind enough to explain something. How is it that I have received a letter from him today?”

Sherlock Holmes jumped out of his chair as if he had received an electric shock.

“What!” he shouted.

“Yes, today.” She stood smiling and held up a little piece of paper in the air.

“May I see it?”

“Certainly.”

In his eagerness he grabbed it from her. He smoothed it out on the table, pulled the lamp nearer and examined it closely. I had left my chair and was looking at it over his shoulder.

The envelope was very cheap and rough. It had a Gravesend postmark, with the date of that very day. Or rather, it was the day before, because it was now well after midnight.

“Rough writing,” said Holmes quietly. “Surely this is not your husband’s writing, madam.”

“No, but the letter inside is.”

“I can also see that the person who addressed the envelope had to go and ask for the address.”

“How can you tell that?”

“The name, you see, is in completely black ink, which has dried by itself. The rest is a greyish colour. That shows that blotting-paper was used. If he had written it all at once and then blotted it, none of it would be deep black. This man wrote the name, and then there was a pause before he wrote the address. That can only mean that he did not know it. It is a small thing, of course. But nothing is as important as small things. Now let us look at the letter. Ha! Something else was inside here!”

“Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring.”

“And you are sure that this is your husband’s hand?”

“One of his hands.”

“One?”

“His hand when he writes in a hurry. It is very different from his usual writing, and yet I know it well.”

Holmes read it aloud. “‘Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in patience.—NEVILLE.’

“Written in pencil on the blank first page of a book, octavo size, with no watermark. Hum! Posted today in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! And unless I am very wrong, the flap was stuck down by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your husband’s hand, madam?”

“None. Neville wrote those words.”

“And they were posted today at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds are getting lighter. But I would not dare to say that the danger is over.”

“But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.”

“Unless this is a clever forgery to send us in the wrong direction. After all, the ring proves nothing. Someone may have taken it from him.”

“No, no. It is, it is his very own writing!”

“Very well. But it may have been written on Monday and only posted today.”

“That is possible.”

“If so, much may have happened in between.”

“Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that he is well. There is such a strong feeling between us that I would know if something bad happened to him. On the last day that I saw him, he cut himself in the bedroom. I was in the dining-room, yet I rushed upstairs at once. I was completely certain that something had happened. Do you think I would react to such a small thing, and yet not know about his death?”

“I have seen too much to doubt it. A woman’s feeling may be more valuable than the conclusion of a man who reasons logically. And in this letter you certainly have very strong evidence that supports your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write letters, why does he stay away from you?”

“I cannot imagine. It is impossible to understand.”

“And on Monday he said nothing unusual before he left you?”

“No.”

“And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?”

“Very surprised.”

“Was the window open?”

“Yes.”

“Then he could have called to you?”

“He could.”

“As I understand it, he only gave a cry without any words?”

“Yes.”

“You thought it was a call for help?”

“Yes. He waved his hands.”

“But it might have been a cry of surprise. When he suddenly saw you, his astonishment might make him throw up his hands?”

“It is possible.”

“And you thought he was pulled back?”

“He disappeared so suddenly.”

“He might have jumped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?”

“No. But this horrible man admitted that he had been there. And the Lascar was at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Exactly. As far as you could see, was your husband wearing his ordinary clothes?”

“Yes, but without his collar or tie. I clearly saw his bare throat.”

“Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?”

“Never.”

“Had he ever shown any signs of taking opium?”

“Never.”

“Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the main points I wanted to be completely clear about. Now we shall have a little supper and then go to bed. We may have a very busy day tomorrow.”

We had been given a large, comfortable room with two beds. I was quickly between the sheets, because I was tired after my night of adventure.

Sherlock Holmes, however, was a different kind of man. When an unsolved problem was on his mind, he could go for days, even a week, without rest. He turned it over and rearranged his facts. He looked at it from every side until he had solved it. Or he stopped when he was sure that he did not have enough facts.

It was soon clear to me that he was preparing to sit up all night. He took off his coat and waistcoat and put on a large blue dressing-gown. Then he wandered about the room. He collected pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he built a kind of low Eastern couch. He sat on it with his legs crossed. In front of him he laid an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches.

In the weak light of the lamp I saw him sitting there. An old briar pipe was between his lips. His eyes were fixed emptily on the corner of the ceiling. The blue smoke curled up from him. He was silent and did not move. The light shone on his strong face and his nose, which was curved like a bird’s beak.

He was sitting like that when I fell asleep. He was still sitting like that when a sudden cry woke me. I found the summer sun shining into the room. The pipe was still between his lips, and the smoke still curled upward. The room was full of a thick cloud of tobacco smoke. But nothing was left of the pile of shag that I had seen the night before.

“Awake, Watson?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you ready for a morning drive?”

“Certainly.”

“Then get dressed. No one is up yet, but I know where the stable-boy sleeps. We shall soon have the trap out.”

He laughed quietly to himself as he spoke. His eyes shone, and he seemed a different man from the serious thinker of the night before.

As I dressed, I looked at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was up. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished when Holmes came back. He told me that the boy was harnessing the horse.

“I want to test a little theory of mine,” he said, pulling on his boots. “I think, Watson, that you are now standing in front of one of the biggest fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key to the affair now.”

“And where is it?” I asked, smiling.

“In the bathroom,” he answered. He saw that I did not believe him. “Oh, yes, I am not joking,” he continued. “I have just been there. I have taken it out, and I have it in this Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it fits the lock.”

We went downstairs as quietly as possible and out into the bright morning sunshine. Our horse and trap stood in the road. The stable-boy, only half-dressed, was waiting at the horse’s head. We both jumped in and raced away down the London Road. A few country carts were moving, carrying vegetables into the city. But the lines of villas on each side were as silent and lifeless as a city in a dream.

“In some ways it has been a strange case,” said Holmes, touching the horse with the whip to make it gallop. “I admit that I have been as blind as a mole. But it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.”

In town, the earliest risers were just starting to look sleepily out of their windows. We drove through the streets on the Surrey side. We went down the Waterloo Bridge Road and crossed over the river. Then we rushed up Wellington Street, turned sharply to the right and found ourselves in Bow Street.

The police knew Sherlock Holmes well, and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the horse’s head, and the other led us in.

“Who is on duty?” asked Holmes.

“Inspector Bradstreet, sir.”

A tall, heavy officer had come down the stone passage. He wore a cap with a peak and a jacket decorated with cords.

“Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?” said Holmes. “I would like a quiet word with you, Bradstreet.”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Come into my room here.”

It was a small room like an office. There was a huge record book on the table, and a telephone stuck out from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

“I came about that beggar, Boone. He was charged with being involved in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.”

“Yes. He was brought before the court and kept in custody for further inquiries.”

“So I heard. Do you have him here?”

“In the cells.”

“Is he quiet?”

“Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty rascal.”

“Dirty?”

“Yes. We can hardly make him wash his hands, and his face is as black as a tinker’s. Well, when his case is settled, he will have a proper prison bath. If you saw him, I think you would agree that he needs it.”

“I would very much like to see him.”

“Would you? That is easy. Come this way. You can leave your bag.”

“No, I think I’ll take it.”

“Very good. Come this way, please.”

He led us down a passage and opened a door with bars. We went down a winding staircase. Then he brought us to a corridor with white walls and a line of doors on each side.

“The third on the right is his,” said the inspector. “Here it is!”

He quietly slid back a panel in the upper part of the door and looked through.

“He is asleep,” he said. “You can see him very well.”

We both put our eyes to the opening with bars across it. The prisoner lay with his face towards us. He was in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was a man of middle size. He was dressed in rough clothes, as was suitable for his work. A coloured shirt showed through a hole in his torn coat.

As the inspector had said, he was extremely dirty. But the dirt on his face could not hide its horrible ugliness. A wide, raised line from an old scar ran right across it, from his eye to his chin. The scar had tightened and pulled up one side of his upper lip. So three teeth were always showing, as if he were growling like a dog. A thick mass of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

“He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” said the inspector.

“He certainly needs a wash,” said Holmes. “I thought he might. So I brought the tools with me.”

As he spoke, he opened the Gladstone bag. To my astonishment, he took out a very large bath sponge.

“Ha! Ha! You are a funny one,” laughed the inspector.

“Now, would you be so very kind as to open that door very quietly? We will soon make him look much more respectable.”

“Well, I don’t see why not,” said the inspector. “He doesn’t do the Bow Street cells much credit, does he?”

He slid his key into the lock, and we all entered the cell very quietly. The sleeper half turned, and then sank back into a deep sleep. Holmes bent down to the water-jug and wet his sponge. Then he rubbed it twice, hard, across and down the prisoner’s face.

“Let me introduce you,” he shouted, “to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee, in the county of Kent.”

Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man’s face came off under the sponge like bark from a tree. The rough brown colour was gone! Gone, too, was the horrible scar across it! Gone was the twisted lip that had given the face its ugly sneer! With one pull Holmes removed the untidy red hair.

There, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced man. He looked like a gentleman. He had black hair and smooth skin. He was rubbing his eyes and staring around him, sleepy and confused. Then suddenly he realised that he had been found out. He gave a scream and threw himself down with his face in the pillow.

“Good heavens!” cried the inspector. “It really is the missing man. I know him from the photograph.”

The prisoner turned round. He looked like a man who no longer cares what happens to him.

“So be it,” he said. “And please, what am I charged with?”

“With getting rid of Mr. Neville St.— Oh, come, you can’t be charged with that. Unless they make it a case of attempted suicide,” said the inspector with a grin. “Well, I have been in the police for twenty-seven years, but this really beats everything.”

“If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then clearly no crime has happened. So I am being kept here against the law.”

“There has been no crime, but there has been a very great mistake,” said Holmes. “It would have been better to trust your wife.”

“It was not my wife. It was the children,” the prisoner groaned. “God help me, I did not want them to be ashamed of their father. My God! Everything has come out! What can I do?”

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the bed and patted him kindly on the shoulder.

“If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up,” he said, “you can hardly avoid publicity, of course. On the other hand, you could convince the police that there is no possible case against you. Then I see no reason why the details should get into the newspapers. I am sure Inspector Bradstreet would make notes on anything you tell us. He would give them to the proper authorities. Then the case would never go to court at all.”

“God bless you!” cried the prisoner with deep feeling. “I would have suffered prison, yes, even execution. That would be better than leaving my miserable secret as a shame for my children.

“You are the first people who have ever heard my story. My father was a schoolmaster in Chesterfield, and I received an excellent education there. When I was young, I travelled. Then I became an actor. Finally, I became a reporter on an evening newspaper in London.

“One day my editor wanted a series of articles about begging in London. I offered to write them. That was the point where all my adventures started. I could only get the facts for my articles by trying begging myself, as an amateur.

“As an actor, of course, I had learned all the secrets of make-up. I had been famous among the other actors for my skill. Now I made use of it. I painted my face. I wanted to look as pitiful as possible. So I made a good scar. I also fixed one side of my lip in a twist with a small piece of skin-coloured plaster. Then I put on a red wig and suitable clothes. I took my place in the business part of the city. I pretended to sell matches, but really I was a beggar.

“I worked for seven hours. When I returned home in the evening, I was surprised to find that I had received 26 shillings and 4 pence.

“I wrote my articles and thought little more about it. Then, some time later, I signed a bill for a friend to guarantee his debt. Soon I received a legal order to pay £25. I had no idea where to get the money. But a sudden idea came to me. I begged the man I owed for two weeks more time. I asked my employers for a holiday. Then I spent the time begging in the City in my disguise. In ten days I had the money and had paid the debt.

“Well, you can imagine how hard it was to go back to difficult work for £2 a week. I knew that I could earn as much in a day. I only had to put a little paint on my face, lay my cap on the ground and sit still. My pride and the money fought for a long time. But the dollars won in the end. I gave up reporting. Day after day I sat in the corner that I had first chosen. My horrible face made people pity me, and I filled my pockets with copper coins.

“Only one man knew my secret. He kept a low den in Swandam Lane, where I used to rent a room. There I could come out every morning as a dirty beggar. In the evenings I could change myself into a well-dressed gentleman. This man, a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms. So I knew that my secret was safe with him.

“Well, very soon I found that I was saving large amounts of money. I do not mean that every beggar in the streets of London could earn £700 a year. That is less than I took on average. But I had special advantages. I was very skilful with make-up. I was also quick with clever answers. This improved with practice, and I became quite a well-known character in the City. All day, a stream of pennies poured in on me, with some silver coins among them. It was a very bad day when I did not take £2.

“As I grew richer, I grew more ambitious. I took a house in the country, and later I married. Nobody suspected my real job. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City. She had no idea what it was.

“Last Monday I had finished for the day. I was dressing in my room above the opium den. I looked out of my window and saw my wife standing in the street. To my horror and astonishment, her eyes were looking straight at me. I gave a cry of surprise and threw up my arms to cover my face. I rushed to the Lascar, who knew my secret. I begged him to stop anyone from coming up to me.

“I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not get up. Quickly I threw off my clothes and pulled on a beggar’s clothes. I put on my paints and my wig. Even a wife’s eyes could not see through such a complete disguise.

“But then I realised that the room might be searched. The clothes might give me away. I threw open the window so violently that I reopened a small cut. I had given it to myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I grabbed my coat. It was heavy with copper coins. I had just moved them into it from the leather bag where I carried my takings. I threw it out of the window, and it disappeared into the Thames.

“The other clothes would have followed it. But at that moment, a crowd of constables rushed up the stairs. A few minutes later I was arrested. But I was not recognised as Mr. Neville St. Clair. I was arrested as his murderer. I admit that this was rather a relief to me.

“I don’t think there is anything else to explain. I was determined to keep my disguise as long as possible. That is why I preferred a dirty face. I knew that my wife would be terribly anxious. So I slipped off my ring and gave it to the Lascar. I did it at a moment when no constable was watching me. I gave him a quickly written note too. It told her that she had no reason to be afraid.”

“That note only reached her yesterday,” said Holmes.

“Good God! What a week she must have had!”

“The police have watched this Lascar,” said Inspector Bradstreet. “I can easily understand that it was hard for him to post a letter without being seen. He probably gave it to one of his customers, a sailor, who forgot all about it for some days.”

“That was it,” said Holmes, nodding in agreement. “I have no doubt of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?”

“Many times. But what was a fine to me?”

“It must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are going to keep this quiet, there must be no more Hugh Boone.”

“I have sworn it with the most serious promises that a man can make.”

“In that case, I think it is probable that we will take no further action. But if you are found again, then everything must come out. I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we owe you a great deal for clearing the matter up. I wish I knew how you get your results.”

“I got this one,” said my friend, “by sitting on five pillows and smoking an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street, we shall just be in time for breakfast.”

### Glossary

- **opium**: a powerful drug that can make people sleep and become dependent on it
- **laudanum**: a liquid medicine containing opium
- **den**: a hidden or unpleasant place where people gather
- **hansom**: a small horse-drawn cab with two wheels
- **brazier**: a metal container used for burning fuel to provide heat
- **Lascar**: an old word for a sailor from southern Asia
- **dog-cart**: a light carriage pulled by a horse
- **lodger**: someone who pays to live in another person’s home
- **chiffon**: a very thin, light cloth, often used on women’s clothes
- **signet-ring**: a ring with a design on it, once used to press a mark into wax
- **blotting-paper**: thick soft paper used to dry wet ink
- **octavo**: a small size of book page
- **forgery**: a copy made to look real in order to trick people
- **shag**: strong, roughly cut tobacco
- **trap**: a light carriage with two wheels, pulled by a horse
- **tinker**: a travelling man who mended pots and pans
- **amateur**: someone who does something without being trained or paid for it

## The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle

I visited my friend Sherlock Holmes on the second morning after Christmas. I wanted to offer him my good wishes for the season. He was lying comfortably on the sofa in a purple dressing-gown. A pipe-rack stood within reach on his right. Near him lay a pile of crushed morning newspapers. He had clearly just finished studying them.

A wooden chair stood beside the sofa. A very old, dirty hard-felt hat hung from one corner of its back. It was badly worn and cracked in several places. A magnifying glass and a pair of forceps lay on the seat. These suggested that Holmes had hung the hat there to examine it.

“You are busy,” I said. “Perhaps I am interrupting you.”

“Not at all. I am glad to have a friend here to discuss my results. The matter itself is quite unimportant.” He pointed his thumb towards the old hat. “But some things about it are interesting. We might even learn something from them.”

I sat in his armchair and warmed my hands before the crackling fire. A hard frost had arrived, and thick ice crystals covered the windows.

“I suppose this ordinary-looking thing has some deadly story connected with it,” I remarked. “Perhaps it is a clue that will help you solve a mystery and punish a crime.”

“No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “It is just one of those strange little events that must happen in London. Four million people are pushing past each other within a few square miles. All those crowded lives affect one another. Every possible combination of events can happen among them. Many little problems must appear. They may be surprising and strange without involving crime. We have already experienced several.”

“Indeed,” I remarked. “Three of the last six cases in my notes have involved no legal crime at all.”

“Exactly. You mean my attempt to recover Irene Adler’s papers, and the strange case of Miss Mary Sutherland. Then there was the adventure of the man with the twisted lip. I expect this little matter will be equally innocent. You know Peterson, the commissionaire?”

“Yes.”

“This prize belongs to him.”

“It is his hat.”

“No, no. He found it. We do not know its owner. Please consider it as a problem for the mind, rather than a battered round hat. First, I must explain how it came here.

“It arrived on Christmas morning with a fine, fat goose. I expect that goose is roasting before Peterson’s fire at this moment. These are the facts. At about four o’clock on Christmas morning, Peterson was returning from a little celebration. As you know, he is a very honest fellow. He was walking home along Tottenham Court Road.

“In the gaslight ahead, he saw a rather tall man. The man was walking a little unsteadily, with a white goose hanging over his shoulder. At the corner of Goodge Street, he began quarrelling with a small group of rough men. One of them knocked his hat off. He raised his stick to defend himself. As he swung it above his head, he broke the shop window behind him.

“Peterson rushed forward to protect the stranger from his attackers. But the man was frightened because he had broken the window. Now someone in an official-looking uniform was rushing towards him. He dropped his goose and ran away. He disappeared into the confusing network of little streets behind Tottenham Court Road.

“The rough men also fled when Peterson appeared. He was left in possession of the battlefield and its prizes. These were the battered hat and a perfectly good Christmas goose.”

“Surely he returned them to their owner?”

“My dear fellow, that is the problem. A small card was tied to the bird’s left leg. It said, ‘For Mrs. Henry Baker.’ We can also read the letters ‘H. B.’ inside the hat. But there are thousands of Bakers in our city, and hundreds of Henry Bakers. Returning lost property to the right one is not easy.”

“What did Peterson do, then?”

“He brought both hat and goose here on Christmas morning. He knew that even the smallest problems interest me. We kept the goose until this morning. Then it began showing signs that it needed eating soon, despite the slight frost. Its finder has therefore carried it away to meet a goose’s natural end. Meanwhile, I still have the unknown gentleman’s hat. He has lost his Christmas dinner.”

“Did he not put a notice in the newspapers?”

“No.”

“Then what clue could you have about his identity?”

“Only what we can work out.”

“From his hat?”

“Exactly.”

“But you are joking. What can you learn from this old, battered felt?”

“Here is my magnifying glass. You know my methods. What can you discover yourself about the individual who wore this?”

I took the worn object in my hands and turned it over without much hope. It was a very ordinary black hat, with the usual round shape. It was hard and badly worn. Its red silk lining had lost much of its colour. There was no maker’s name. But the letters ‘H. B.’ were written untidily on one side, as Holmes had said.

Holes had been made in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. Otherwise, it was cracked, extremely dusty, and marked with spots in several places. Someone seemed to have tried to hide the faded patches by rubbing ink over them.

“I can see nothing,” I said, handing it back.

“On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. But you do not reason from what you see. You are afraid to draw conclusions.”

“Then please tell me what you can work out from this hat.”

He picked it up and looked at it in his usual thoughtful, inward-looking way.

“It might have told us more,” he remarked. “Still, some conclusions are very clear. Others are at least strongly probable. Obviously, the man is highly intelligent. Within the last three years, he was also fairly wealthy. Now he has fallen into poverty.

“He used to think ahead, but does so less now. That suggests his character has weakened. Together with his loss of money, it points towards some harmful influence, probably drink. This might also explain the obvious fact that his wife no longer loves him.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“However, he still has some self-respect,” he continued, ignoring my protest. “He spends much of his life sitting down and rarely goes out. He is completely out of physical condition. He is middle-aged, with hair that is turning grey. He had it cut within the last few days and puts lime-cream on it. These are the more obvious facts we can discover from his hat. Also, it is extremely unlikely that he has gas lighting at home.”

“You must be joking, Holmes.”

“Not at all. Even after I give you these results, can you still not see how I reached them?”

“No doubt I am very stupid, but I must admit I cannot follow you. How did you discover, for example, that the man was intelligent?”

Holmes answered by putting the hat on his head. It slipped down over his forehead and rested on the bridge of his nose.

“It is a question of size,” he said. “A man with such a large brain must have something inside it.”

“And his loss of money?”

“This hat is three years old. Flat brims with these curled edges became fashionable then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of silk with raised lines, and the excellent lining. Suppose he could afford such an expensive hat three years ago. Suppose he has not bought another since then. Then he has certainly become poorer.”

“Well, that is certainly clear enough. But what about thinking ahead, and his weakening character?”

Sherlock Holmes laughed.

“Here is the sign of planning ahead,” he said. He put his finger on the little round piece and loop of the hat-securer. “Hats are never sold with these attached. If he ordered one, he was thinking ahead. He took special care to protect his hat against the wind. But the elastic has broken, and he has not bothered to replace it. Obviously, he thinks ahead less than before. That clearly shows a weakening character.

“On the other hand, he has tried to hide these stains by covering them with ink. That shows he has not completely lost his self-respect.”

“Your reasoning certainly seems believable.”

“The other points come from examining the lower part of the lining closely. They tell us his age, his greying hair, his recent haircut, and his use of lime-cream. The magnifying glass shows many ends of hair. A barber’s scissors have cut them cleanly. They all seem sticky, and there is a clear smell of lime-cream.

“Notice this dust. It is not the rough, grey dust of the street. It is the soft, brown dust of a house. So the hat has spent most of its time hanging indoors. The damp marks inside prove that its owner sweated freely. Therefore, he can hardly be in good physical condition.”

“But his wife—you said she no longer loved him.”

“This hat has not been brushed for weeks. Suppose I see a week’s dust on your hat, my dear Watson. Suppose your wife allows you to go out like that. I shall fear that you, too, have suffered the loss of your wife’s love.”

“But he might be unmarried.”

“No, he was taking the goose home as a gift to make peace with his wife. Remember the card on the bird’s leg.”

“You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you know there is no gas lighting in his house?”

“One or two tallow stains might happen by chance. But I can see at least five. The man must often come into contact with burning tallow. Probably he walks upstairs at night with his hat in one hand. In the other, he carries a candle that drops hot fat. Anyway, he never got tallow stains from a gas light. Are you satisfied?”

“Well, it is very clever,” I said, laughing. “But as you said, no crime has been committed. No harm has been done, except for the loss of a goose. All this seems rather a waste of effort.”

Sherlock Holmes opened his mouth to reply. Just then, the door flew open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the room. His cheeks were red, and he looked almost unable to believe his own news.

“The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped.

“Eh? What about it? Has it come back to life and flown out through the kitchen window?” Holmes turned round on the sofa to see the man’s excited face better.

“Look here, sir! Look what my wife found in its crop!”

He held out his hand. In the centre of his palm lay a blue stone, shining brilliantly. It was a little smaller than a bean. But it was so clear and bright that it sparkled like an electric light in the dark hollow of his hand.

Sherlock Holmes sat up and whistled.

“Good heavens, Peterson!” he said. “This really is a treasure. I suppose you know what you have?”

“A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts glass as easily as soft clay.”

“It is more than a precious stone. It is *the* precious stone.”

“Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!” I cried.

“Exactly. I ought to know its size and shape. I have read the advertisement about it in The Times every day recently. There is no other stone like it. We can only guess its value. But the £1,000 reward is certainly less than one-twentieth of its market price.”

“A thousand pounds! Good Lord, have mercy!” Peterson dropped into a chair and stared from one of us to the other.

“That is the reward. I also have reason to know that the stone has a deep personal meaning for the Countess. She would give up half her fortune to recover it.”

“If I remember correctly, it was lost at the Hotel Cosmopolitan,” I remarked.

“Exactly, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a plumber, was accused of taking it from the lady’s jewel-case. The evidence against him was very strong. The case has been sent to the Assizes. I believe I have a report of it here.”

He searched among his newspapers, checking the dates. At last, he smoothed one out, folded it over, and read this report:

“Jewel Robbery at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. John Horner, a plumber aged twenty-six, appeared in court accused of stealing the blue carbuncle. This valuable jewel belonged to the Countess of Morcar. It was taken from her jewel-case on the 22nd of this month.

“James Ryder, the hotel’s head attendant, gave evidence. He had taken Horner to the Countess’s dressing-room on the day of the robbery. The second bar of the fireplace grate was loose, and Horner was to join it firmly with heated metal. Ryder stayed with him for a little while, but was finally called away.

“When Ryder returned, Horner had disappeared. The bureau had been forced open. A small leather jewel-box lay empty on the dressing-table. It was later learned that the Countess usually kept her jewel in this box.

“Ryder immediately raised the alarm, and Horner was arrested that evening. However, the stone was found neither on him nor in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, the Countess’s maid, also gave evidence. She had heard Ryder’s cry of shock when he discovered the robbery. She rushed into the room and found everything as the previous witness had described.

“Inspector Bradstreet, of B division, described Horner’s arrest. Horner struggled wildly and strongly declared his innocence. The court also heard that the prisoner had previously been found guilty of robbery. The magistrate refused to judge the offence himself in the lower court. Instead, he sent it to the Assizes.

“Horner had shown great emotion during the hearing. At its end, he fainted and was carried out of court.”

“Hum! That is what happened in the police-court,” said Holmes thoughtfully, throwing the paper aside. “Now we must discover the chain of events. At one end is a jewel-case that someone has robbed. At the other is a goose’s crop in Tottenham Court Road.

“You see, Watson, our little conclusions have suddenly become much more important, and much less innocent. Here is the stone. It came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker. He owns the bad hat and has all those other qualities I described until you were bored.

“Now we must make a serious effort to find this gentleman. We must discover his part in this little mystery. First, we should try the simplest method. That is certainly an advertisement in all the evening papers. If it fails, I shall try other methods.”

“What will you say?”

“Give me a pencil and that piece of paper. Now: ‘Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker may collect them at 6:30 this evening, at 221B, Baker Street.’ That is clear and short.”

“Very. But will he see it?”

“Well, he is sure to watch the newspapers. To a poor man, it was a serious loss. Clearly, he was terrified by breaking the window and seeing Peterson approach. He could think of nothing except escape. But since then, he must have deeply regretted dropping his bird in that moment of fear.

“Also, his name will help him find the advertisement. Everyone who knows him will draw his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson. Run to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening papers.”

“Which papers, sir?”

“Oh, the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James’s Gazette, Evening News, Standard, Echo, and any others you think of.”

“Very good, sir. And this stone?”

“Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And Peterson, buy a goose on your way back and leave it here. We must give this gentleman a replacement for the one your family is eating now.”

When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes held the stone up against the light.

“It is a beautiful thing,” he said. “Look how it shines and sparkles. Of course, it attracts crime and brings criminals together. Every fine stone does. They are the devil’s favourite ways to tempt people. In larger, older jewels, every polished surface may represent a bloody act.

“This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River, in southern China. It has all the qualities of a carbuncle, except that it is blue instead of ruby red. Despite its youth, it already has a terrible history. It has caused two murders, an attack with burning acid, a suicide, and several robberies. All for this piece of crystallised charcoal, weighing forty grains!

“Who would think such a pretty little thing could send people to prison or the gallows? I shall lock it in my strong-box now. Then I shall write a short note to tell the Countess we have it.”

“Do you think Horner is innocent?”

“I cannot tell.”

“Well, do you think this other man, Henry Baker, had anything to do with it?”

“I think it much more likely that Henry Baker is completely innocent. Probably he never knew how valuable his bird was. It was worth much more than a goose made of solid gold. However, I shall settle that with a very simple test, if anyone answers our advertisement.”

“And you can do nothing until then?”

“Nothing.”

“In that case, I shall continue visiting my patients. But I shall return this evening at the time you mentioned. I would like to see the answer to such a complicated business.”

“I shall be very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe. By the way, after recent events, perhaps I should ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop.”

A patient delayed me. It was a little after half-past six when I reached Baker Street again. As I approached the house, I saw a tall man waiting outside. He wore a Scotch bonnet and a coat buttoned up to his chin. He stood in the bright half-circle of light from the window above the door. The door opened just as I arrived, and we went upstairs together to Holmes’s room.

“Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” said Holmes.

He rose from his armchair and welcomed the visitor. He could put on such an easy, friendly manner whenever he wished.

“Please take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a cold night. I notice that your blood seems better suited to summer than winter. Ah, Watson, you have arrived at just the right moment. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?”

“Yes, sir, that is certainly my hat.”

He was a large man, with rounded shoulders and a huge head. His broad, intelligent face narrowed down to a pointed, brown beard mixed with grey. His nose and cheeks were a little red. His hand shook slightly as he held it out. These details reminded me of Holmes’s guess about his drinking.

His faded black frock-coat was buttoned up, with the collar turned high. His thin wrists reached beyond the sleeves, without any sign of shirt or cuffs. He spoke slowly, in short bursts, choosing his words carefully. Altogether, he seemed an educated man, familiar with books, whom fortune had treated badly.

“We have kept these things for some days,” said Holmes. “We expected you to put an advertisement in the papers, giving your address. I cannot understand why you did not.”

Our visitor laughed with some embarrassment.

“I have fewer shillings than I once had,” he remarked. “I was certain that the rough men who attacked me had taken both my hat and the bird. I did not want to spend more money trying hopelessly to recover them.”

“Quite naturally. By the way, we had to eat the bird.”

“Eat it!” Our visitor half rose from his chair in excitement.

“Yes. It would have been no use to anyone if we had not. But there is another goose on the sideboard. It is about the same weight and perfectly fresh. I suppose it will serve your purpose just as well?”

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker, with a sigh of relief.

“Of course, we still have your own bird’s feathers, legs, crop, and other remains. So if you wish—”

The man burst into a cheerful laugh.

“They might be useful as reminders of my adventure,” he said. “But apart from that, I cannot see any use for my late friend’s scattered remains. No, sir. With your permission, I shall give all my attention to the excellent bird on the sideboard.”

Sherlock Holmes gave me a quick, sharp look and slightly shrugged his shoulders.

“There is your hat, then, and there is your bird,” he said. “By the way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one? I am rather interested in poultry, and I have rarely seen a better-grown goose.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Baker. He had stood up and put his newly gained property under his arm. “A few of us often go to the Alpha Inn, near the Museum. During the day, you understand, we are in the Museum itself. This year our good landlord, whose name is Windigate, started a goose club. Each of us paid a few pence every week, and in return we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. I paid my pence properly, and you know the rest. I am very grateful to you, sir, because a Scotch bonnet suits neither my age nor my serious character.”

With a funny, self-important manner, he bowed solemnly to both of us and walked off on his way.

“So much for Mr. Henry Baker,” said Holmes when he had closed the door behind him. “It is quite certain that he knows nothing at all about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?”

“Not especially.”

“Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper. Let us follow this clue while it is still hot.”

“Certainly.”

It was a bitterly cold night, so we put on our ulsters and wrapped scarves round our throats. Outside, the stars shone coldly in a cloudless sky. The breath of the people passing by blew out into clouds, like the smoke from so many pistol shots. Our footsteps rang out sharply and loudly as we walked quickly through the doctors’ area of London. We went along Wimpole Street and Harley Street, and then through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street.

In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury, at the Alpha Inn. It is a small pub at the corner of one of the streets that run down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar. He ordered two glasses of beer from the landlord, who had a red face and a white apron.

“Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,” he said.

“My geese!” The man seemed surprised.

“Yes. Only half an hour ago I was speaking to Mr. Henry Baker. He was a member of your goose club.”

“Ah! Yes, I see. But you see, sir, them’s not *our* geese.”

“Really! Whose are they, then?”

“Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden.”

“Really? I know some of them. Which one was it?”

“Breckinridge is his name.”

“Ah! I don’t know him. Well, here’s to your good health, landlord, and success to your house. Good night.”

“Now for Mr. Breckinridge,” he continued, buttoning up his coat as we came out into the frosty air. “Remember, Watson, that we have a simple, ordinary goose at one end of this chain. But at the other end we have a man who will certainly get seven years of penal servitude. Only proof of his innocence can save him. It is possible that our inquiry will only confirm his guilt. But in any case, the police have missed this line of investigation. A strange chance has put it into our hands. Let us follow it to the very end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!”

We crossed Holborn and went down Endell Street. Then we went through a zigzag of poor, dirty streets to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls had the name Breckinridge on it. The owner was helping a boy to put up the shutters. He looked like a man who spent his time around horses. He had a sharp face and neat side-whiskers.

“Good evening. It’s a cold night,” said Holmes.

The salesman nodded and gave my companion a questioning look.

“Sold out of geese, I see,” Holmes continued, pointing at the empty marble counters.

“I can let you have five hundred tomorrow morning.”

“That’s no good.”

“Well, there are some on the stall with the gas lamp.”

“Ah, but I was recommended to you.”

“Who by?”

“The landlord of the Alpha.”

“Oh, yes. I sent him a couple of dozen.”

“They were fine birds, too. Now, where did you get them from?”

To my surprise, the question made the salesman burst out angrily.

“Now then, mister,” he said, with his head on one side and his hands on his hips. “What are you trying to get at? Tell me straight, now.”

“It is straight enough. I would like to know who sold you the geese that you supplied to the Alpha.”

“Well then, I won’t tell you. So there!”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter at all. But I don’t know why you should get so hot about such a small thing.”

“Hot! Maybe you’d be as hot if people bothered you as much as they bother me. When I pay good money for good goods, that should be the end of the business. But it’s ‘Where are the geese?’ and ‘Who did you sell the geese to?’ and ‘What will you take for the geese?’ To hear all the fuss about them, you’d think they were the only geese in the world.”

“Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been asking questions,” said Holmes carelessly. “If you won’t tell us, the bet is off, that is all. But I am always ready to bet on my opinion about poultry. I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate was raised in the country.”

“Well, then, you’ve lost your fiver, because it was raised in town,” said the salesman sharply.

“It was nothing of the kind.”

“I say it was.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Do you think you know more about birds than I do? I’ve handled them ever since I was a little boy. I tell you, all those birds that went to the Alpha were raised in town.”

“You will never make me believe that.”

“Will you bet, then?”

“It is just taking your money, because I know I am right. But I’ll bet a sovereign with you, just to teach you not to be so stubborn.”

The salesman laughed grimly. “Bring me the books, Bill,” he said.

The small boy brought a small, thin book and a large one with a greasy cover. He laid them out together under the hanging lamp.

“Now then, Mr. Cocksure,” said the salesman. “I thought that I had sold out of geese. But before I finish, you’ll find that there is still one left in my shop. Do you see this little book?”

“Well?”

“That’s the list of the people I buy from. Do you see? Well, then, here on this page are the country people. The numbers after their names show where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! Do you see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of the people who supply me from the town. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me.”

“Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road—249,” read Holmes.

“Exactly. Now find that in the ledger.”

Holmes turned to the page. “Here you are: ‘Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.’”

“Now, then, what’s the last entry?”

“‘December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7 shillings and 6 pence.’”

“Exactly. There you are. And underneath?”

“‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12 shillings.’”

“What do you have to say now?”

Sherlock Holmes looked deeply annoyed. He took a sovereign from his pocket and threw it down on the counter. Then he turned away like a man too disgusted to speak. A few yards away he stopped under a lamp-post. There he laughed in the hearty, silent way that was typical of him.

“When you see a man with whiskers cut like that, and the ‘Pink ’un’ sticking out of his pocket, you can always get him with a bet,” he said. “Suppose I had put £100 down in front of him. I don’t think he would have given me such complete information. But he gave it all when he thought he was beating me in a bet.

“Well, Watson, I believe we are nearing the end of our search. The only question left is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott tonight, or keep it for tomorrow. That bad-tempered fellow’s words make one thing clear. Other people besides us are anxious about the matter. And I should—”

His words were suddenly stopped by a loud noise from the stall that we had just left. We turned round. A little man with a face like a rat was standing in the middle of the circle of yellow light from the swinging lamp. Breckinridge, the salesman, stood in the doorway of his stall. He was shaking his fists fiercely at the little man, who was shrinking back in fear.

“I’ve had enough of you and your geese,” he shouted. “I wish you were all at the devil together. If you come bothering me any more with your silly talk, I’ll set the dog on you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here, and I’ll answer her. But what has it got to do with you? Did I buy the geese from you?”

“No, but one of them was mine all the same,” said the little man in a complaining voice.

“Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it.”

“She told me to ask you.”

“Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I’ve had enough of it. Get out of here!”

He rushed fiercely forward, and the little man hurried quickly away into the darkness.

“Ha! This may save us a visit to Brixton Road,” whispered Holmes. “Come with me, and we will see what we can learn from this fellow.”

Small groups of people stood around the brightly lit stalls. My companion walked quickly between them and soon caught up with the little man. He touched him on the shoulder. The man turned round quickly. In the gaslight I could see that every bit of colour had left his face.

“Who are you, then? What do you want?” he asked in a shaking voice.

“Excuse me,” said Holmes calmly and politely. “But I could not help hearing the questions that you asked the salesman just now. I think that I could help you.”

“You? Who are you? How could you know anything about the matter?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don’t know.”

“But you can know nothing about this?”

“Excuse me, I know everything about it. You are trying to trace some geese. Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, sold them to a salesman named Breckinridge. He sold them to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha. And Mr. Windigate sold them to his club, and Mr. Henry Baker is a member of it.”

“Oh, sir, you are exactly the man I have wanted to meet,” cried the little man. He held out his hands, and his fingers were shaking. “I can hardly tell you how interested I am in this matter.”

Sherlock Holmes called to a four-wheeled cab that was passing.

“In that case, we had better discuss it in a warm, comfortable room, not in this windy market-place,” he said. “But please tell me, before we go any further, whom I have the pleasure of helping.”

The man hesitated for a moment. “My name is John Robinson,” he answered, with a look to the side.

“No, no. The real name,” said Holmes sweetly. “It is always awkward to do business with someone using a false name.”

The stranger’s white cheeks suddenly turned red. “Well then,” he said, “my real name is James Ryder.”

“Exactly. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Please get into the cab. I shall soon be able to tell you everything you would like to know.”

The little man stood looking from one of us to the other. His eyes were half frightened and half hopeful. He was like someone who is not sure whether he is about to find a fortune or a disaster. Then he got into the cab. In half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker Street.

Nobody had spoken during our drive. But our new companion’s high, thin breathing told us how nervous he was. So did the way he kept closing and opening his hands.

“Here we are!” said Holmes cheerfully as we walked into the room one after another. “The fire looks just right for this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder. Please take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what happened to those geese?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or rather, I think, to that goose. I imagine you were interested in one bird. It was white, with a black bar across the tail.”

Ryder shook with emotion. “Oh, sir,” he cried, “can you tell me where it went?”

“It came here.”

“Here?”

“Yes, and it turned out to be a most remarkable bird. I am not surprised that you are interested in it. It laid an egg after it was dead. It was the prettiest, brightest little blue egg that anyone ever saw. I have it here in my museum.”

Our visitor rose unsteadily to his feet and held on to the mantelpiece with his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue carbuncle. It shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant light that sparkled in many points. Ryder stood staring at it, his face tight and tense. He did not know whether to claim it or to say it was not his.

“The game’s up, Ryder,” said Holmes quietly. “Hold yourself up, man, or you’ll fall into the fire! Help him back into his chair, Watson. He hasn’t got enough nerve to commit serious crimes and get away with it. Give him a little brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a little shrimp he is, really!”

For a moment Ryder had staggered and nearly fallen. But the brandy brought a little colour into his cheeks. He sat staring with frightened eyes at the man who accused him.

“I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proof I could possibly need,” said Holmes. “So there is little that you need to tell me. Still, we may as well clear up that little, to make the case complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar’s?”

“It was Catherine Cusack who told me about it,” he said in a cracked voice.

“I see. Her ladyship’s maid. Well, the temptation was too much for you. You saw a chance to become rich suddenly and easily. It has been too much for better men before you. But you did not care much whether the methods you used were fair. It seems to me, Ryder, that you could become a really fine villain.

“You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had been involved in something like this before. So people would suspect him more easily. What did you do, then? You and your partner Cusack invented some small job in my lady’s room. You arranged for him to be the man who was sent for. Then, when he had left, you emptied the jewel-case. You raised the alarm and had this unlucky man arrested. You then—”

Ryder suddenly threw himself down on the rug and grabbed my companion’s knees.

“For God’s sake, have mercy!” he screamed. “Think of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never did anything wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I’ll swear it on a Bible. Oh, don’t take it to court! For Christ’s sake, don’t!”

“Get back into your chair!” said Holmes sternly. “It is all very well to crawl and beg now. But you thought very little about poor Horner, standing in the dock for a crime that he knew nothing about.”

“I will run away, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge against him will fail.”

“Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of the next part of the story. How did the stone get into the goose? And how did the goose get into the open market? Tell us the truth, because that is your only hope of safety.”

Ryder moved his tongue over his dry lips.

“I will tell you exactly how it happened, sir,” he said. “When Horner had been arrested, I thought it would be best to get away with the stone at once. I did not know when the police might decide to search me and my room. There was no safe place for it anywhere in the hotel.

“I went out as if I had some errand to do, and I went to my sister’s house. She had married a man named Oakshott and lived in Brixton Road. There she fattened birds for the market. All the way there, every man I met seemed to be a policeman or a detective. It was a cold night, but sweat was pouring down my face before I reached Brixton Road.

“My sister asked me what was wrong and why I was so pale. I told her that the jewel robbery at the hotel had upset me. Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe. I wondered what it would be best to do.

“I once had a friend called Maudsley, who turned to crime. He has just finished his time in prison at Pentonville. One day he had met me, and we started talking about the ways of thieves. He told me how they could get rid of the things they stole. I knew that he would be loyal to me, because I knew one or two secrets about him. So I decided to go straight on to Kilburn, where he lived, and tell him my secret. He would show me how to turn the stone into money.

“But how could I get to him safely? I thought of the terrible fear I had suffered on my way from the hotel. At any moment I might be stopped and searched. And there would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket.

“I was leaning against the wall at the time. I was looking at the geese, which were walking clumsily around my feet. Suddenly an idea came into my head. It showed me how I could beat the best detective who ever lived.

“Some weeks before, my sister had told me that I could choose one of her geese for a Christmas present. I knew that she always kept her promises. I would take my goose now, and in it I would carry my stone to Kilburn.

“There was a little shed in the yard. I drove one of the birds behind it. It was a fine, big one, white, with a barred tail. I caught it and forced its beak open. Then I pushed the stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird swallowed, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop.

“But the creature flapped its wings and struggled, and my sister came out to see what was the matter. As I turned to speak to her, the animal broke free and fluttered off among the others.

“‘Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?’ she said.

“‘Well,’ I said, ‘you said you’d give me one for Christmas. I was feeling which was the fattest.’

“‘Oh,’ she said, ‘we’ve kept yours apart for you. We call it Jem’s bird. It’s the big white one over there. There are twenty-six of them. That makes one for you, one for us, and two dozen for the market.’

“‘Thank you, Maggie,’ I said. ‘But if you don’t mind, I’d rather have the one I was holding just now.’

“‘The other one is a good three pounds heavier,’ she said. ‘And we fattened it specially for you.’

“‘Never mind. I’ll have the other one, and I’ll take it now,’ I said.

“‘Oh, just as you like,’ she said, a little offended. ‘Which one do you want, then?’

“‘That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the group.’

“‘Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.’

“Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes. I carried the bird all the way to Kilburn. I told my friend what I had done, because he was the kind of man you could easily tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he choked. Then we got a knife and opened the goose.

“My heart turned to water. There was no sign of the stone, and I knew that a terrible mistake had happened. I left the bird and rushed back to my sister’s. I hurried into the back yard. There was not a single bird to be seen there.

“‘Where are they all, Maggie?’ I cried.

“‘Gone to the dealer’s, Jem.’

“‘Which dealer’s?’

“‘Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.’

“‘But was there another one with a barred tail?’ I asked. ‘The same as the one I chose?’

“‘Yes, Jem. There were two with barred tails, and I could never tell them apart.’

“Well, then, of course I understood everything. I ran as fast as my feet could carry me to this man Breckinridge. But he had sold them all at once, and he would not tell me one word about where they had gone. You heard him yourselves tonight. Well, he has always answered me like that.

“My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think so myself. And now—and now I am a marked thief. I sold my good name for that wealth, and I never even touched it. God help me! God help me!”

He burst into violent sobs, with his face hidden in his hands.

There was a long silence. Only his heavy breathing broke it, and the regular tapping of Sherlock Holmes’s fingertips on the edge of the table. Then my friend stood up and threw open the door.

“Get out!” he said.

“What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!”

“No more words. Get out!”

And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter on the stairs, the bang of a door, and the sharp rattle of running feet from the street.

“After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up for his clay pipe, “the police do not pay me to make up for what they fail to do. If Horner were in danger, it would be a different matter. But this fellow will not give evidence against him, so the case must fail.

“I suppose that I am commuting a felony. But it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not do wrong again. He is too terribly frightened. Send him to prison now, and you make him a criminal for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has given us a very strange and amusing problem, and solving it is its own reward.

“Doctor, if you would be kind enough to ring the bell, we will begin another investigation. In this one, too, a bird will be the most important thing.”

### Glossary

- **commissionaire**: a uniformed worker who carries messages or watches an entrance.
- **forceps**: a tool like small metal arms, used to hold tiny objects.
- **hat-securer**: an attachment that stops a hat blowing away.
- **lime-cream**: a scented cream formerly used on hair.
- **tallow**: animal fat used to make candles.
- **crop**: a pouch in a bird’s throat where food is held.
- **carbuncle**: an old name for a kind of precious stone.
- **Assizes**: courts that dealt with serious crimes.
- **poultry**: birds such as chickens and geese, kept for eggs or meat.
- **ulster**: a long, heavy overcoat.
- **penal servitude**: a prison sentence with hard physical work.
- **fiver**: a five-pound note.
- **sovereign**: a gold coin worth one pound.
- **ledger**: a large book where a business writes down its accounts.
- **Pink ’un**: a popular nickname for a sports newspaper printed on pink paper.
- **shrimp**: a small sea animal; also a rude word for a small, weak person.
- **dock**: the place in a court where the accused person stands.
- **gullet**: the tube in the throat that food goes down.
- **commuting a felony**: letting a serious crime go unpunished.

## The Adventure of the Speckled Band

I have been looking through my notes of Sherlock Holmes’s cases. During the last eight years, I have studied his methods in more than seventy of them. Many were tragic, some were funny, and a great number were simply strange. None, however, were ordinary. Holmes worked because he loved his art, rather than because he wanted wealth. He refused any investigation unless it involved something unusual, or even fantastic.

Among all these different cases, one stands out as especially strange. It concerned the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, a well-known Surrey family. It happened early in my friendship with Holmes. We were both unmarried then, and shared rooms in Baker Street. I might have written about it before, but I had promised to keep it secret. Only last month, the early death of the lady I had made the promise to freed me from it. Perhaps it is best that the facts should now become known. I know that many stories about Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s death have spread widely. They make the matter seem even more terrible than it really was.

Early one morning in April 1883, I woke to find Holmes beside my bed. He was fully dressed. Usually, he got up late. The clock above the fireplace showed only a quarter past seven. I looked up at him in surprise, and perhaps with a little annoyance. My own habits were regular.

“I am very sorry to wake you, Watson,” he said. “But we are all suffering this morning. Someone woke Mrs. Hudson, she woke me, and now I have woken you.”

“What is it? A fire?”

“No, a client. A young lady has arrived in a very excited state. She insists on seeing me, and she is waiting in the sitting-room. Young ladies do not usually cross London at this hour and wake sleepy people without an urgent reason. If the case is interesting, I am sure you would like to follow it from the beginning. At least, I thought I should wake you and give you the chance.”

“My dear friend, I would not miss it for anything.”

Nothing pleased me more than following Holmes in his professional investigations. I admired the speed of his reasoning as he solved the problems brought to him. His conclusions seemed to come like sudden feelings, but there was always clear logic behind them. I quickly dressed, and within a few minutes I was ready to follow him downstairs.

A lady in black had been sitting by the window. A thick veil covered her face. She rose as we entered.

“Good morning, madam,” said Holmes cheerfully. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my close friend and fellow worker, Dr. Watson. You can speak as freely before him as before me. Ah! I am glad Mrs. Hudson thought to light the fire. Please sit nearer to it. I shall order some hot coffee for you, because I see that you are shaking.”

“It is not cold that makes me shake,” said the woman quietly. She moved to the seat he suggested.

“What is it, then?”

“It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.”

She raised her veil as she spoke. We could see that she was terribly upset. Her face was tight and grey. Her frightened eyes moved restlessly, like the eyes of a hunted animal. Her face and figure suggested a woman of thirty. But grey already showed through her hair, and her expression was tired and worn. Holmes looked quickly at her, taking in every detail.

“You must not be afraid,” he said gently. He leaned forward and patted her lower arm. “I have no doubt that we shall soon put things right. I see you came by train this morning.”

“Then you know me?”

“No, but I can see the second half of a return ticket inside your left glove. You must have started early. Yet you had a long drive in a dog-cart along muddy roads before reaching the station.”

The lady jumped and stared at my companion in confusion.

“There is no mystery, my dear madam,” he said, smiling. “There are at least seven spots of mud on the left sleeve of your jacket. They are perfectly fresh. Only a dog-cart throws up mud in that way. Even then, it happens only when you sit on the driver’s left.”

“Whatever your reasons, you are completely right,” she said. “I left home before six and reached Leatherhead at twenty past six. I took the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I cannot bear this pressure any longer. If it continues, I shall go mad. I have no one to turn to. There is only one person who cares for me, and the poor fellow can do little to help.

“I have heard about you, Mr. Holmes, from Mrs. Farintosh. You helped her when she desperately needed help. She gave me your address. Oh, sir, could you not help me too? Could you bring a little light into the deep darkness around me? At present, I cannot pay you for your services. But I shall marry in a month or six weeks, and then I shall control my own income. You will find that I am grateful.”

Holmes went to his desk, unlocked it, and took out a small book of cases. He looked through it.

“Farintosh,” he said. “Ah, yes, I remember. That case concerned an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. Madam, I shall gladly give your case the same care that I gave your friend’s. As for payment, my work is its own reward. You may pay any expenses that I have, whenever it suits you. Now, please tell us everything that might help us understand the matter.”

“Sadly, that is the horror of my situation,” our visitor replied. “My fears are so unclear. My suspicions depend entirely on small things that might seem unimportant to someone else. There is one person above all others whom I should be able to ask for help and advice. Yet he thinks everything I tell him is only a nervous woman’s imagination. He does not say so, but I understand his comforting answers and the way he looks away. But I have heard that you understand the many kinds of evil in people’s hearts, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps you can advise me how to move safely through the dangers around me.”

“You have my full attention, madam.”

“My name is Helen Stoner, and I live with my stepfather. He is the last living member of one of England’s oldest Saxon families. They are the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.”

Holmes nodded. “I know the name,” he said.

“The family was once among the richest in England. Their land stretched across the borders into Berkshire in the north, and Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive heirs lived badly and wasted their wealth. A gambler finally completed the family’s ruin during the Regency. Only a few acres and the two-hundred-year-old house remained. There is also a heavy mortgage on the house.

“The last owner struggled through life there. He lived the miserable life of a poor man from a noble family. But his only son, my stepfather, saw that he must change with the family’s circumstances. He borrowed money from a relative and used it to train as a doctor. Then he went to Calcutta. His medical skill and strong character brought him many patients.

“But there were some robberies in his house. In a fit of anger, he beat his Indian butler to death. He narrowly escaped a sentence of death. Instead, he spent many years in prison. Afterwards, he returned to England, bitter, disappointed, and unhappy.

“While Dr. Roylott was in India, he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner. She was the young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister Julia and I were twins. We were only two years old when our mother married again. She had a large income, at least £1,000 a year. In her will, she left it all to Dr. Roylott while we lived with him. But each of us was to receive a fixed yearly income if we married.

“Shortly after we returned to England, my mother died. She was killed eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then stopped trying to build a medical practice in London. He took us to live with him in the old family house at Stoke Moran. Our mother’s money was enough for all our needs. There seemed to be nothing to prevent our happiness.

“But at about this time, our stepfather changed terribly. Our neighbours were delighted at first to see a Roylott back in the old family home. But instead of making friends and visiting them, he shut himself inside his house. He seldom came out except to quarrel violently with anyone he met.

“The men of his family have always had violent tempers, almost like madness. I believe his long stay in hot countries made his own temper worse. There were a number of shameful fights, and two ended in the police-court. At last, the whole village feared him. People ran away when he approached. He is immensely strong, and no one can control him when he is angry.

“Last week, he threw the local blacksmith over a low wall into a stream. I gathered all the money I could and paid it to prevent another public scandal. He has no friends except the wandering gipsies. He allows them to camp on the few acres of land that remain to the family. The ground is covered with wild blackberry bushes. In return, they welcome him into their tents. Sometimes he goes away with them for weeks.

“He also loves Indian animals, which a person he writes to sends him. At present, he has a cheetah and a baboon. They move freely around the grounds. The villagers fear them almost as much as their master.

“You can imagine that my poor sister and I had little pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us. For a long time, we did all the housework ourselves. Julia was only thirty when she died. Yet her hair had already begun to turn white, just as mine has.”

“Your sister is dead, then?”

“She died exactly two years ago, and I want to speak to you about her death. With the life I have described, we seldom met anyone of our own age and social position. However, we had an aunt, my mother’s unmarried sister, Miss Honoria Westphail. She lives near Harrow. Sometimes we were allowed to visit her for a short time.

“Julia went there at Christmas two years ago. There she met a major of marines who was receiving half-pay. They became engaged. My stepfather heard about it when Julia returned. He did not object to the marriage. But the terrible event happened less than two weeks before the planned wedding. It took my only companion from me.”

Holmes had been leaning back with his eyes closed and his head resting on a cushion. Now he half opened his eyes and looked at our visitor.

“Please be exact about the details,” he said.

“That is easy for me. Every event of that dreadful time is burned into my memory. As I said, the manor-house is very old, and only one wing is still used. The bedrooms in that wing are on the ground floor. The sitting-rooms are in the central part of the building. The first bedroom is Dr. Roylott’s, the second was my sister’s, and the third is mine. There are no doors between the rooms. They all open into the same corridor. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“The windows of all three rooms look onto the lawn. On that terrible night, Dr. Roylott went to his room early. But we knew he had not gone to sleep. He usually smoked strong Indian cigars, and their smell was troubling my sister. So she left her room and came into mine. She sat there for some time, talking about her coming wedding.

“At eleven, she got up to leave. But she stopped at the door and looked back.

“‘Tell me, Helen,’ she said. ‘Have you ever heard anyone whistle in the middle of the night?’

“‘Never,’ I answered.

“‘I suppose you could not possibly whistle in your sleep yourself?’

“‘Certainly not. But why?’

“‘For the last few nights, I have heard a low, clear whistle at about three in the morning. I sleep lightly, and it has woken me. I cannot tell where it comes from. Perhaps it comes from the next room, or perhaps from the lawn. I thought I would ask whether you had heard it.’

“‘No, I have not. It must be those awful gipsies among the trees.’

“‘Very likely. Yet if it came from the lawn, I wonder why you did not hear it too.’

“‘Ah, but I sleep more deeply than you.’

“‘Well, it is not very important, anyway.’

“She smiled back at me and closed my door. A few moments later, I heard her turn the key in her own lock.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Did you always lock yourselves in at night?”

“Always.”

“Why?”

“I think I mentioned that the Doctor kept a cheetah and a baboon. We did not feel safe unless our doors were locked.”

“Of course. Please continue.”

“I could not sleep that night. I had an unclear feeling that something terrible was going to happen. You remember that my sister and I were twins. You know the strange, delicate connections between two souls that are so close.

“It was a wild night. The wind howled outside, and rain beat and splashed against the windows. Suddenly, above the noise of the storm, I heard a terrified woman’s wild scream. I knew my sister’s voice. I jumped from bed, wrapped a shawl around me, and rushed into the corridor.

“As I opened my door, I thought I heard a low whistle like the one she had described. A few moments later, there was a clanging sound, as if something heavy and metal had fallen. I ran along the passage. My sister’s door was unlocked and slowly swinging open. I stared at it in horror, not knowing what would come out.

“By the corridor lamp, I saw my sister appear in the doorway. Her face was white with terror, and her hands reached out, searching for help. Her whole body moved from side to side like a drunken person’s. I ran to her and put my arms around her. But just then, her knees failed, and she fell to the floor. She twisted as if in terrible pain. Her arms and legs shook violently.

“At first, I thought she had not recognized me. But as I bent over her, she suddenly screamed in a voice I shall never forget. ‘Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!’

“She wanted to say something else. She pointed sharply towards the Doctor’s room. But another violent movement seized her body, and she could not speak. I rushed out, calling loudly for my stepfather. I met him hurrying from his room in his dressing-gown.

“By the time he reached my sister, she was unconscious. He poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical help from the village. But all efforts failed. She slowly grew weaker and died without waking again. That was the dreadful end of my beloved sister.”

“One moment,” said Holmes. “Are you sure about the whistle and the sound of metal? Could you swear you heard them?”

“The county coroner asked me that at the inquiry. I feel strongly that I heard them. Yet the storm was crashing, and the old house was making noises. Perhaps those sounds deceived me.”

“Was your sister dressed?”

“No, she was wearing her night-dress. They found the burnt end of a match in her right hand. There was a match-box in her left.”

“So she lit a match and looked around when something frightened her. That is important. And what did the coroner decide?”

“He examined the case very carefully, because Dr. Roylott’s bad behaviour had long been well known throughout the county. But the coroner could not find a satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had been locked from inside. Old-fashioned shutters blocked the windows. They had broad iron bars, which we fastened every night.

“They carefully tapped the walls and found them solid on every side. They examined the floor just as carefully, with the same result. The chimney is wide, but four large metal fastenings block it. Therefore, my sister must have been completely alone when she died. Besides, there were no signs of violence on her body.”

“What about poison?”

“The doctors looked for it, but found none.”

“What do you think killed this unfortunate lady?”

“I believe she died from pure fear and nervous shock. But I cannot imagine what frightened her.”

“Were there gipsies among the trees at the time?”

“Yes, some are nearly always there.”

“Ah. And what did you understand by her words about a band, a speckled band?”

“Sometimes I have thought she was simply talking wildly because she was so ill. At other times, I have thought she meant a band of people. Perhaps she meant those very gipsies among the trees. Many wear spotted handkerchiefs over their heads. Perhaps that made her use the strange word ‘speckled’. I do not know.”

Holmes shook his head. He looked far from satisfied.

“This is a very difficult mystery,” he said. “Please go on with your story.”

“Two years have passed since then. Until recently, my life has been lonelier than ever. But a month ago, a dear friend asked me to marry him. I have known him for many years. His name is Armitage, Percy Armitage. He is the second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has not objected, and we are to marry during the spring.

“Two days ago, repairs began in the west wing of the house. A hole has been made in my bedroom wall. So I have had to move into the room where my sister died. I even sleep in the same bed.

“Last night, I lay awake, thinking about her terrible death. Imagine my terror when I suddenly heard that low whistle in the silence. It was the sound that had come before her death. I jumped up and lit the lamp. But I could see nothing in the room.

“I was too frightened to go back to bed. I dressed, and as soon as daylight came, I slipped downstairs. I got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, opposite the house, and drove to Leatherhead. I have come from there this morning only to see you and ask your advice.”

“You acted wisely,” said my friend. “But have you told me everything?”

“Yes, everything.”

“Miss Roylott, you have not. You are protecting your stepfather.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

Instead of answering, Holmes moved back the black lace around her hand, which rested on her knee. There were five small dark bruises on her white wrist. Four fingers and a thumb had made them.

“You have been treated cruelly,” said Holmes.

The lady turned very red and covered her injured wrist.

“He is a hard man,” she said. “Perhaps he hardly knows his own strength.”

There was a long silence. Holmes rested his chin on his hands and stared into the crackling fire.

“This is a very serious business,” he said at last. “There are a thousand details I should like to know before deciding what to do. Yet we have no time to lose. If we came to Stoke Moran today, could we examine these rooms without your stepfather knowing?”

“As it happens, he said he was coming to London today on some very important business. He will probably be away all day, so nothing would interrupt you. We have a housekeeper now, but she is old and foolish. I could easily keep her out of the way.”

“Excellent. You do not object to this journey, Watson?”

“Not at all.”

“Then we shall both come. What will you do yourself?”

“I have one or two things to do now that I am in London. But I shall return by the twelve o’clock train. That will get me home before you arrive.”

“Then expect us early in the afternoon. I have some small business matters to deal with myself. Will you stay for breakfast?”

“No, I must go. I already feel less troubled after telling you my worries. I shall look forward to seeing you again this afternoon.”

She lowered her thick black veil over her face and moved quietly from the room.

“What do you think of it all, Watson?” Holmes asked, leaning back in his chair.

“It seems a very dark and frightening business to me.”

“Certainly dark and frightening enough.”

“Yet suppose the lady is right about the solid floor and walls. Suppose no one could pass through the door, window, or chimney. In that case, her sister must have been alone when she died so mysteriously.”

“Then how do you explain those whistles at night? And what about the dying woman’s very strange words?”

“I cannot think.”

“Consider these things together. There are whistles at night, and a band of gipsies who are close friends of the old doctor. We have every reason to believe he wants to prevent his stepdaughter’s marriage. The dying woman spoke of a band. Finally, Miss Helen Stoner heard a metallic clang. Perhaps one of the bars securing the shutters fell back into place. I think there are good reasons to look for a solution along those lines.”

“But what did the gipsies do?”

“I cannot imagine.”

“I see many difficulties with that theory.”

“So do I. That is exactly why we are going to Stoke Moran today. I want to see whether those difficulties destroy the theory, or whether we can explain them. But what on earth—!”

Our door had suddenly been thrown open. An enormous man stood in the doorway, making Holmes cry out in surprise. His clothes were a strange mixture of a professional man’s and a country worker’s. He wore a black top-hat, a long formal coat, and high gaiters over his lower legs. A hunting-crop swung in his hand. He was so tall that his hat brushed the top of the doorway. His broad body seemed to fill its whole width.

He turned his large face from one of us to the other. The sun had burned it yellow, and a thousand wrinkles covered it. Every cruel feeling seemed to have left a mark there. His eyes were deep in his head, with an unhealthy yellow colour around them. His high, thin nose had little flesh on it. He looked rather like a fierce old hunting bird.

“Which of you is Holmes?” this strange visitor asked.

“That is my name, sir, but I do not know yours,” my companion answered quietly.

“I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.”

“Indeed, Doctor,” said Holmes pleasantly. “Please sit down.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I followed her movements. What has she been telling you?”

“It is a little cold for the time of year,” said Holmes.

“What has she been telling you?” the old man screamed furiously.

“But I hear the crocuses will flower well,” my companion continued, completely calm.

“Ha! So you are avoiding my question, are you?” our visitor said. He stepped forward and shook his hunting-crop. “I know you, you villain! I have heard about you before. You are Holmes, who interferes in other people’s business.”

My friend smiled.

“Holmes, who cannot leave other people alone!”

His smile grew wider.

“Holmes, the self-important Scotland Yard official!”

Holmes laughed warmly.

“Your conversation is most entertaining,” he said. “Please close the door when you leave. There is quite a cold wind coming through.”

“I shall leave when I have finished speaking. Do not dare to interfere in my affairs. I know Miss Stoner has been here. I followed her movements! I am a dangerous man to make an enemy of. Look at this.”

He stepped forward quickly, seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.

“Keep yourself out of my hands,” he growled.

He threw the twisted poker into the fireplace and marched out.

“He seems a very pleasant person,” said Holmes, laughing. “I am not quite as large. But if he had stayed, I might have shown him that my hands are almost as strong.”

He picked up the steel poker. With a sudden effort, he straightened it again.

“Imagine his rudeness in confusing me with the official police detectives! Still, this visit makes our investigation more exciting. I only hope our little friend will not suffer. She was careless to let that brute discover where she went. Now, Watson, we shall order breakfast. Afterwards, I shall walk to Doctors’ Commons. I hope to find some information there that may help us.”

It was nearly one o’clock when Holmes returned. He carried a sheet of blue paper, covered with hurried notes and figures.

“I have seen the dead wife’s will,” he said. “To understand it exactly, I had to calculate what the investments are worth today. When she died, the total income was just under £1,100 a year. Because agricultural prices have fallen, it is now no more than £750. Each daughter can claim £250 a year if she marries.

“So, if both girls married, this charming man would have very little left. Even one marriage would seriously reduce his income. My morning’s work has not been wasted. It proves he has extremely strong reasons to prevent either marriage.

“Now, Watson, this is too serious for delay. The old man also knows we are taking an interest in his affairs. If you are ready, we shall call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I would be grateful if you put your revolver in your pocket. An Eley’s No. 2 is an excellent argument with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. I think that and a toothbrush are all we need.”

At Waterloo we were lucky enough to catch a train for Leatherhead. There we hired a trap at the station inn. We drove for four or five miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a bright sun and a few soft white clouds in the sky. The trees and the hedges beside the road were just putting out their first green shoots. The air was full of the pleasant smell of wet earth. To me, at least, there was a strange contrast. Spring promised sweet things, yet we were on this dark and dangerous search.

My companion sat in the front of the trap with his arms folded. His hat was pulled down over his eyes, and his chin was sunk on his chest. He was lost in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he jumped. He tapped me on the shoulder and pointed across the fields.

“Look there!” he said.

A park full of trees stretched up a gentle slope. At the highest point, the trees grew thick and close together. Among the branches stood out the grey gables and high roof of a very old mansion.

“Stoke Moran?” he said.

“Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” said the driver.

“There is some building work going on there,” said Holmes. “That is where we are going.”

“There’s the village,” said the driver. He pointed to a group of roofs some distance to the left. “But if you want to get to the house, it’s shorter to climb over this stile. Then take the footpath over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking.”

“And I think the lady is Miss Stoner,” said Holmes. He shaded his eyes with his hand. “Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest.”

We got down and paid our fare. The trap rattled back on its way to Leatherhead.

“I thought it best that this fellow should think we were architects,” said Holmes as we climbed the stile. “Or he might think we had some other definite business here. It may stop his gossip. Good afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see that we have kept our promise.”

Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us. Her face showed her joy. “I have been waiting so eagerly for you,” she cried. She shook hands with us warmly. “Everything has turned out wonderfully. Dr. Roylott has gone to town. He will probably not be back before evening.”

“We have had the pleasure of meeting the Doctor,” said Holmes. In a few words, he described what had happened. Miss Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.

“Good heavens!” she cried. “He has followed me, then.”

“So it appears.”

“He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will he say when he comes back?”

“He must protect himself. He may find that someone more cunning than himself is following him. You must lock yourself in your room tonight, away from him. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt’s house at Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time. Please take us at once to the rooms we are to examine.”

The building was made of grey stone, marked with patches of lichen. It had a high central part and two curving wings on each side, like the claws of a crab. In one of these wings, the windows were broken and covered with wooden boards. The roof had partly fallen in. It was a picture of ruin. The central part was in only slightly better condition. But the right-hand block was fairly modern. There were blinds in the windows, and blue smoke curled up from the chimneys. These things showed that the family lived there. Some scaffolding stood against the end wall, and the stonework had been broken into. But there were no workmen there at the time of our visit. Holmes walked slowly up and down the untidy lawn. He examined the outsides of the windows with deep attention.

“I suppose this window belongs to the room where you used to sleep,” he said. “The centre one is your sister’s, and the one next to the main building is Dr. Roylott’s room?”

“Exactly. But I am now sleeping in the middle one.”

“Until the building work is finished, as I understand. By the way, that end wall does not seem to need repairs very urgently.”

“It did not need any. I believe it was an excuse to move me from my room.”

“Ah! That is interesting. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing runs the corridor. These three rooms open into it. There are windows in it, of course?”

“Yes, but very small ones. They are too narrow for anyone to pass through.”

“You both locked your doors at night, so no one could reach your rooms from that side. Now, would you kindly go into your room and bar your shutters?”

Miss Stoner did so. Holmes looked carefully through the open window. Then he tried in every possible way to force the shutter open, but he failed. There was no gap through which someone could push a knife to lift the bar. Then he examined the hinges with his lens. But they were made of solid iron and built firmly into the heavy stone wall.

“Hum!” he said, scratching his chin. He seemed rather puzzled. “My theory certainly has some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they were locked. Well, we shall see if the inside of the room helps us to understand the matter.”

A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor. The three bedrooms opened off it. Holmes refused to examine the third room. So we went straight to the second. Miss Stoner was now sleeping there, and her sister had died there.

It was a simple, comfortable little room. It had a low ceiling and a wide, open fireplace, in the style of old country houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in one corner. A narrow bed with a white cover stood in another. There was a dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. There were also two small wicker chairs. Apart from a square of Wilton carpet in the centre, that was all the furniture. The boards around the carpet and the panels on the walls were made of brown oak. Worms had eaten into the wood. It was very old and had changed colour. Perhaps it came from the time when the house was built.

Holmes pulled one of the chairs into a corner and sat silently. His eyes travelled round and round and up and down the room. He was taking in every detail.

“Where does that bell lead to?” he asked at last. He pointed to a thick bell-rope that hung down beside the bed. Its tassel was actually lying on the pillow.

“It goes to the housekeeper’s room.”

“It looks newer than the other things?”

“Yes, it was put there only a couple of years ago.”

“I suppose your sister asked for it?”

“No, I never heard of her using it. We always used to get what we wanted for ourselves.”

“Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put such a nice bell-pull there. Please excuse me for a few minutes while I examine this floor carefully.”

He threw himself down on his face with his lens in his hand. He crawled quickly backwards and forwards, examining the cracks between the boards very closely. Then he did the same with the wooden panels on the walls. Next, he walked over to the bed. He spent some time staring at it and moving his eyes up and down the wall. Finally, he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave it a quick, hard pull.

“Why, it’s not real,” he said.

“Won’t it ring?”

“No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You can see now that it is fastened to a hook. The hook is just above the little opening of the ventilator.”

“How very strange! I never noticed that before.”

“Very strange!” Holmes said quietly, pulling at the rope. “There are one or two very unusual things about this room. For example, a builder must be a fool to open a ventilator into another room. With the same trouble, he could have made it open to the outside air!”

“That is also quite modern,” said the lady.

“Was it done at about the same time as the bell-rope?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, several small changes were made at about that time.”

“They seem to have been very interesting changes. There are bell-ropes that do not ring, and ventilators that do not let in air. With your permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now continue our search in the inner room.”

Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s room was larger than his stepdaughter’s, but it was just as plainly furnished. There was a camp-bed and a small wooden shelf full of books, mostly technical ones. An armchair stood beside the bed, and a plain wooden chair stood against the wall. There was also a round table and a large iron safe. These were the main things we saw. Holmes walked slowly round the room. He examined each of them with the greatest interest.

“What’s in here?” he asked, tapping the safe.

“My stepfather’s business papers.”

“Oh! So you have seen inside it?”

“Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers.”

“There isn’t a cat in it, for example?”

“No. What a strange idea!”

“Well, look at this!” He picked up a small saucer of milk that stood on top of the safe.

“No, we don’t keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon.”

“Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat. And yet a saucer of milk would not go very far to satisfy its hunger, I imagine. There is one point that I want to check.”

He bent down low in front of the wooden chair. He examined its seat with the greatest attention.

“Thank you. That is quite settled,” he said. He stood up and put his lens in his pocket. “Hello! Here is something interesting!”

The object that had caught his eye was a small dog lash. It hung on one corner of the bed. But the lash was curled round on itself and tied, so that it made a loop of strong cord.

“What do you think of that, Watson?”

“It’s an ordinary enough lash. But I don’t know why it should be tied.”

“That is not quite so ordinary, is it? Ah, me! It’s a wicked world. And when a clever man uses his brains for crime, it is the worst of all. I think I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner. With your permission, we shall walk out on the lawn.”

We turned away from the scene of this investigation. I had never seen my friend’s face so grim, or his forehead so dark. We walked several times up and down the lawn. Neither Miss Stoner nor I wanted to interrupt his thoughts. At last he woke from his deep thinking.

“It is very important, Miss Stoner,” he said, “that you follow my advice completely, in every way.”

“I certainly shall.”

“The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend on your obedience.”

“I promise you that I am in your hands.”

“First of all, my friend and I must both spend the night in your room.”

Miss Stoner and I both stared at him in astonishment.

“Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that is the village inn over there?”

“Yes, that is the Crown.”

“Very good. Can your windows be seen from there?”

“Certainly.”

“When your stepfather comes back, you must stay in your room. Pretend that you have a headache. Then you will hear him go to bed for the night. When you do, you must open the shutters of your window. Undo the hasp and put your lamp there as a signal to us. Then quietly move into the room you used to sleep in. Take everything you are likely to need. I am sure you could manage there for one night, in spite of the repairs.”

“Oh, yes, easily.”

“You will leave the rest to us.”

“But what will you do?”

“We shall spend the night in your room. We shall find out the cause of this noise that has troubled you.”

“I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,” said Miss Stoner. She laid her hand on my companion’s sleeve.

“Perhaps I have.”

“Then, for pity’s sake, tell me what caused my sister’s death.”

“I would prefer to have clearer proof before I speak.”

“You can at least tell me whether my own idea is right. Did she die from some sudden fright?”

“No, I do not think so. I think there was probably a more real, physical cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you. If Dr. Roylott returned and saw us, our journey would be wasted. Goodbye, and be brave. If you do what I have told you, we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you. You can be sure of that.”

Sherlock Holmes and I easily took a bedroom and a sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor. From our window we had a view of the gate at the end of the drive. We could also see the wing of Stoke Moran Manor House where the family lived.

At dusk, we saw Dr. Grimesby Roylott drive past. His huge body rose high beside the small figure of the boy who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty opening the heavy iron gates. We heard the Doctor’s rough, loud voice roar at him. We saw how furiously he shook his closed fists at the boy. The trap drove on. A few minutes later, a light suddenly appeared among the trees. Someone had lit the lamp in one of the sitting-rooms.

“Do you know, Watson,” said Holmes, as we sat together in the growing darkness, “I really have some doubts about taking you tonight. There is a clear element of danger.”

“Can I be of help?”

“Your presence might be extremely valuable.”

“Then I shall certainly come.”

“It is very kind of you.”

“You speak of danger. You have obviously seen more in these rooms than I saw.”

“No, but I think I may have reasoned out a little more. I imagine you saw everything that I did.”

“I saw nothing unusual except the bell-rope. And I must admit that I cannot imagine what purpose that could have.”

“You saw the ventilator, too?”

“Yes, but I do not think it is very unusual to have a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could hardly pass through.”

“I knew we would find a ventilator before we ever came to Stoke Moran.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“Oh, yes, I did. You remember what she said in her story. Her sister could smell Dr. Roylott’s cigar. Of course, that suggested at once that there must be a connection between the two rooms. It could only be a small one. Otherwise people would have mentioned it at the coroner’s inquiry. So I worked out that it must be a ventilator.”

“But what harm can there be in that?”

“Well, at least the dates fit together curiously. A ventilator is made, and a cord is hung. Then a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does that not strike you?”

“I cannot see any connection yet.”

“Did you notice anything very strange about that bed?”

“No.”

“It was fastened to the floor with clamps. Have you ever seen a bed fastened like that before?”

“I cannot say that I have.”

“The lady could not move her bed. It always had to stay in the same position in relation to the ventilator and the rope. We may call it a rope, because it was clearly never meant to be a bell-pull.”

“Holmes,” I cried, “I think I can dimly see what you mean. We are only just in time to prevent some clever and horrible crime.”

“Clever enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong, he is the worst of criminals. He has courage and he has knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard were among the leaders of their profession. This man goes even deeper. But I think, Watson, that we shall be able to go deeper still. But we shall see enough horrors before the night is over. For goodness’ sake, let us smoke a quiet pipe. Let us think about something more cheerful for a few hours.”

At about nine o’clock, the light among the trees went out. Everything was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed slowly. Then suddenly, just as the clock struck eleven, a single bright light shone out straight in front of us.

“That is our signal,” said Holmes, jumping to his feet. “It comes from the middle window.”

As we went out, he spoke a few words with the landlord. He explained that we were going on a late visit to someone we knew. He said we might possibly spend the night there. A moment later, we were out on the dark road. A cold wind blew in our faces. One yellow light shone in front of us through the darkness. It guided us on our serious and gloomy task.

It was not difficult to enter the grounds, because there were unrepaired gaps in the old park wall. We made our way among the trees and reached the lawn. We crossed it and were about to climb in through the window. Just then, something rushed out from a group of laurel bushes. It looked like a horrible, twisted child. It threw itself on the grass, twisting its arms and legs. Then it ran quickly across the lawn into the darkness.

“My God!” I whispered. “Did you see it?”

For a moment, Holmes was as surprised as I was. In his excitement, his hand closed on my wrist like a vice. Then he began to laugh quietly and put his lips to my ear.

“It is a nice household,” he said softly. “That is the baboon.”

I had forgotten the strange pets that the Doctor liked to keep. There was a cheetah, too. Perhaps we might find it on our shoulders at any moment. I admit that I felt calmer when I was inside the bedroom. Following Holmes’s example, I had taken off my shoes before climbing in.

My companion closed the shutters without a sound. He moved the lamp onto the table and looked round the room. Everything was as we had seen it during the day. Then he crept up to me. He made a trumpet of his hand and whispered into my ear again. His voice was so gentle that I could only just understand the words.

“The smallest sound would destroy our plans.”

I nodded to show that I had heard.

“We must sit without a light. He would see it through the ventilator.”

I nodded again.

“Do not fall asleep. Your life itself may depend on it. Have your pistol ready in case we need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and you in that chair.”

I took out my revolver and put it on the corner of the table.

Holmes had brought a long, thin cane with him. He put it on the bed beside him. Next to it he put the box of matches and the end of a candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.

How shall I ever forget that terrible night of watching? I could not hear a sound, not even a breath. And yet I knew that my companion sat with open eyes, only a few feet from me. I knew that his nerves were as tight as mine. The shutters blocked out even the smallest ray of light. We waited in complete darkness.

From outside came the cry of a night-bird now and then. Once, right at our window, there was a long, cat-like whine. It told us that the cheetah was indeed free. Far away, we could hear the deep sound of the church clock. It rang out every quarter of an hour. How long those quarters of an hour seemed! The clock struck twelve, and then one and two and three. Still we sat waiting silently for whatever might happen.

Suddenly, there was a short flash of light up near the ventilator. It disappeared at once. But a strong smell of burning oil and hot metal followed it. Someone in the next room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement. Then everything was silent once more, but the smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat listening as hard as I could.

Then suddenly I heard another sound. It was very gentle and soft, like a small jet of steam escaping steadily from a kettle. The moment we heard it, Holmes jumped up from the bed. He struck a match and hit the bell-pull furiously with his cane.

“You see it, Watson?” he shouted. “You see it?”

But I saw nothing. When Holmes struck the light, I heard a low, clear whistle. But the sudden bright light flashed into my tired eyes. So I could not tell what my friend was hitting so wildly. I could see, however, that his face was deathly pale. It was filled with horror and disgust.

He had stopped hitting and was staring up at the ventilator. Suddenly the most horrible cry I have ever heard broke the silence of the night. It grew louder and louder. It was a rough scream of pain and fear and anger, all mixed together in one dreadful shriek. People say that the cry woke the sleepers in the village below, and even in the distant parsonage. It made our hearts go cold. I stood staring at Holmes, and he at me. At last the final echoes of it died away into the silence from which it had come.

“What can it mean?” I gasped.

“It means that it is all over,” Holmes answered. “And perhaps, after all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will go into Dr. Roylott’s room.”

With a serious face, he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor. Twice he knocked hard on the door of the room, but no one answered from inside. Then he turned the handle and went in. I followed close behind him, with my pistol cocked and ready in my hand.

It was a strange sight that met our eyes. On the table stood a dark-lantern with its shutter half open. It threw a brilliant beam of light onto the iron safe. The door of the safe was slightly open. Beside the table, Dr. Grimesby Roylott sat on the wooden chair. He was dressed in a long grey dressing-gown. His bare ankles showed beneath it, and his feet were pushed into red Turkish slippers without heels. Across his knees lay the short handle with the long lash that we had noticed during the day. His chin was raised, and his eyes were fixed on the corner of the ceiling in a dreadful, stiff stare. Round his forehead he had a strange yellow band with brownish spots. It seemed to be tied tightly round his head. As we came in, he made no sound and did not move.

“The band! The speckled band!” whispered Holmes.

I took a step forward. At once, his strange head-covering began to move. From among his hair rose the short, diamond-shaped head and swollen neck of a disgusting snake.

“It is a swamp adder!” cried Holmes. “It is the deadliest snake in India. He died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth, come back upon the violent. The man who digs a pit for another falls into it himself. Let us push this creature back into its home. Then we can take Miss Stoner to some safe place and tell the county police what has happened.”

As he spoke, he quickly took the dog-whip from the dead man’s knees. He threw the loop round the snake’s neck and pulled it from its horrible resting-place. Holding it at arm’s length, he threw it into the iron safe and closed the door on it.

These are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran. My story is already too long. So it is not necessary to tell how we gave the sad news to the terrified girl. Nor need I tell how we took her by the morning train to Harrow. There her good aunt could care for her. Or how the slow official inquiry decided that the doctor had died while carelessly playing with a dangerous pet. Sherlock Holmes told me the little that I still had to learn as we travelled back the next day.

“I had come to a completely wrong conclusion,” he said. “It shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason without enough facts. There were the gipsies. And there was the word ‘band’, which the poor girl used. No doubt she used it to describe what she had seen for a moment by the light of her match. These things were enough to send me in a completely wrong direction.

“I can only claim one merit. I changed my thinking immediately when something became clear to me. Whatever danger threatened the person in the room could not come from the window or the door. As I have already told you, I quickly noticed this ventilator, and the bell-rope that hung down to the bed. I discovered that the rope was not a real bell-pull, and that the bed was fastened to the floor. At once, I suspected that the rope was there as a bridge. Something could pass through the hole and come down to the bed.

“The idea of a snake came to me immediately. I already knew that the doctor received a supply of creatures from India. When I put these facts together, I felt that I was probably on the right track. He could use a poison that no chemical test could possibly discover. That idea would occur to a clever, cruel man who had been trained in the East. From his point of view, it was also an advantage that such a poison worked so quickly. A coroner would need very sharp eyes to notice the two little dark holes where the poison teeth had bitten.

“Then I thought of the whistle. Of course, he had to call the snake back before the morning light showed it to the victim. He had trained it to return to him when he called it. He probably did this by using the milk that we saw. He would put it through this ventilator at the hour he thought best. He knew that it would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might bite the person in the bed, or it might not. Perhaps she might escape every night for a week. But sooner or later she must become its victim.

“I had reached these conclusions before I ever went into his room. I examined his chair, and I saw that he often stood on it. Of course, he would need to do that to reach the ventilator. Then I saw the safe, the saucer of milk, and the loop of cord. They were enough to remove any doubts that still remained. The metallic clang that Miss Stoner heard was clearly caused by her stepfather. He was quickly closing the door of his safe on its terrible prisoner. Once I had made up my mind, you know the steps I took to test it. I heard the creature hiss, as I am sure you did too. At once I lit the light and attacked it.”

“And so you drove it back through the ventilator.”

“And so I also made it turn on its master on the other side. Some of the blows of my cane hit it and woke its snake’s temper. So it attacked the first person it saw. In this way, I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s death. And I cannot say that this is likely to trouble my conscience very much.”

### Glossary

- **veil**: a thin cloth worn over the face.
- **dog-cart**: a small carriage pulled by a horse.
- **tiara**: a small crown worn as jewellery.
- **mortgage**: money borrowed against the value of a house or land.
- **coroner**: an official who investigates unexpected deaths.
- **speckled**: covered with small spots of different colours.
- **hunting-crop**: a short whip carried when riding a horse.
- **poker**: a metal rod used to move wood or coal in a fire.
- **trap**: a light carriage with two wheels, pulled by one horse.
- **stile**: steps that help people climb over a fence or wall.
- **lichen**: a small grey or yellow plant that grows on stones and trees.
- **ventilator**: an opening that lets air into or out of a room.
- **hasp**: a metal fastening for a door, window or shutter.
- **vice**: a tool that holds things very tightly while you work on them.
- **dark-lantern**: a lamp with a cover that can hide its light.
- **swamp adder**: the name of a poisonous snake in this story.
- **pit**: a deep hole in the ground.

## The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb

During our years of friendship, many people brought problems to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I introduced only two of these cases myself. One concerned Mr. Hatherley’s thumb. The other concerned Colonel Warburton’s madness. The second perhaps gave a clever, original observer more opportunities. But the first began so strangely, and its details were so dramatic, that it may be more worthy of a written account. This is true even though it offered Holmes fewer chances to use his methods of deduction. Those methods brought him such remarkable results.

I believe newspapers have told the story more than once. But like all such stories, it has much less effect in half a column of print. It is different when you see the facts appear slowly before your own eyes. With each discovery, the mystery slowly clears, until the whole truth becomes visible. At the time, these events made a deep impression on me. Two years have passed, but that impression has hardly weakened.

They happened in the summer of 1889, not long after my marriage. I had returned to work as a private doctor. At last I had left Holmes alone in his Baker Street rooms. However, I visited him often. Sometimes I even persuaded him to leave his irregular habits behind and visit us. My medical business had grown steadily. I lived quite near Paddington Station, so some railway workers became my patients. I had cured one of them of a painful illness which had lasted a long time. He never tired of praising me. Whenever he could influence a sick person, he tried to send that person to me.

One morning, a little before seven, the maid woke me by tapping on the door. Two men from Paddington were waiting in my consulting-room. I dressed quickly and hurried downstairs. Experience had taught me that railway cases were rarely unimportant. As I came down, my old supporter, the railway guard, left the room. He closed the door firmly behind him.

“I’ve got him here,” he whispered, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “He’s all right.”

“What is it, then?” I asked.

His manner suggested that he had caught some strange creature and shut it in my room.

“A new patient,” he whispered. “I thought I’d bring him myself. Then he couldn’t get away. There he is, safe and sound. I must go now, Doctor. I have my duties, just like you.”

Away went my faithful advertiser, without even giving me time to thank him.

I entered the consulting-room and found a gentleman sitting beside the table. He wore a simple suit of mixed brownish tweed. His soft cloth cap lay on my books. A handkerchief covered one hand, and bloodstains marked its whole surface. He was young, no more than twenty-five, I thought, with a strong, manly face. But he was extremely pale. He seemed deeply upset, and was using all his strength to control himself.

“I’m sorry to wake you so early, Doctor,” he said. “But I had a very serious accident during the night. I arrived by train this morning. At Paddington, I asked where I could find a doctor. A good fellow kindly brought me here. I gave the maid a card, but I see she left it on the side-table.”

I picked it up and read it. It said, “Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic engineer, 16A, Victoria Street, third floor.” That was my visitor’s name, profession, and address.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” I said, sitting in my library-chair. “You have just finished a night journey, I understand. Those journeys are dull enough by themselves.”

“Oh, my night certainly wasn’t dull,” he said, and laughed.

He laughed loudly, with a high, ringing sound. He leaned back in his chair, and his sides shook. Everything I knew as a doctor warned me about that laugh.

“Stop!” I cried. “Control yourself!”

I poured some water from a glass bottle. But it was useless. He was suffering one of those attacks of helpless laughter that sometimes follow a terrible experience. Even a strong man may lose control after the danger has passed. At last he recovered, looking very tired and pale.

“I’ve been making a fool of myself,” he said, struggling for breath.

“Not at all. Drink this.”

I added some brandy to the water. Colour began to return to his pale cheeks.

“That’s better!” he said. “Now, Doctor, would you please look at my thumb? Or rather, the place where my thumb used to be.”

He removed the handkerchief and held out his hand. Even I, who was used to terrible injuries, shook at the sight. Four fingers stood out above a horrible red, soft wound. The thumb had been cut or torn away completely, right at its root.

“Good heavens!” I cried. “This is a terrible injury. You must have lost a great deal of blood.”

“Yes, I did. I fainted when it happened. I think I was unconscious for a long time. When I woke, it was still bleeding. So I tied one end of my handkerchief tightly around my wrist. Then I used a little stick to tighten it further.”

“Excellent! You should have been a surgeon.”

“It’s a question of pressure in liquids, you see. That belongs to my own work.”

“A very heavy, sharp tool caused this,” I said, examining the wound.

“Something like a cleaver,” he answered.

“An accident, I suppose?”

“Certainly not.”

“What! Someone tried to murder you?”

“They certainly did.”

“How horrible!”

I washed the wound with a sponge, cleaned it, and treated it. Finally, I covered it with soft cotton and bandages treated with carbolic acid. He lay back without moving away from the pain. However, he bit his lip from time to time.

“How does that feel?” I asked when I finished.

“Excellent! Your brandy and bandage have made me feel like a new man. I was very weak, but I’ve suffered a great deal.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t speak about it. The subject clearly upsets you.”

“Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell the police my story. But honestly, without this wound as evidence, I doubt they would believe me. My story is extremely strange, and I have very little proof. Even if they believe me, my clues are very unclear. I wonder whether anyone will be punished.”

“Ah!” I cried. “If you have a problem that needs solving, I strongly suggest visiting my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You should see him before going to the police.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of him,” my visitor answered. “I should be very pleased if he would investigate. Of course, I must still go to the police. Would you introduce me to him?”

“I’ll do better. I’ll take you there myself.”

“I should be very grateful.”

“We’ll call a cab and go together. We shall arrive just in time to have some breakfast with him. Do you feel strong enough?”

“Yes. I shan’t feel comfortable until I’ve told my story.”

“Then my servant will call a cab. I’ll join you in a moment.”

I ran upstairs and briefly explained the matter to my wife. Within five minutes, my new acquaintance and I were travelling to Baker Street in a hansom.

As I expected, Sherlock Holmes was relaxing in his sitting-room in his dressing-gown. He was reading the personal notices in The Times and smoking his pipe before breakfast. Its tobacco came from the pieces left in his pipes the day before. He had carefully collected and dried them on a corner of the shelf above the fireplace. He welcomed us with his usual quiet friendliness. He ordered more bacon and eggs, and we enjoyed a good breakfast together. Afterwards, he settled our new acquaintance on the sofa and placed a pillow under his head. He put a glass of brandy and water within his reach.

“Your experience was clearly far from ordinary, Mr. Hatherley,” he said. “Please lie there and make yourself completely comfortable. Tell us what you can, but stop when you’re tired. Drink a little to keep up your strength.”

“Thank you,” said my patient. “But I’ve felt like a different man since the doctor bandaged me. I think your breakfast has completed the cure. I don’t want to waste your valuable time. I’ll begin my strange story immediately.”

Holmes sat in his large armchair. His eyelids were heavy, and he looked tired. This appearance hid his sharp mind and eager interest. I sat opposite him, and we listened silently to our visitor’s strange story.

“You must understand that both my parents are dead,” he began. “I’m unmarried and live alone in rented rooms in London. I’m a hydraulic engineer, and I gained considerable experience during seven years of training. I worked for Venner & Matheson, the well-known firm in Greenwich. Two years ago, I finished my training. My poor father’s death had also left me a reasonable amount of money. I decided to start my own business and rented offices in Victoria Street.

“I suppose everyone finds the beginning of an independent business rather depressing. My experience has been especially so. In two years, I’ve had three requests for advice and one small job. That is absolutely everything my profession has brought me. My total income, before expenses, has been £27 and ten shillings. Every day, from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, I waited in my little office. At last I began to lose hope. I thought I would never have any business at all.

“Yesterday, however, my clerk came in just as I was thinking of leaving. A gentleman wanted to see me on business. My clerk also brought a card with the name ‘Colonel Lysander Stark’ printed on it. The colonel himself followed closely behind. He was rather taller than average, but extremely thin. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so thin. His face narrowed to a sharp nose and chin. The skin of his cheeks stretched tightly across his bones. But this seemed natural, rather than the result of illness. His eyes were bright, his steps quick, and his manner confident. His clothes were simple but neat. I guessed his age was nearer forty than thirty.

“‘Mr. Hatherley?’ he said, with a slight German accent. ‘Someone has recommended you to me, Mr. Hatherley. I hear you are skilled in your profession. I also hear that you are careful and can keep a secret.’

“I bowed, as pleased by his words as any young man would have been.

“‘May I ask who spoke so well of me?’

“‘Perhaps I had better not tell you just yet. The same person told me you have no parents and are unmarried. You also live alone in London.’

“‘That is quite correct,’ I answered. ‘But please forgive me. I cannot see what this has to do with my professional abilities. I understood you wanted to discuss a professional matter.’

“‘Certainly. But you will find that everything I say matters. I have a professional job for you, but complete secrecy is essential. Complete secrecy, you understand. Naturally, we can expect that more easily from someone who lives alone. It is harder for a man surrounded by his family.’

“‘If I promise to keep a secret,’ I said, ‘you can trust me completely.’

“He examined me closely while I spoke. I thought I had never seen such a suspicious, questioning look.

“‘Do you promise, then?’ he asked at last.

“‘Yes, I promise.’

“‘Complete silence before, during, and afterwards? You will never mention this matter, either in speech or writing?’

“‘I have already given you my promise.’

“‘Very good.’

“Suddenly, he jumped up. He rushed across the room with astonishing speed and threw open the door. The passage outside was empty.

“‘That’s all right,’ he said, returning. ‘Clerks are sometimes curious about their employers’ business. Now we can talk safely.’

“He pulled his chair very close to mine. Again he stared at me with that thoughtful, questioning expression.

“The strange behaviour of this terribly thin man had begun to disgust and almost frighten me. I feared losing a customer. Even so, I couldn’t hide my impatience.

“‘Please explain your business, sir,’ I said. ‘My time is valuable.’

“May Heaven forgive me for that last sentence! But the words came out.

“‘Would fifty guineas suit you for a night’s work?’ he asked.

“‘Very well indeed.’

“‘I say a night, but an hour would be nearer the truth. I simply want your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine. It isn’t working properly. Show us what is wrong, and we can soon repair it ourselves. What do you think of a job like that?’

“‘The work seems easy, and the payment very generous.’

“‘Exactly. We shall need you to come tonight, by the last train.’

“‘Where to?’

“‘Eyford, in Berkshire. It’s a small place near the border of Oxfordshire, within seven miles of Reading. A train from Paddington would bring you there at about eleven fifteen.’

“‘Very good.’

“‘I shall meet you with a carriage.’

“‘So there’s a drive afterwards?’

“‘Yes, our little place is well out in the country. It is a good seven miles from Eyford Station.’

“‘Then we can hardly arrive before midnight. I suppose there would be no train back. I would have to stay the night.’

“‘Yes. We could easily arrange a simple bed for you.’

“‘That is very inconvenient. Couldn’t I come at a better time?’

“‘We have decided that a late visit is best. That is why we are paying you so well for the inconvenience. You are young and unknown. Yet your fee would buy advice from the leaders of your profession. Still, there is plenty of time to refuse the job, if you prefer.’

“I thought of the fifty guineas and how useful they would be.

“‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I shall be very happy to follow your wishes. However, I should like to understand more clearly what you want me to do.’

“‘Of course. Naturally, our demand for secrecy has made you curious. I don’t want you to agree to anything without knowing the whole situation. I suppose we are quite safe from anyone listening secretly?’

“‘Completely.’

“‘Then this is the situation. You probably know that fuller’s-earth is valuable? And that it is found in only one or two places in England?’

“‘I’ve heard so.’

“‘A little while ago, I bought some property within ten miles of Reading. It was very small indeed. Luckily, I discovered fuller’s-earth in one of my fields. However, when I examined it, I found only a fairly small amount. It connected two much larger supplies on either side. Both of those were on my neighbours’ land. These good people had no idea what their land contained. It was worth as much as a gold-mine. Naturally, I wanted to buy their land before they discovered its true value. Unfortunately, I had no money to buy it.

“‘However, I told a few friends my secret. They suggested that we should quietly dig out our own small supply. We could earn enough from that to buy the neighbouring fields. We have been doing this secretly for some time. To help our work, we built a hydraulic press. As I’ve explained, this press has stopped working properly. We want your advice about it.

“‘But we guard our secret very carefully. People would start asking questions if they knew hydraulic engineers visited our little house. If the facts became known, we would lose our chance to buy those fields. Our whole plan would fail. That is why you must tell nobody about going to Eyford tonight. I hope everything is clear?’

“‘I quite understand,’ I said. ‘There’s only one point I don’t understand. How do you use a hydraulic press to dig out fuller’s-earth? I believe you dig it from a pit, like gravel.’

“‘Ah!’ he said, as though it hardly mattered. ‘We have our own method. We press the earth into bricks. Then we can move it without showing what it is. But that is only a detail. I have now told you everything, Mr. Hatherley. I have shown how much I trust you.’

“He stood up as he spoke.

“‘I shall expect you at Eyford at eleven fifteen, then.’

“‘I shall certainly be there.’

“‘And not a word to anyone.’

“He examined me once more with a long, questioning look. Then he took my hand in his cold, damp hand and hurried away.

“Well, when I calmly considered everything, I was very surprised. You can both imagine how unexpected this sudden job seemed. Of course, I was pleased in one way. The fee was at least ten times what I would have asked for my work. This job might also lead to others. On the other hand, my customer’s face and manner had left an unpleasant impression. His story about fuller’s-earth didn’t seem enough to explain why I must come at midnight. Nor did it explain why he was so terribly anxious that I should tell nobody about my business.

“However, I put all my fears aside. I ate a good supper, drove to Paddington, and began my journey. I had followed his orders exactly and told nobody.

“At Reading, I had to change both my carriage and my station. However, I caught the last train to Eyford. I reached its small, poorly lit station after eleven. I was the only passenger who left the train. Only one sleepy porter stood on the platform, carrying a lantern. I passed through the little gate and found my morning visitor waiting in the shadows beyond it. Without speaking, he took my arm and hurried me into a carriage. Its door stood open. He raised the windows on both sides and tapped on the wood. Away we went, as fast as the horse could run.”

“One horse?” Holmes interrupted.

“Yes, only one.”

“Did you notice its colour?”

“Yes. The carriage lamps lit it as I was getting in. It was chestnut.”

“Did it look tired or fresh?”

“Oh, fresh, with a shining coat.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry I interrupted you. Please continue your very interesting account.”

“Away we went, then,” Hatherley continued. “We drove for at least an hour. Colonel Lysander Stark had said it was only seven miles. But I judged the distance from our apparent speed and the journey’s length. I thought it must be nearer twelve.

“He sat silently beside me the whole time. More than once, I glanced towards him and found him staring hard at me. The country roads there do not seem to be very good. We shook and jumped about terribly. I tried looking through the windows to discover where we were. But the glass was frosted, and I couldn’t see anything through it. Only an occasional passing light appeared as a bright, blurred patch. Now and then, I tried a remark to make the dull journey less tiresome. But the colonel gave only one-word answers, and conversation soon stopped.

“At last, the rough road changed to a smooth gravel drive. We heard the little stones beneath the wheels. The carriage stopped. Colonel Lysander Stark jumped out. As I followed, he pulled me quickly into a porch directly ahead. We seemed to step straight from the carriage into the hall. I couldn’t catch even the briefest view of the house’s front. The moment I crossed the entrance, the door shut heavily behind us. I faintly heard the wheels as the carriage drove away.

“The inside of the house was completely dark. The colonel felt around for matches and muttered quietly. Suddenly, a door opened at the far end of the passage. A long golden strip of light stretched towards us. It grew wider, and a woman appeared, holding a lamp above her head. She leaned her face forward to look at us closely.

“I could see she was pretty. The lamp shone on her dark dress, and its rich shine showed that the material was expensive. She said a few words in a foreign language. Her voice sounded as though she was asking a question. My companion gave a rough, one-word answer. She jumped so violently that she almost dropped the lamp.

“Colonel Stark went to her and whispered in her ear. Then he pushed her back into the room she had left. He returned to me with the lamp in his hand.

“‘Would you kindly wait here for a few minutes?’ he asked, opening another door.

“It was a quiet little room with simple furniture. Several German books lay scattered on a round table in the centre. Colonel Stark put the lamp on a harmonium beside the door.

“‘I shan’t keep you waiting a moment,’ he said, and disappeared into the darkness.

“I looked at the books on the table. Although I knew no German, I could recognize two serious books about science. The others contained poetry. Then I went to the window, hoping to see something of the surrounding country. But a heavily barred oak shutter covered it.

“The house was extraordinarily quiet. Somewhere in the passage, an old clock ticked loudly. Otherwise, everything was completely still. A vague feeling of worry began to grow inside me. Who were these Germans? What were they doing in this strange, distant place? And where was it? I only knew that I was about ten miles from Eyford. Whether north, south, east, or west, I had no idea. Reading, and perhaps other large towns, were within that distance. Perhaps the place wasn’t so far from other people after all. Yet the complete silence made one thing certain. We were in the country.

“I walked up and down, quietly humming a tune to keep up my courage. I felt that I was certainly earning my fifty guineas.

“Suddenly, without any warning sound, the door of my room swung slowly open in the complete silence. The woman was standing in the doorway. The darkness of the hall was behind her. The yellow light from my lamp fell on her eager and beautiful face. I could see at once that she was sick with fear. The sight sent a chill to my own heart. She held up one shaking finger to warn me to be silent. She whispered a few quick words to me in broken English. All the time, her eyes looked back into the darkness behind her, like the eyes of a frightened horse.

“‘I would go,’ she said. She seemed to be trying hard to speak calmly. ‘I would go. I should not stay here. There is no good for you to do.’

“‘But, madam,’ I said, ‘I have not yet done what I came for. I cannot possibly leave until I have seen the machine.’

“‘It is not worth your while to wait,’ she went on. ‘You can pass through the door. No one stops you.’

“Then she saw that I smiled and shook my head. Suddenly she stopped controlling herself. She took a step forward, twisting her hands together. ‘For the love of Heaven!’ she whispered. ‘Get away from here before it is too late!’

“But I am rather stubborn by nature. I am even more ready to take part in something when there is some difficulty in the way. I thought of my fifty-guinea fee, and of my long, tiring journey. I thought of the unpleasant night that seemed to be ahead of me. Was all of that to be for nothing? Why should I creep away without doing my job? Why should I leave without the payment that was owed to me? For all I knew, this woman might be mad about one particular idea. Her manner had shaken me more than I liked to admit. But I tried to look brave and firm. So I still shook my head, and I said that I intended to stay where I was.

“She was about to beg me again when a door slammed above us. Then we heard the sound of several footsteps on the stairs. She listened for a moment. She threw up her hands in despair. Then she disappeared as suddenly and as silently as she had come.

“The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark and a short, fat man. He had a soft grey beard growing out of the folds of his double chin. The colonel introduced him to me as Mr. Ferguson.

“‘This is my secretary and manager,’ said the colonel. ‘By the way, I thought I left this door shut just now. I am afraid you have felt the cold air coming in.’

“‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘I opened the door myself. I felt that the room was a little airless.’

“He gave me one of his suspicious looks. ‘Perhaps we had better begin our business, then,’ he said. ‘Mr. Ferguson and I will take you up to see the machine.’

“‘I suppose I had better put my hat on.’

“‘Oh, no, it is in the house.’

“‘What, you dig fuller’s-earth in the house?’

“‘No, no. This is only where we press it. But never mind that. We only want you to examine the machine and tell us what is wrong with it.’

“We went upstairs together. The colonel went first with the lamp, and the fat manager and I followed behind him. The old house was like a maze. There were corridors, passages, narrow winding staircases and little low doors. The bottoms of the doorways had been worn hollow by all the generations who had walked over them. Above the ground floor there were no carpets, and no signs of any furniture. The plaster was falling off the walls. Damp was coming through in green, unhealthy patches.

“I tried to look as calm and careless as possible. But I had not forgotten the lady’s warnings, even though I had ignored them. I kept a careful eye on my two companions. Ferguson seemed to be a gloomy, silent man. But from the little he said, I could tell that he was at least English, like me.

“At last Colonel Lysander Stark stopped in front of a low door and unlocked it. Inside was a small, square room. The three of us could hardly fit into it at the same time. Ferguson stayed outside, and the colonel showed me in.

“‘We are now actually inside the hydraulic press,’ he said. ‘It would be very unpleasant for us if anyone turned it on. The ceiling of this small room is really the end of the piston, which comes down. It comes down on this metal floor with the force of many tons. Outside there are small columns of water at the sides. They receive the force, and they pass it on and multiply it. You know how that works, of course. The machine works well enough. But it moves rather stiffly, and it has lost a little of its force. Perhaps you will be kind enough to look it over. Then you can show us how we can put it right.’

“I took the lamp from him and examined the machine very carefully. It was indeed a huge one, and it could produce enormous pressure. Then I went outside and pressed down the levers that controlled it. At once I knew from the rushing sound that there was a small leak. Water was flowing back through one of the side cylinders. I examined it, and I found the problem. A rubber ring around the head of a driving-rod had shrunk. It no longer quite filled the hole that it moved along. This was clearly the cause of the loss of power.

“I pointed it out to my companions. They listened to my remarks very carefully. They asked several practical questions about how to put it right. When I had explained it clearly to them, I went back into the main room of the machine. I took a good look at it to satisfy my own curiosity.

“It was clear at once that the story about fuller’s-earth was a complete lie. It would be ridiculous to think that such a powerful machine was built for such a small purpose. The walls were made of wood, but the floor was a large iron trough. When I examined it, I could see a crust of some metal all over it. I bent down and began to scrape at it. I wanted to see exactly what it was. Then I heard a quiet cry in German. I looked up and saw the colonel’s face looking down at me. It was as pale and thin as a dead man’s.

“‘What are you doing there?’ he asked.

“I felt angry that he had tricked me with such a carefully made-up story. ‘I was admiring your fuller’s-earth,’ I said. ‘I think I could advise you better about your machine if I knew its exact purpose.’

“The moment I said the words, I was sorry that I had spoken so carelessly. His face became hard. An evil light shone in his grey eyes.

“‘Very well,’ he said, ‘you shall know all about the machine.’

“He took a step back and slammed the little door. Then he turned the key in the lock. I rushed to the door and pulled at the handle. But it was firmly locked. It did not move at all, even when I kicked and pushed it.

“‘Hello!’ I shouted. ‘Hello! Colonel! Let me out!’

“And then suddenly, in the silence, I heard a sound that filled me with terror. It was the noise of the levers and the rush of water from the leaking cylinder. He had started the machine. The lamp still stood on the floor where I had put it to examine the trough. By its light I saw that the black ceiling was coming down on me. It came slowly, with small jerks. But no one knew better than I did how strong it was. Within a minute it would crush me into a shapeless mass.

“Screaming, I threw myself against the door. I tore at the lock with my nails. I begged the colonel to let me out. But the cruel noise of the levers drowned my cries. The ceiling was only a foot or two above my head. When I raised my hand, I could feel its hard, rough surface.

“Then a thought flashed through my mind. The pain of my death would depend very much on my position when it came. If I lay on my face, the weight would come down on my back. I shook with horror to think of my spine breaking. Perhaps it would be easier the other way. And yet, could I really lie there? Did I have the courage to look up at that deadly black shadow as it came down? Already I could no longer stand up straight. Just then, my eye caught something that brought hope rushing back to my heart.

“I have said that the floor and ceiling were made of iron, but the walls were made of wood. I took one last quick look round. Then I saw a thin line of yellow light between two of the boards. It grew wider and wider as someone pushed a small panel back. For a moment I could hardly believe it. Here was really a door that led away from death! The next moment I threw myself through it. I lay half-fainting on the other side. The panel had closed again behind me. Then I heard the crash of the lamp. A few moments later came the clang of the two metal plates meeting. These sounds told me how very close I had come to death.

“Someone was pulling wildly at my wrist, and I came back to my senses. I found that I was lying on the stone floor of a narrow corridor. A woman was bending over me. She was pulling at me with her left hand, and she held a candle in her right. It was the same good friend whose warning I had so foolishly refused.

“‘Come! Come!’ she cried breathlessly. ‘They will be here in a moment. They will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste the so-precious time, but come!’

“This time, at least, I did not refuse her advice. I got unsteadily to my feet. I ran with her along the corridor and down a winding staircase. It led to another wide passage. Just as we reached it, we heard the sound of running feet. Two voices were shouting, one answering the other. One came from our floor, and the other from the floor below. My guide stopped and looked around her. She seemed not to know what to do. Then she threw open a door into a bedroom. The moon was shining brightly through its window.

“‘It is your only chance,’ she said. ‘It is high, but perhaps you can jump it.’

“As she spoke, a light appeared at the far end of the passage. I saw the thin figure of Colonel Lysander Stark rushing towards us. He had a lantern in one hand. In the other hand he held a weapon like a butcher’s cleaver.

“I rushed across the bedroom, threw open the window and looked out. How quiet and sweet and healthy the garden looked in the moonlight! It could not be more than thirty feet down. I climbed out onto the sill. But I did not want to jump yet. First I wanted to hear what happened between the woman who saved me and the villain chasing me. If he treated her badly, I was determined to go back and help her, whatever the danger. The thought had hardly entered my mind before he was at the door. He was pushing his way past her. But she threw her arms round him and tried to hold him back.

“‘Fritz! Fritz!’ she cried in English. ‘Remember your promise after the last time. You said it would not happen again. He will be silent! Oh, he will be silent!’

“‘You are mad, Elise!’ he shouted. He was struggling to get free from her. ‘You will destroy us all. He has seen too much. Let me pass, I say!’

“He threw her to one side and rushed to the window. He struck at me with his heavy weapon. I had already let myself go, and I was hanging by my hands from the sill when his blow fell. I felt a dull pain. My hands let go, and I fell into the garden below.

“The fall shook me, but it did not hurt me. So I got up and ran off among the bushes as fast as I could. I understood that I was still far from safe. Suddenly, however, as I ran, a terrible dizziness and sickness came over me. My hand was beating with pain. I looked down at it. Then, for the first time, I saw that my thumb had been cut off. Blood was pouring from the wound. I tried to tie my handkerchief round it. But suddenly there was a buzzing in my ears. The next moment I fell down in a dead faint among the rose-bushes.

“I cannot tell how long I stayed unconscious. It must have been a very long time. When I came back to my senses, the moon had gone down, and a bright morning was beginning. My clothes were completely wet with dew. My coat-sleeve was soaked with blood from my wounded thumb. The sharp pain of it brought back at once every detail of my adventure in the night. I jumped to my feet. I felt that I might still not be safe from the men who were chasing me.

“But I looked round me, and to my astonishment, I could see neither the house nor the garden. I had been lying in a corner of the hedge, close to the main road. A little lower down the road there was a long building. When I came near it, I found that it was the same station where I had arrived the night before. If it were not for my ugly wound, I might have thought those dreadful hours were an evil dream.

“Half confused, I went into the station and asked about the morning train. There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. I found that the same porter was on duty as when I arrived. I asked him whether he had ever heard of Colonel Lysander Stark. He did not know the name. Had he noticed a carriage waiting for me the night before? No, he had not. Was there a police-station anywhere near? There was one about three miles away.

“That was too far for me to go, because I was weak and ill. I decided to wait until I got back to London before I told my story to the police. I arrived a little after six. So first I went to have my wound treated. Then the doctor was kind enough to bring me here. I put the case into your hands, and I shall do exactly what you advise.”

We both sat in silence for some time after we had listened to this extraordinary story. Then Sherlock Holmes took down from the shelf one of the heavy books where he kept his newspaper cuttings.

“Here is an advertisement that will interest you,” he said. “It appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this: ‘Lost, on the 9th of this month, Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o’clock at night, and has not been heard of since. Was dressed in,’ and so on. Ha! I think that was the last time the colonel needed to have his machine repaired.”

“Good heavens!” cried my patient. “Then that explains what the girl said.”

“Without doubt. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and desperate man. He was absolutely determined that nothing should stand in the way of his little game. He was like those complete pirates who leave no one alive on a ship they have captured. Well, every moment is precious now. If you feel strong enough, we shall go to Scotland Yard at once. Then we shall start for Eyford.”

About three hours later we were all in the train together, travelling from Reading to the little Berkshire village. There were Sherlock Holmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet of Scotland Yard, a police officer in ordinary clothes, and myself. Bradstreet had spread a detailed map of the county out on the seat. He was busy with his compasses, drawing a circle with Eyford in its centre.

“There you are,” he said. “That circle is drawn ten miles from the village on every side. The place we want must be somewhere near that line. You said ten miles, I think, sir.”

“It was a good hour’s drive.”

“And you think they brought you back all that way when you were unconscious?”

“They must have done. I have a confused memory, too, of being lifted and carried somewhere.”

“What I cannot understand,” I said, “is why they did not kill you when they found you fainting in the garden. Perhaps the woman begged the villain, and he became softer.”

“I hardly think that is likely. I never saw a harder, more merciless face in my life.”

“Oh, we shall soon clear up all that,” said Bradstreet. “Well, I have drawn my circle. I only wish I knew where on it we can find the people we are looking for.”

“I think I could put my finger on it,” said Holmes quietly.

“Really, now!” cried the inspector. “You have made up your mind! Come, now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is south, because the country is emptier there.”

“And I say east,” said my patient.

“I am for west,” said the police officer in ordinary clothes. “There are several quiet little villages up there.”

“And I am for north,” I said, “because there are no hills there. Our friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up any.”

“Come,” cried the inspector, laughing, “that is a fine variety of opinions. Between us we have chosen every direction on the compass. Who do you give your deciding vote to?”

“You are all wrong.”

“But we can’t all be wrong.”

“Oh, yes, you can. This is my point.” He put his finger on the centre of the circle. “This is where we shall find them.”

“But the twelve-mile drive?” gasped Hatherley.

“Six out and six back. Nothing could be simpler. You said yourself that the horse was fresh, with a shining coat, when you got in. How could that be if it had gone twelve miles over bad roads?”

“Indeed, that is a likely enough trick,” said Bradstreet thoughtfully. “Of course, there can be no doubt about what kind of gang this is.”

“None at all,” said Holmes. “They make false coins on a large scale. They have used the machine to make the mixture of metals that takes the place of silver.”

“We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work,” said the inspector. “They have been making half-crowns by the thousand. We even followed them as far as Reading. But we could get no further, because they had hidden their tracks so well. That showed they had done this kind of thing for a long time. But now, thanks to this lucky chance, I think we have really got them.”

But the inspector was wrong. Those criminals were never to fall into the hands of the law. As our train came into Eyford Station, we saw a huge column of smoke. It rose up from behind a small group of trees nearby. It hung over the countryside like an enormous ostrich feather.

“A house on fire?” asked Bradstreet, as the train steamed away again.

“Yes, sir!” said the station-master.

“When did it start?”

“I hear it was during the night, sir. But it has got worse, and the whole place is in flames.”

“Whose house is it?”

“Dr. Becher’s.”

“Tell me,” said the engineer, interrupting, “is Dr. Becher a German? Is he very thin, with a long, sharp nose?”

The station-master laughed loudly. “No, sir, Dr. Becher is an Englishman. And there isn’t a man in the parish with a fatter stomach under his waistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him. He is a patient, as I understand, and he is a foreigner. He looks as if a little good Berkshire beef would do him no harm.”

Before the station-master had finished speaking, we were all hurrying towards the fire. The road went over the top of a low hill. In front of us there was a large, wide, whitewashed building. Fire was pouring out of every crack and window. In the garden in front, three fire-engines were trying without success to control the flames.

“That’s it!” cried Hatherley, very excited. “There is the gravel drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That second window is the one I jumped from.”

“Well, at least you have had your revenge on them,” said Holmes. “There can be no doubt that your oil-lamp started this fire. When the press crushed it, it set fire to the wooden walls. No doubt they were too excited in the chase after you to notice it at the time. Now keep your eyes open in this crowd for your friends of last night. But I very much fear that they are a good hundred miles away by now.”

And Holmes’s fears came true. From that day to this, no one has ever heard anything of the beautiful woman, the evil German or the gloomy Englishman. Early that morning, a farm worker had met a cart driving fast towards Reading. There were several people in it, and some very large boxes. But there all signs of the escaping criminals disappeared. Even Holmes’s cleverness could never find the smallest clue to where they were.

The firemen had been very disturbed by the strange arrangements they had found inside. They were even more disturbed when they found a freshly cut-off human thumb on a window-sill of the second floor. At about sunset, however, their efforts at last succeeded, and they put out the flames. But by then the roof had fallen in. The whole place was so completely ruined that almost nothing remained of the machinery. There were only some twisted cylinders and iron pipes. That machinery had cost our unlucky friend so much. Large amounts of nickel and tin were found stored in a small building outside. But no coins were found. That may explain the large boxes that I have already mentioned.

How had our hydraulic engineer been carried from the garden to the place where he woke up? That might have stayed a mystery forever. But the soft earth told us a very clear story. Clearly, two people had carried him down. One of them had remarkably small feet, and the other had unusually large ones. All in all, the silent Englishman was probably less brave or less murderous than his companion. He had most likely helped the woman to carry the unconscious man away from danger.

“Well,” said our engineer sadly, as we sat down in the train to return to London once more. “It has been a fine business for me! I have lost my thumb, and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee. And what have I gained?”

“Experience,” said Holmes, laughing. “In an indirect way, it may be valuable, you know. You only have to tell this story, and people will think you excellent company for the rest of your life.”

### Glossary

- **hydraulic engineer**: someone who designs or repairs machines that use liquid pressure.
- **cleaver**: a heavy knife with a broad blade, usually used for cutting meat.
- **carbolic acid**: a chemical used to kill harmful germs.
- **hansom**: a small horse-drawn cab with two wheels.
- **guineas**: old British money units, each worth twenty-one shillings.
- **fuller’s-earth**: a special clay used for cleaning and other work.
- **hydraulic press**: a machine that uses liquid pressure to squeeze things very hard.
- **harmonium**: a keyboard instrument that makes music by pushing air through metal parts.
- **fee**: money paid for a professional person’s work.
- **piston**: a solid part of a machine that moves up and down inside a tube.
- **cylinder**: a tube-shaped part of a machine.
- **lever**: a bar or handle that you push or pull to work a machine.
- **trough**: a long, open container.
- **sill**: the flat shelf at the bottom of a window.
- **compasses**: a tool for drawing circles.
- **half-crown**: an old British coin worth two shillings and six pence.
- **pirates**: people who attack and rob ships at sea.

## The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor

People in Lord St. Simon’s high social circle had long stopped discussing his marriage and its strange ending. New scandals had replaced it. Their more exciting details had drawn attention away from this four-year-old drama and its unfortunate bridegroom. However, I had reason to believe that the public had never learned all the facts. My friend Sherlock Holmes had played an important part in explaining the mystery. Therefore, no account of his life would be complete without this remarkable adventure.

It happened a few weeks before my own marriage. I was still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street. One afternoon, he returned from a walk and found a letter waiting on the table. I had stayed inside all day. The weather had suddenly turned wet, with strong autumn winds. A bullet from an Afghan jezail gun still remained in one of my limbs. It was a memory of the war, and it now ached steadily.

I sat in one comfortable chair with my legs on another. Newspapers lay all around me. Finally, I had read more news than I wanted and threw them aside. I lay without energy, staring at the envelope on the table. It carried a large family crest and a monogram. I wondered lazily which noble person had written to my friend.

“Here is a very fashionable letter,” I remarked as he entered. “If I remember correctly, your morning letters came from a fish seller and a customs officer at the docks.”

“Yes, my letters certainly offer a pleasant variety,” he answered, smiling. “The less important people usually have more interesting things to say. This looks like an unwelcome invitation. Such invitations force a man either to suffer boredom or to tell a lie.”

He broke the seal and glanced through the letter.

“Oh, perhaps it will prove interesting after all.”

“Not a social invitation, then?”

“No, definitely professional.”

“And from a noble client?”

“One of the highest in England.”

“My dear fellow, congratulations.”

“Honestly, Watson, a client’s social position matters less to me than his case. Still, this new investigation may also be interesting. You have been reading the papers carefully recently, haven’t you?”

“It certainly looks that way,” I said unhappily, pointing to a huge pile in the corner. “I have had nothing else to do.”

“That is fortunate. Perhaps you can give me the facts. I read only the crime news and the personal messages in the advertisements. Those messages always teach one something. But if you have followed recent events so closely, you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding?”

“Oh, yes, with the greatest interest.”

“Good. This letter is from Lord St. Simon. I will read it to you. In return, look through these papers and find everything about the matter. This is what he says:

“‘My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

“‘Lord Backwater tells me that I can completely trust your judgment and your care with private matters. I have therefore decided to visit you. I wish to discuss the very painful event connected with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is already investigating. However, he assures me that he has no objection to your help. Indeed, he thinks it might be useful. I will call at four o’clock this afternoon. If you have another appointment then, I hope you will move it. This matter is more important than anything else.

“‘Yours faithfully,

“‘Robert St. Simon.’

“He writes from Grosvenor Mansions and has used a quill pen,” Holmes remarked as he folded the letter. “Unfortunately, our noble lord has got ink on the outside of his right little finger.”

“He says four o’clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour.”

“Then, with your help, I have just enough time to understand the subject. Arrange those newspaper reports in order of date. Meanwhile, I shall find out who our client is.”

He took a red book from the reference books beside the fireplace.

“Here he is,” he said. He sat down and opened it flat on his knee. “‘Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral.’ Hmm! His family’s shield is blue, with three spiked weapons above a black band. ‘Born in 1846.’ He is forty-one, quite a mature age for marriage. He was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a recent government. His father, the Duke, was once Secretary for Foreign Affairs. Their family comes directly from the Plantagenets, and from the Tudors through the female line. Well, none of this teaches us much. I must turn to you, Watson, for something more useful.”

“I have little difficulty finding what I want,” I said. “The facts are very recent, and the matter seemed remarkable to me. But I was afraid to mention it. I knew you had an investigation, and you dislike interruptions from other matters.”

“Oh, you mean the little problem of the furniture van in Grosvenor Square. That is completely cleared up now. Indeed, the answer was obvious from the beginning. Please give me what you have found in the papers.”

“Here is the first notice I can find. It appeared in the personal news of the Morning Post some weeks ago. You can see the date. It says: ‘A marriage has been arranged and, if reports are correct, will take place very soon. Lord Robert St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, will marry Miss Hatty Doran. She is the only daughter of Mr. Aloysius Doran of San Francisco, California, U.S.A.’ That is all.”

“Short and clear,” Holmes remarked. He stretched his long, thin legs towards the fire.

“A society newspaper gave more details during the same week. Ah, here it is:

“‘Soon we shall need protection from foreign competition in the marriage market. Our present free trade in marriage seems very bad for British women. One by one, the great noble homes of Great Britain are passing into American women’s hands. These beautiful cousins from across the Atlantic have won another important prize this week.

“‘For over twenty years, Lord St. Simon has avoided Cupid’s arrows. Now he has definitely announced his approaching marriage to Miss Hatty Doran. She is the charming daughter of a California millionaire. Her graceful figure and striking face attracted much attention at the Westbury House celebrations. She is an only child. Reports say her dowry will be considerably more than a six-figure sum. She can also expect a future inheritance.

“‘Everyone knows that the Duke of Balmoral has been forced to sell his pictures during the last few years. Lord St. Simon owns only the small estate of Birchmoor. Clearly, the Californian heiress will not be the only person to gain from this marriage. It will allow her to make a familiar and easy change. She will leave her position as a lady from a republic and become the wife of a British lord.’”

“Anything else?” asked Holmes, yawning.

“Oh, yes, plenty. Another Morning Post notice said the wedding would be extremely quiet. It would take place at St. George’s, Hanover Square. Only half a dozen close friends would be invited. Afterwards, the party would return to the furnished house Mr. Aloysius Doran had rented at Lancaster Gate. Two days later, on Wednesday last, a short announcement said the wedding had taken place. The couple would spend their honeymoon at Lord Backwater’s house near Petersfield. Those are all the notices before the bride’s disappearance.”

“Before her what?” Holmes asked with a sudden movement.

“The lady’s disappearance.”

“When did she disappear, then?”

“At the wedding breakfast.”

“Indeed! This is more interesting than it first appeared. Quite dramatic, in fact.”

“Yes, I thought it rather unusual.”

“They often disappear before the ceremony, and sometimes during the honeymoon. But I cannot remember anything quite so quick as this. Please give me the details.”

“I warn you, they are very incomplete.”

“Perhaps we can make them less incomplete.”

“Yesterday’s morning paper gives what details there are in a single article. I will read it to you. Its title is ‘Strange Event at a Fashionable Wedding’:

“‘Lord Robert St. Simon’s family is deeply shocked by the strange and painful events connected with his wedding. As yesterday’s papers briefly announced, the ceremony took place the previous morning. However, only now have we been able to confirm the strange reports that have continued to spread. Friends have tried to keep the matter quiet. But it has now attracted too much public attention. Everyone is discussing it, and there is no point in pretending otherwise.

“‘The ceremony at St. George’s, Hanover Square, was very quiet. The bride’s father, Mr. Aloysius Doran, attended. The other guests were the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater, Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon. The last two are the bridegroom’s younger brother and sister. Lady Alicia Whittington was also present. No one else attended.

“‘Afterwards, the whole party went to Mr. Aloysius Doran’s house at Lancaster Gate, where breakfast was ready. It seems that a woman caused some trouble. Her name has not been discovered. She tried to force her way into the house after the wedding party. She claimed that Lord St. Simon had some duty towards her. A painful scene continued for some time. Finally, the butler and footman threw her out.

“‘Fortunately, the bride had entered the house before this unpleasant interruption. She sat down to breakfast with the others. Then she complained of suddenly feeling ill and went to her room. People began to comment when she did not return. Her father went after her and questioned her maid. The maid said the bride had only entered her room for a moment. She had picked up an ulster and a bonnet, then hurried downstairs to the passage.

“‘One footman said he had seen a lady leave the house in those clothes. However, he had refused to believe that she was his employer’s daughter. He believed she was still with the guests. When Mr. Doran discovered her disappearance, he and the bridegroom immediately contacted the police. A very active investigation is taking place. It will probably soon explain this extremely strange business.

“‘However, up to a late hour last night, nothing had been discovered about the missing lady’s whereabouts. There are reports that a crime may have taken place. People say the police have arrested the woman who originally caused the trouble. They believe she may have been involved in the bride’s strange disappearance, through jealousy or some other reason.’”

“And is that all?”

“Only one short item from another morning paper. But it suggests something.”

“And what is it?”

“Miss Flora Millar, the woman who caused the trouble, has actually been arrested. It seems she used to dance at the Allegro. She has known the bridegroom for several years. There are no more details. You now have the whole case, as far as the newspapers have described it.”

“And it seems an extremely interesting case. I would not have missed it for anything. But someone is ringing the bell, Watson. It is a few minutes after four. I have no doubt that our noble client has arrived. Do not think of leaving. I much prefer to have a witness, even if he only helps me check my memory.”

“Lord Robert St. Simon,” announced our page-boy, opening the door wide.

A gentleman entered. His face was pleasant, pale and educated-looking, with a high nose. His mouth perhaps suggested a habit of childish annoyance. His eyes were steady and wide open. They belonged to a man who had always enjoyed giving orders and having people obey them.

His manner was quick and lively, but his general appearance made him seem too old. He bent forward slightly, and his knees bent a little as he walked. He removed his hat, which had a deeply curled brim. His hair was grey round the edges and thin on top. His clothes were so carefully chosen that he almost seemed too concerned about his appearance. He wore a high collar, a black frock-coat, a white waistcoat and yellow gloves. His shoes were shiny patent leather, with light-coloured gaiters above them.

He advanced slowly into the room, looking from side to side. In his right hand, he swung the cord holding his gold eyeglasses.

“Good day, Lord St. Simon,” Holmes said, rising and bowing. “Please take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Come a little nearer the fire, and we will discuss this matter.”

“A most painful matter for me, as you can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes. I have been deeply hurt. I understand that you have already handled several private cases of this kind, sir. However, I suppose they hardly involved people from the same social class.”

“No, this is a step down for me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My last client in a case of this kind was a king.”

“Oh, really! I had no idea. Which king?”

“The King of Scandinavia.”

“What! Had he lost his wife?”

“You will understand,” Holmes said politely, “that I keep my other clients’ affairs secret. I promise you the same secrecy.”

“Of course! Quite right, quite right! I do apologize. As for my own case, I am ready to give you any information. Anything that will help you form an opinion.”

“Thank you. I have learned everything in the newspapers, but nothing more. May I assume their reports are correct? This article about the bride’s disappearance, for example?”

Lord St. Simon glanced through it.

“Yes, it is correct, as far as it goes.”

“But much must be added before anyone can form an opinion. Questions will probably give me the facts most directly.”

“Please ask them.”

“When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?”

“In San Francisco, a year ago.”

“You were travelling in the States?”

“Yes.”

“Did you become engaged then?”

“No.”

“But you were friendly?”

“I enjoyed her company, and she could see that I enjoyed it.”

“Her father is very rich?”

“People say he is the richest man on the Pacific coast.”

“And how did he make his money?”

“Through mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he found gold and invested his money. His wealth grew very quickly.”

“Now, what is your own opinion of the young lady’s character? Your wife’s character, I should say.”

The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared into the fire.

“You see, Mr. Holmes, my wife was twenty before her father became rich. Until then, she ran freely around a mining camp and wandered through woods and mountains. Nature taught her more than any schoolmaster did. In England, we would call her a tomboy. She has a strong character, wild and free, without any limits set by tradition. She acts suddenly, almost like a volcano bursting out. She makes decisions quickly and carries them out fearlessly.

“On the other hand, I thought her a truly noble woman. Otherwise, I would not have given her the family name I have the honour to bear.”

He gave a small, rather grand cough.

“I believe she could make heroic sacrifices for others. Anything dishonest would disgust her.”

“Have you a photograph of her?”

“I brought this.”

He opened a locket and showed us the face of a very beautiful woman. It was not a photograph, but a miniature painted on ivory. The artist had perfectly shown her shining black hair, large dark eyes and lovely mouth. Holmes studied it for a long time, with great attention. Then he closed the locket and returned it to Lord St. Simon.

“The young lady came to London, then, and you met again?”

“Yes. Her father brought her over for the last London social season. I met her several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her.”

“I understand she brought a considerable dowry?”

“A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family.”

“And of course, it remains yours, now the marriage has taken place?”

“I really have made no inquiries about that.”

“Very naturally. Did you see Miss Doran the day before the wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Was she cheerful?”

“Never more cheerful. She kept talking about what we would do in our future lives.”

“Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the wedding morning?”

“She was as happy as possible. At least, until after the ceremony.”

“Did you notice a change in her then?”

“Well, to tell the truth, I saw the first signs of a slightly sharp temper. But the incident was too small to mention. It cannot possibly have anything to do with the case.”

“Please tell us anyway.”

“Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we walked towards the vestry. She was passing the front pew, and the flowers fell into it. There was a moment’s delay. Then the gentleman sitting there handed them back. They did not seem damaged by the fall.

“Yet when I mentioned it, she answered me sharply. In the carriage on our way home, she seemed extremely upset about this tiny matter. It was quite ridiculous.”

“Indeed! You say there was a gentleman in the pew. Some members of the public were present, then?”

“Oh, yes. It is impossible to keep them out when the church is open.”

“Was this gentleman one of your wife’s friends?”

“No, no. I only call him a gentleman to be polite. He was quite an ordinary-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But really, I think we are moving rather far from the point.”

“Then Lady St. Simon returned from the wedding less cheerfully than she had gone to it. What did she do when she entered her father’s house again?”

“I saw her talking to her maid.”

“And who is her maid?”

“Her name is Alice. She is American and came from California with her.”

“A trusted servant?”

“Rather too trusted. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed her to behave too freely. Still, of course, Americans think differently about these things.”

“How long did she speak to Alice?”

“Oh, a few minutes. I had other things to think about.”

“Did you hear anything they said?”

“Lady St. Simon said something about ‘jumping a claim.’ She often used slang like that. I have no idea what she meant.”

“American slang is sometimes very expressive. What did your wife do after speaking to her maid?”

“She walked into the breakfast-room.”

“On your arm?”

“No, alone. She was very independent about little things like that. Then, after we had sat for about ten minutes, she rose hurriedly. She said a few quiet words of apology and left the room. She never came back.”

“But I understand that Alice says she went to her room. She covered her wedding dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet, and went out.”

“Exactly. Afterwards, she was seen entering Hyde Park with Flora Millar. That woman is now under arrest. She had already caused trouble at Mr. Doran’s house that morning.”

“Ah, yes. I should like some details about this young lady and your connection with her.”

Lord St. Simon shrugged and raised his eyebrows.

“We have been friendly for some years. I might say very friendly. She used to be at the Allegro. I have not treated her ungenerously, and she had no fair reason to complain. But you know what women are, Mr. Holmes.

“Flora was a dear little thing, but extremely quick-tempered and deeply attached to me. When she heard about my marriage, she wrote me terrible letters. To tell the truth, that was why I arranged such a quiet wedding. I feared she might cause a scandal in the church.

“She came to Mr. Doran’s door just after we returned and tried to force her way inside. She said very insulting things about my wife and even threatened her. However, I had expected something of the kind. I had two policemen there in ordinary clothes, and they soon pushed her out. She became quiet when she saw that making trouble was useless.”

“Did your wife hear all this?”

“No, thank goodness, she did not.”

“And afterwards she was seen walking with this same woman?”

“Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade of Scotland Yard considers so serious. He thinks Flora tempted my wife outside and arranged some terrible trap for her.”

“Well, that is a possible explanation.”

“You think so too?”

“I did not say a likely one. But you do not think it likely yourself?”

“I do not think Flora would hurt a fly.”

“Still, jealousy can change people’s characters strangely. What is your own theory about what happened?”

“Well, really, I came to find a theory, not to offer one. I have given you all the facts. However, since you ask, one possibility has occurred to me. Perhaps the excitement disturbed my wife’s nerves a little. She knew that she had risen so far in society.”

“In short, she had suddenly lost her reason?”

“Well, really, consider what she has turned her back on. I will not say myself. But she has rejected so much that many others have tried and failed to obtain. I can hardly explain it any other way.”

“Certainly, that is another possible explanation,” said Holmes, smiling. “Now, Lord St. Simon, I think I have almost all my facts. Could you see out of the window from your place at the breakfast-table?”

“We could see the other side of the road and the Park.”

“Exactly. Then I need not keep you any longer. I shall contact you.”

“If you are fortunate enough to solve this problem,” our client said, rising.

“I have solved it.”

“What? What did you say?”

“I said that I have solved it.”

“Where, then, is my wife?”

“That is a detail which I shall supply very soon.”

Lord St. Simon shook his head. “I am afraid it will need wiser heads than yours or mine,” he said. He bowed in a grand, old-fashioned way and left.

“Lord St. Simon is very kind to honour my head by putting it level with his own,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “I think I shall have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all these questions. I had reached my conclusions about the case before our client came into the room.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“I have notes of several similar cases. But, as I said before, none of them happened quite so quickly. My questions only turned my guess into a certainty. Sometimes evidence that only points to something is very convincing. Thoreau gave the example of finding a trout in the milk.”

“But I have heard everything that you have heard.”

“Yes, but you do not know about the earlier cases, which help me so much. There was a similar case in Aberdeen some years ago. And something very much the same happened in Munich, the year after the Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these cases. But, hello, here is Lestrade! Good afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an extra glass on the sideboard, and there are cigars in the box.”

The official detective was wearing a short, thick sailor’s jacket and a cravat. They made him look very much like a seaman. He carried a black canvas bag in his hand. He greeted us briefly, sat down and lit the cigar that Holmes had offered him.

“What’s the matter, then?” asked Holmes, with a twinkle in his eye. “You look dissatisfied.”

“And I feel dissatisfied. It is this terrible St. Simon marriage case. I cannot understand the business at all.”

“Really! You surprise me.”

“Who ever heard of such a confused affair? Every clue seems to slip through my fingers. I have been working on it all day.”

“And it seems to have made you very wet,” said Holmes. He laid his hand on the arm of the sailor’s jacket.

“Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine.”

“In Heaven’s name, why?”

“I was searching for the body of Lady St. Simon.”

Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed loudly.

“Have you dragged the pool of the fountain in Trafalgar Square?” he asked.

“Why? What do you mean?”

“Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in one as in the other.”

Lestrade gave my companion an angry look. “I suppose you know all about it,” he said, in an unfriendly voice.

“Well, I have only just heard the facts, but I have made up my mind.”

“Oh, indeed! Then you think the Serpentine has nothing to do with the matter?”

“I think it is very unlikely.”

“Then perhaps you will kindly explain why we found this in it?”

As he spoke, he opened his bag. He tipped a wedding-dress onto the floor. It was made of watered silk. With it came a pair of white satin shoes and a bride’s wreath and veil. They had all lost their colour, and they were soaked in water.

“There,” he said. He put a new wedding-ring on top of the pile. “There is a little problem for you to solve, Master Holmes.”

“Oh, indeed!” said my friend, blowing blue rings of smoke into the air. “You dragged them from the Serpentine?”

“No. A park-keeper found them floating near the edge. People have recognized them as her clothes. And it seemed to me that if the clothes were there, the body would not be far away.”

“By the same brilliant reasoning, every man’s body can be found near his wardrobe. And please tell me, what did you hope to discover through this?”

“Some evidence that Flora Millar was involved in the disappearance.”

“I am afraid you will find that difficult.”

“Are you, indeed?” cried Lestrade, rather bitterly. “I am afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions and your theories. You have made two mistakes in two minutes. This dress does connect Miss Flora Millar with the crime.”

“And how?”

“In the dress there is a pocket. In the pocket there is a card-case. In the card-case there is a note. And here is the note itself.”

He slapped it down on the table in front of him.

“Listen to this: ‘You will see me when all is ready. Come at once. F. H. M.’ Now, my theory all along has been this. Flora Millar tricked Lady St. Simon into going away. Then she and, no doubt, some other people who helped her made her disappear. Here, signed with her initials, is the very note. No doubt it was quietly put into the lady’s hand at the door. It brought her to a place where they could catch her.”

“Very good, Lestrade,” said Holmes, laughing. “You really are very fine indeed. Let me see it.”

He picked up the paper without much interest. But suddenly his attention was fixed on it, and he gave a little cry of satisfaction.

“This is indeed important,” he said.

“Ha! You think so?”

“Extremely important. I congratulate you warmly.”

Lestrade stood up proudly and bent his head to look. “Why,” he cried in a high voice, “you’re looking at the wrong side!”

“On the contrary, this is the right side.”

“The right side? You’re mad! The note is written in pencil over here.”

“And over here is what seems to be a piece of a hotel bill. It interests me very much.”

“There’s nothing in it. I looked at it before,” said Lestrade. “‘Oct. 4th, rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2s. 6d., glass sherry, 8d.’ I see nothing in that.”

“Very probably not. It is most important, all the same. The note is important too, or at least the initials are. So I congratulate you again.”

“I’ve wasted enough time,” said Lestrade, standing up. “I believe in hard work, not in sitting by the fire inventing clever theories. Good day, Mr. Holmes. We shall see which of us gets to the bottom of the matter first.”

He gathered up the clothes, pushed them into the bag and went towards the door.

“Just one hint for you, Lestrade,” said Holmes slowly, before his rival disappeared. “I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St. Simon is a myth. There is no such person, and there never has been.”

Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me. He tapped his forehead three times, shook his head seriously and hurried away.

He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes stood up to put on his overcoat.

“There is some truth in what the fellow says about working outside,” he said. “So I think, Watson, that I must leave you with your newspapers for a little while.”

It was after five o’clock when Sherlock Holmes left me. But I had no time to feel lonely. Within an hour, a man from a shop that sold fine food arrived with a very large, flat box. He unpacked it with the help of a young man he had brought with him. Soon, to my very great astonishment, they began to lay out a small cold supper. It was fit for someone who loved fine food. They put it on the simple mahogany table of our rented rooms. There were four cold woodcock and a pheasant. There was a pie of pâté de foie gras, and a group of very old bottles covered in cobwebs. After they had laid out all these fine things, my two visitors disappeared, like the genies in the Arabian Nights. They gave no explanation. They said only that the things had been paid for and had been ordered to this address.

Just before nine o’clock, Sherlock Holmes walked quickly into the room. His face was serious, but there was a light in his eye. It made me think that his conclusions had not disappointed him.

“They have laid the supper, then,” he said, rubbing his hands.

“You seem to expect visitors. They have laid places for five.”

“Yes, I think some visitors may drop in,” he said. “I am surprised that Lord St. Simon has not arrived already. Ha! I think I hear his step on the stairs now.”

It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon. He came hurrying in, swinging his glasses more wildly than ever. His noble face looked very troubled.

“My messenger reached you, then?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, and I must admit that the message shocked me enormously. Have you good evidence for what you say?”

“The best possible.”

Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand over his forehead.

“What will the Duke say,” he said quietly, “when he hears that a member of the family has suffered such shame?”

“It is a pure accident. I cannot agree that there is any shame.”

“Ah, you look at these things from a different point of view.”

“I cannot see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly see how the lady could have acted differently. Of course, the sudden way she did it was certainly unfortunate. But she has no mother, so she had no one to advise her at such a difficult moment.”

“It was an insult, sir, a public insult,” said Lord St. Simon, tapping his fingers on the table.

“You must make allowances for this poor girl. Her position was so very unusual.”

“I will make no allowances. I am very angry indeed. I have been treated shamefully.”

“I think I heard the bell,” said Holmes. “Yes, there are footsteps on the landing. If I cannot persuade you to be kinder, Lord St. Simon, I have brought someone who may be more successful.”

He opened the door and showed in a lady and a gentleman.

“Lord St. Simon,” he said, “let me introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hay Moulton. I think you have already met the lady.”

When he saw these newcomers, our client had jumped up from his seat. He stood very straight, with his eyes looking down. He had pushed his hand into the front of his frock-coat. He was a picture of hurt pride. The lady had taken a quick step forward and held out her hand to him. But he still refused to raise his eyes. Perhaps that was just as well for his firm decision. Her face was begging him, and it was hard to resist.

“You’re angry, Robert,” she said. “Well, I guess you have every reason to be.”

“Please do not apologize to me,” said Lord St. Simon bitterly.

“Oh, yes, I know I’ve treated you real bad. I know I should have spoken to you before I went. But I was kind of shaken up. From the moment I saw Frank here again, I just didn’t know what I was doing or saying. I only wonder I didn’t fall down in a faint right there in front of the altar.”

“Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me to leave the room while you explain this matter?”

“If I may give an opinion,” said the strange gentleman, “we’ve had a little too much secrecy over this business already. For my part, I’d like all Europe and America to hear the truth of it.”

He was a small, thin but strong man, brown from the sun. He was clean-shaven, with a sharp face and a quick, alert manner.

“Then I’ll tell our story right away,” said the lady. “Frank here and I met in ’84, in McQuire’s camp, near the Rockies. Pa was working a claim there. Frank and I were engaged to each other. But then one day Pa found a rich pocket of gold and made a pile of money. Poor Frank’s claim got smaller and smaller and came to nothing. The richer Pa grew, the poorer Frank was. So at last Pa wouldn’t hear of our engagement lasting any longer. He took me away to ’Frisco.

“Frank wouldn’t give up, though. He followed me there, and he saw me without Pa knowing anything about it. It would only have made Pa mad to know. So we just arranged everything for ourselves. Frank said that he would go and make his pile too. He would never come back to claim me until he had as much as Pa. So then I promised to wait for him till the end of time. I promised not to marry anyone else while he lived.

“‘Why shouldn’t we get married right away, then?’ he said. ‘Then I’ll feel sure of you. And I won’t claim to be your husband until I come back.’

“Well, we talked it over. He had arranged it all so nicely, with a clergyman ready and waiting, that we just did it right there. And then Frank went off to look for his fortune, and I went back to Pa.

“The next thing I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana. Then he went looking for gold in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New Mexico. After that, there was a long newspaper story about a miners’ camp. Apache Indians had attacked it, and there was my Frank’s name among the dead. I fainted right away, and I was very sick for months after. Pa thought I was wasting away, and he took me to half the doctors in ’Frisco. Not a word of news came for more than a year. So I never doubted that Frank was really dead.

“Then Lord St. Simon came to ’Frisco, and we came to London. A marriage was arranged, and Pa was very pleased. But all the time I felt something. No man on this earth would ever take my poor Frank’s place in my heart.

“Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I’d have done my duty by him. We can’t control our love, but we can control our actions. I went to the altar with him, meaning to be as good a wife to him as I could. But you can imagine what I felt when I came to the altar rails. I looked back and saw Frank. He was standing in the first pew, looking at me.

“At first I thought it was his ghost. But when I looked again, he was still there. There was a kind of question in his eyes. He seemed to ask whether I was glad or sorry to see him. I wonder I didn’t fall down. I know that everything was turning round. The clergyman’s words were just like the buzz of a bee in my ear. I didn’t know what to do. Should I stop the service and make a scene in the church?

“I looked at him again, and he seemed to know what I was thinking. He raised his finger to his lips to tell me to keep quiet. Then I saw him write quickly on a piece of paper. I knew that he was writing me a note. As I passed his pew on the way out, I dropped my flowers over to him. He gave me back the flowers, and he slipped the note into my hand at the same time. It was only one line. It asked me to join him when he made a sign to me. Of course, I never doubted for a moment that my first duty was now to him. I decided to do exactly what he told me.

“When I got back, I told my maid. She had known him in California and had always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing. I told her to pack a few things and to get my ulster ready. I know I ought to have spoken to Lord St. Simon. But it was dreadful hard in front of his mother and all those great people. I just decided to run away and explain afterwards.

“I hadn’t been at the table ten minutes when I saw Frank through the window. He was on the other side of the road. He waved for me to come and then began walking into the Park. I slipped out, put on my things and followed him. Some woman came up and talked to me about something to do with Lord St. Simon. From the little I heard, he seemed to have a little secret of his own from before his marriage too. But I managed to get away from her, and I soon caught up with Frank.

“We got into a cab together and drove away to some rooms he had rented in Gordon Square. That was my true wedding, after all those years of waiting. Frank had been a prisoner of the Apaches, and he had escaped. He came to ’Frisco and found that I had believed him dead and gone to England. He followed me here. At last he found me on the very morning of my second wedding.”

“I saw it in a newspaper,” explained the American. “It gave the name and the church, but not where the lady lived.”

“Then we talked about what we should do,” the lady went on. “Frank wanted to be completely open. But I was so ashamed of it all. I felt I would like to disappear and never see any of them again. Perhaps I would just send a line to Pa, to show him that I was alive. It was awful for me to think of all those lords and ladies. They were sitting round that breakfast-table, waiting for me to come back.

“So Frank took my wedding-clothes and things and made a bundle of them. He did it so that no one could follow me. He dropped them somewhere where no one could find them. We would probably have gone on to Paris tomorrow. But this good gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to see us this evening. How he found us is more than I can imagine. He showed us very clearly and kindly that I was wrong and Frank was right. He said that we would be putting ourselves in the wrong if we stayed so secret. Then he offered to give us a chance to talk to Lord St. Simon alone. So we came round to his rooms right away. Now, Robert, you have heard it all. I am very sorry if I have hurt you. I hope you do not think too badly of me.”

Lord St. Simon had not relaxed his stiff position at all. He had listened to this long story with a frown on his forehead and his lips pressed tightly together.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but I am not in the habit of discussing my most private personal affairs in public like this.”

“Then you won’t forgive me? You won’t shake hands before I go?”

“Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure.”

He put out his hand and coldly took the hand that she held out to him.

“I had hoped,” said Holmes, “that you would join us for a friendly supper.”

“I think that you are asking a little too much there,” answered his Lordship. “I may have to accept these recent events. But I can hardly be expected to celebrate them. With your permission, I will now wish you all a very good night.”

He made one wide bow to all of us and marched proudly out of the room.

“Then I hope that you, at least, will honour me with your company,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It is always a joy to meet an American, Mr. Moulton. I am one of those who hold this belief. A foolish king and a careless minister made mistakes long ago. But those mistakes will not stop our children from becoming citizens of the same country one day. It will be a country that covers the world. Its flag will be the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes, joined together.”

“The case has been an interesting one,” Holmes said, when our visitors had left us. “It shows very clearly how simple the explanation of an affair can be. At first sight, it seemed almost impossible to explain. Nothing could be more natural than the events as this lady told them. And nothing could seem stranger than the result to someone like Mr. Lestrade of Scotland Yard.”

“So you were not wrong at all yourself?”

“From the first, two facts were very obvious to me. First, the lady had been quite willing to go through the wedding ceremony. Second, she had regretted it within a few minutes of returning home. So clearly something had happened during the morning to make her change her mind. What could that something be?

“She could not have spoken to anyone while she was out, because she had been with the bridegroom. Had she seen someone, then? If she had, it must be someone from America. She had spent so short a time in this country. She could hardly have let anyone gain such a strong influence over her here. It had to be strong enough for the mere sight of him to change her plans completely. So you see, by removing the other possibilities, we have already reached an idea. She might have seen an American.

“Then who could this American be? And why should he have so much influence over her? He might be a lover, or he might be a husband. I knew that she had spent her years as a young woman in rough places and under strange conditions. I had reached this point before I ever heard Lord St. Simon’s story.

“Then he told us about a man in a pew. He told us about the change in the bride’s manner. He described how she dropped her flowers, which was such an obvious trick for getting a note. He told us how she went to her trusted maid. And he told us her very important words about ‘jumping a claim’. In miners’ language, that means taking something that belongs to someone else first. Then the whole situation became completely clear. She had gone off with a man. The man was either a lover or an earlier husband. The second was more likely.”

“And how in the world did you find them?”

“It might have been difficult. But our friend Lestrade held some information in his hands, and he did not know its value. The initials were, of course, extremely important. But it was even more valuable to know something else. Within the last week, this man had paid his bill at one of the most exclusive hotels in London.”

“How did you work out that it was exclusive?”

“From the exclusive prices. Eight shillings for a bed and eight pence for a glass of sherry! Those prices pointed to one of the most expensive hotels. There are not many in London that charge so much. I visited a second one, in Northumberland Avenue. I looked at its book and learned that Francis H. Moulton, an American gentleman, had left only the day before. I looked through the list of things he had paid for. There I found the very same items that I had seen on the copy of the bill. His letters were to be sent on to 226 Gordon Square. So I went there.

“I was lucky enough to find the loving couple at home. I took the liberty of giving them some advice, like a father. I pointed out that it would be better in every way to make their position a little clearer. They should explain it to the public in general, and to Lord St. Simon in particular. I invited them to meet him here. And, as you see, I made him keep the appointment.”

“But the result was not very good,” I said. “His behaviour was certainly not very gracious.”

“Ah, Watson,” said Holmes, smiling, “perhaps you would not be very gracious either. Imagine all the trouble of courting a lady and marrying her. Then, in a moment, you lose both your wife and your fortune. I think we may judge Lord St. Simon very kindly. And we may thank our lucky stars that we are never likely to be in the same position. Pull your chair up and pass me my violin. The only problem we still have to solve is how to pass these cold, grey autumn evenings.”

### Glossary

- **crest**: a special picture used as the sign of a family.
- **monogram**: a design made from the first letters of a person’s names.
- **quill pen**: a pen made from a large bird’s feather.
- **dowry**: money or property a woman brings to her marriage.
- **locket**: a small case worn on a chain, often holding a picture.
- **miniature**: a very small, carefully painted picture.
- **ulster**: a long, loose overcoat.
- **pew**: a long seat in a church.
- **trout**: a kind of fish that lives in rivers and lakes.
- **dragging**: searching the bottom of a lake or river with nets or hooks.
- **watered silk**: silk with a pattern that looks like moving water.
- **wreath**: a ring of flowers or leaves.
- **myth**: something that people believe in but that is not real.
- **woodcock**: a wild bird that people hunt and eat.
- **pâté de foie gras**: an expensive food made from the liver of a goose or duck.
- **claim**: a piece of land where a miner has the right to dig for gold.
- **sherry**: a strong wine from Spain.

## The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet

“Holmes,” I said one morning, “a madman is coming along the street. It seems sad that his relatives let him go out alone.”

I was standing in our curved front window, looking down the street. My friend rose lazily from his armchair. He stood behind me, his hands in his dressing-gown pockets, and looked over my shoulder.

It was a bright, cold February morning. The previous day’s snow still lay deep on the ground, shining in the winter sun. Traffic had made a brown band of broken snow down the centre of Baker Street. But the snow at either side was still as white as when it fell. It lay in white piles along the edges of the footpaths. The grey pavement had been cleared and scraped, but it was still dangerously slippery. There were therefore fewer people than usual. Only one gentleman was coming from the direction of the Metropolitan Station. His strange behaviour had caught my attention.

He was about fifty, tall, rather fat, and impressive. He had a large face with strong features, and looked like a man used to giving orders. His clothes were dark but expensive. He wore a long black coat, a shining hat, and neat brown gaiters. His trousers were well cut and pale grey. Yet his actions looked ridiculous beside his grand clothes and serious face. He was running hard, with little jumps from time to time. These were the movements of a tired man whose legs were not used to exercise. As he ran, he threw his hands up and down. His head moved from side to side, and his face twisted into extraordinary shapes.

“What on earth can be wrong with him?” I asked. “He is looking up at the house numbers.”

“I believe he is coming here,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands.

“Here?”

“Yes. I rather think he wants my professional help. I believe I recognise the signs. Ah! Did I not tell you?”

As Holmes spoke, the man rushed to our door, breathing heavily. He pulled our bell until its loud ringing filled the house.

A few moments later he was in our room. He was still struggling for breath and moving his hands wildly. But his eyes showed such deep grief and hopelessness that our smiles immediately disappeared. Instead, we felt horror and pity.

For a while he could not speak. He rocked his body and pulled at his hair. He seemed close to losing his mind. Then he suddenly jumped up and beat his head against the wall. He struck it so hard that we both rushed forward. We pulled him away into the centre of the room. Sherlock Holmes pushed him into the comfortable chair and sat beside him. He gently patted the man’s hand and talked in his calm, comforting voice. He knew very well how to use it.

“You have come to tell me your story, haven’t you?” he said. “You are tired because you hurried. Please wait until you feel better. Then I shall gladly examine whatever problem you bring me.”

For a minute or more, the man’s chest rose and fell heavily. He struggled to control his feelings. Then he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, pressed his lips together, and turned towards us.

“No doubt you think I am mad?” he said.

“I see that you have suffered some great trouble,” Holmes replied.

“God knows I have! It came so suddenly, and is so terrible, that it could drive me mad. I might have faced public disgrace, although my good name has never suffered before. Every man must also expect trouble in his private life. But these two troubles have come together in such a terrible form. They have shaken me to the depths of my heart. And I am not the only person concerned. The noblest people in the country may suffer unless we find a way out of this dreadful business.”

“Please calm yourself, sir,” said Holmes. “Tell me clearly who you are, and what has happened to you.”

“My name,” our visitor answered, “is probably familiar to you. I am Alexander Holder, of the bank Holder & Stevenson, in Threadneedle Street.”

We certainly knew the name. He was the senior partner in the second-largest private bank in the City of London. What could have brought such an important London citizen to this terrible state? We waited with great curiosity. With another effort, he prepared himself to tell his story.

“I feel that time is valuable,” he said. “That is why I hurried here. The police inspector suggested that I should get your help. I came to Baker Street by the Underground, then ran here. Cabs move slowly through this snow. That is why I was so short of breath. I take very little exercise. I feel better now. I shall give you the facts as briefly and clearly as I can.

“You know, of course, what makes a bank successful. We must increase our business connections and the number of people who keep money with us. But we must also invest our money profitably. Loans are among our most profitable investments, when we have completely reliable security. We have done a great deal of this business during the last few years. Many noble families have borrowed large sums from us. They have offered their pictures, libraries, or valuable silver objects as security.

“Yesterday morning I was sitting in my office at the bank. One of the clerks brought me a visitor’s card. I jumped when I saw the name. It belonged to none other than—well, perhaps I should not tell even you. I shall only say that the name is known everywhere in the world. It is one of the highest and noblest names in England. I felt deeply honoured. When he entered, I tried to tell him so. But he immediately began discussing his business. He seemed eager to finish an unpleasant task as quickly as possible.

“‘Mr. Holder,’ he said, ‘I understand that you lend money.’

“‘The firm does, when the security is good,’ I answered.

“‘I absolutely must have £50,000 at once,’ he said. ‘Of course, my friends would lend me ten times that small amount. But I much prefer a business arrangement, and I wish to manage it myself. You can understand that a man in my position should avoid owing personal favours.’

“‘How long would you need this sum?’ I asked.

“‘I shall receive a large payment next Monday. Then I shall certainly repay your loan, with whatever interest you consider right. But it is essential that I receive the money immediately.’

“‘I would gladly lend it from my own money without further discussion,’ I said. ‘Unfortunately, the sum is rather more than I could manage. If the firm lends it, I must consider my partner. Even in your case, I must insist on taking every proper business precaution.’

“‘I would much prefer that,’ he said.

“He lifted a square black morocco case, which he had placed beside his chair.

“‘You have no doubt heard of the Beryl Coronet?’

“‘One of the most valuable public possessions of the empire,’ I said.

“‘Exactly.’

“He opened the case. The magnificent piece of jewellery lay inside, set in soft pink velvet.

“‘There are thirty-nine enormous beryls,’ he said. ‘And it is impossible to calculate the value of the decorated gold work. Even the lowest estimate values the coronet at twice the sum I have requested. I am prepared to leave it with you as security.’

“I took the precious case in my hands. Feeling uncertain, I looked from it to my famous client.

“‘Do you doubt its value?’ he asked.

“‘Not at all. I only doubt—’

“‘Whether I ought to leave it here. You need not worry about that. I would never consider doing so unless I was completely sure I could reclaim it in four days. This is only a formal business arrangement. Is the security sufficient?’

“‘More than sufficient.’

“‘You understand, Mr. Holder, that this shows my great confidence in you. It is based on everything I have heard about you. I trust you to keep this business private and say nothing about it. Above all, you must take every possible precaution to protect the coronet. You understand that any harm to it would cause a great public scandal. Damage would be almost as serious as losing it completely. There are no matching beryls anywhere in the world. Replacing them would be impossible. However, I leave it with you in complete confidence. I shall collect it myself on Monday morning.’

“I saw that my client was eager to leave, so I said nothing more. I called my cashier and ordered him to pay fifty £1,000 notes. Then I was alone again, with the precious case on the table before me. I began to think anxiously about the enormous responsibility I had accepted. It was national property. Any misfortune would certainly cause a terrible scandal. I already regretted agreeing to look after it. However, it was too late to change the arrangement. I locked it in my private safe and returned to work.

“When evening came, I felt it would be foolish to leave such a valuable object at the office. Bank safes had been broken open before. Why should mine be any different? What a terrible position I would be in if that happened! I decided to carry the case home and back with me for the next few days. In this way, it would never really be beyond my reach. I called a cab and drove to my house at Streatham, carrying the jewel with me. I could not relax until I had taken it upstairs. I locked it inside the bureau in my dressing-room.

“Now I must describe my household, Mr. Holmes. I want you to understand the situation completely. My groom and my page sleep outside the house. We need not consider them at all. I have three maids who have worked for me for several years. I trust them completely, and there can be no suspicion of them. Another servant, Lucy Parr, is the second waiting-maid. She has only been with me a few months. However, she came with an excellent reference, and her work has always pleased me. She is very pretty and has attracted several young men. They have sometimes waited about near the house. This is the only fault we have found with her. We believe she is a thoroughly good girl in every other way.

“That is all about the servants. My family is so small that I can describe it quickly. My wife is dead, and I have only one son, Arthur. He has disappointed me, Mr. Holmes—disappointed me terribly. No doubt I am to blame myself. People say I have spoiled him, and very likely I have. When my dear wife died, I felt he was the only person left for me to love. I could not bear to see his smile disappear, even for a moment. I never refused him anything he wanted. Perhaps greater strictness would have been better for both of us. But I was trying to do what was best.

“Naturally, I intended him to take my place in the bank. But he had no gift for business. He was wild and difficult to control. To tell the truth, I could not trust him with large sums of money. As a young man, he joined a club for members of the highest social classes. His charming manners soon made him close friends among men with plenty of money and expensive habits. He began making large bets at cards and wasting money on horse races. Again and again he begged me for money to pay his gambling debts. He wanted part of his future allowance in advance. More than once he tried to leave this dangerous group of friends. But each time his friend, Sir George Burnwell, influenced him to return.

“I cannot really be surprised that Sir George Burnwell gained such power over him. Arthur has often brought him to my house. I have found it difficult myself to resist his charm. He is older than Arthur and has a great deal of experience of life. He has been everywhere and seen everything. He is a brilliant speaker and an extremely handsome man. Yet I think differently when he is absent and I am free of his charm. His bitter remarks, and certain looks I have noticed in his eyes, convince me that he cannot be trusted. That is my opinion. My little Mary agrees. She has a woman’s quick understanding of people’s characters.

“Mary is the only person I have not yet described. She is my niece. My brother died five years ago and left her completely alone in the world. I adopted her, and since then I have thought of her as my daughter. She brings sunshine into my house. She is sweet, loving, and beautiful. She manages the house wonderfully, yet she is as gentle, quiet, and kind as any woman could be. I depend on her for everything. I do not know what I would do without her. Only in one matter has she ever opposed my wishes. My boy has asked her to marry him twice. He loves her deeply, but each time she has refused. I think that if anyone could have helped him live a better life, it was Mary. Their marriage might have changed his whole life. But now, sadly, it is too late—too late for ever!

“Now, Mr. Holmes, you know everyone who lives in my house. I shall continue my unhappy story.

“That evening, after dinner, we were having coffee in the drawing-room. I told Arthur and Mary what had happened. I described the precious treasure in our house, but did not name my client. Lucy Parr had brought the coffee. I am sure she had left the room, but I cannot swear the door was closed. Mary and Arthur were very interested and wanted to see the famous coronet. However, I thought it better to leave it where it was.

“‘Where have you put it?’ Arthur asked.

“‘In my own bureau.’

“‘Well, I certainly hope nobody breaks into the house tonight,’ he said.

“‘It is locked away,’ I answered.

“‘Oh, any old key will open that bureau. When I was a boy, I opened it myself with the key to the storage cupboard.’

“He often spoke in this careless way, so I thought little of it. However, that night he followed me to my room. His face was very serious.

“‘Look here, dad,’ he said, with his eyes lowered. ‘Can you let me have £200?’

“‘No, I cannot!’ I answered sharply. ‘I have been far too generous with money.’

“‘You have been very kind,’ he said. ‘But I must have this money. Otherwise, I can never enter the club again.’

“‘And that would be a very good thing!’ I cried.

“‘Yes, but you would not want me to leave with my honour ruined,’ he said. ‘I could not bear the disgrace. I must find the money somehow. If you will not give it to me, I must try other ways.’

“I was very angry. This was his third request that month.

“‘You shall not have a single farthing from me!’ I cried.

“He bowed and left the room without another word.

“After he had gone, I unlocked my bureau. I checked that my treasure was safe, then locked it again. Next I went round the house to make sure everything was secure. I usually leave this duty to Mary. But that night I thought I should do it myself. As I came downstairs, I saw Mary at the side window in the hall. She closed and fastened it as I approached.

“‘Tell me, dad,’ she said, ‘did you give Lucy permission to go out tonight?’

“I thought she looked a little worried.

“‘Certainly not.’

“‘She has just come in through the back door. No doubt she only went to the side gate to meet someone. But I do not think it is safe. It should be stopped.’

“‘You must speak to her in the morning. Or I shall, if you prefer. Are you sure everything is fastened?’

“‘Quite sure, dad.’

“‘Then good night.’

“I kissed her and went back upstairs to my bedroom. I was soon asleep.

“I am trying to tell you everything that might concern the case, Mr. Holmes. But please question me about anything I have not made clear.”

“On the contrary, your account is unusually clear.”

“I particularly want this next part of my story to be clear. I am not a heavy sleeper. No doubt my anxiety made me sleep even more lightly than usual. At about two in the morning, a noise in the house woke me. It stopped before I was completely awake. But I had the impression that someone had gently closed a window. I lay there, listening as carefully as I could. Suddenly, to my horror, I clearly heard soft footsteps in the next room. I got out of bed, my heart beating quickly with fear. I looked round the edge of my dressing-room door.

“‘Arthur!’ I screamed. ‘You wicked boy! You thief! How dare you touch that coronet?’

“The gaslight was turned halfway up, as I had left it. My unhappy boy stood beside it, wearing only his shirt and trousers. He was holding the coronet. He seemed to be twisting or bending it with all his strength. When I cried out, he dropped it and turned deathly pale. I picked it up quickly and examined it. One gold corner was missing, with three of the beryls in it.

“‘You wicked fellow!’ I shouted, completely overcome by anger. ‘You have destroyed it! You have ruined my good name for ever! Where are the jewels you have stolen?’

“‘Stolen!’ he cried.

“‘Yes, thief!’ I shouted, shaking him by the shoulder.

“‘None are missing. There cannot be any missing,’ he said.

“‘Three are missing. And you know where they are. Must I call you a liar as well as a thief? Didn’t I see you trying to tear off another piece?’

“‘You have insulted me enough,’ he said. ‘I will not accept it any longer. Since you have chosen to insult me, I shall say nothing more about this business. I shall leave your house in the morning and make my own living.’

“‘You shall leave in police custody!’ I cried.

“Grief and anger had almost driven me mad.

“‘I shall have this matter investigated completely.’

“‘You shall learn nothing from me,’ he said.

“He spoke with a fierce anger I would never have expected from him.

“‘If you choose to call the police, let them discover whatever they can.’

“By then, everyone in the house was awake. I had raised my voice so much in my anger. Mary was the first to run into my room. She saw the coronet and Arthur’s face, and understood the whole story. With a scream, she fell unconscious to the floor. I sent the housemaid to fetch the police and immediately gave them control of the investigation. An inspector and a constable arrived. Until then, Arthur had stood with his arms folded, looking dark and silent. Now he asked if I intended to accuse him of theft. I answered that it was no longer a private matter. The damaged coronet was national property, so this was now a public matter. I was determined that the law should take its proper course.

“‘At least,’ he said, ‘you will not have me arrested immediately. It would help you as well as me if I could leave the house for five minutes.’

“‘So that you can escape, or perhaps hide what you have stolen,’ I said.

“Then I realised the terrible position I was in. I begged him to remember whose honour was in danger. It was not only mine, but that of someone far greater than me. He was threatening to cause a scandal that would shake the whole nation. He could prevent everything by telling me what he had done with the three missing stones.

“‘You might as well face the facts,’ I said. ‘You were caught doing it. Admitting it cannot make your crime any worse. But you can still help to repair the damage. Tell us where the beryls are, and everything will be forgiven and forgotten.’

“‘Keep your forgiveness for people who ask for it,’ he answered.

“He turned away with a look of bitter disrespect. I saw that his feelings had become too hard for any words of mine to reach him. There was only one thing to do. I called in the inspector and handed Arthur over to him. They immediately searched Arthur, his room, and every possible hiding place in the house. They could find no sign of the gems. Neither our appeals nor our threats made the unhappy boy speak. This morning they took him to a cell. After completing all the police business, I hurried here. I beg you to use your skill to solve this mystery. The police openly admit that, at present, they cannot understand it. You may spend whatever you think necessary. I have already offered a reward of £1,000. My God, what shall I do? I have lost my honour, my gems, and my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do?”

He put a hand on each side of his head and rocked backwards and forwards. He made a low, repeated sound. He was like a child whose grief had become too great for words.

Sherlock Holmes sat silently for a few minutes. His forehead was drawn into worried lines, and his eyes were fixed on the fire.

“Do you have many visitors?” he asked.

“Only my partner and his family, and an occasional friend of Arthur’s. Sir George Burnwell has visited several times recently. I think there has been nobody else.”

“Do you often go to social events?”

“Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. Neither of us enjoys them.”

“That is unusual for a young girl.”

“She has a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very young. She is twenty-four.”

“From what you say, this business seems to have shocked her too.”

“Terribly! It has affected her even more than me.”

“Neither of you doubts your son’s guilt?”

“How could we? I saw him with my own eyes, holding the coronet.”

“I would hardly consider that certain proof. Was the rest of the coronet damaged?”

“Yes, it was twisted.”

“Then might he not have been trying to straighten it?”

“God bless you! You are doing what you can for him and me. But the task is too difficult. Why was he there at all? If he had an innocent purpose, why didn’t he say so?”

“Exactly. And if he was guilty, why didn’t he invent a lie? His silence seems to support either view. There are several strange points about the case. What did the police think about the noise that woke you?”

“They thought Arthur might have made it when he closed his bedroom door.”

“A likely story! As if a man planning a crime would slam his door and wake the whole house! What did they say about the missing gems?”

“They are still tapping the floorboards and searching deep inside the furniture, hoping to find them.”

“Have they thought of looking outside?”

“Yes. They have worked extremely hard. They have already examined the whole garden very carefully.”

“Now, my dear sir,” said Holmes, “isn’t it clear that this business goes much deeper than you first thought? Neither you nor the police recognised that at first. You thought it was a simple case. To me it seems extremely complicated. Consider what your explanation means. You suppose your son left his bed and took a great risk by entering your dressing-room. He opened the bureau, took the coronet, and used great force to break off a small piece. Then he went somewhere else and hid three of the thirty-nine gems. He hid them so cleverly that nobody can find them. Next he returned with the other thirty-six to the room where he was most likely to be discovered. I ask you, does that explanation really make sense?”

“But what other explanation is there?” the banker cried, throwing up his hands hopelessly. “If his reasons were innocent, why doesn’t he explain them?”

“Our task is to discover that,” Holmes replied. “Now, Mr. Holder, let us go to Streatham together, if you please. We shall spend an hour examining the details more closely.”

My friend insisted that I should come with them. I was very eager to do so. The story had filled me with curiosity and deep sympathy. I admit that Arthur’s guilt seemed as obvious to me as to his unhappy father. But I trusted Holmes’s judgment greatly. While he doubted the usual explanation, I felt there must be some reason for hope.

He hardly spoke during our journey to the southern suburb. He sat with his chin on his chest and his hat pulled over his eyes, deep in thought. Our client seemed encouraged by the little hope Holmes had offered. He even began a wandering conversation with me about his banking business. A short train journey and an even shorter walk brought us to Fairbank. This was the great banker’s modest home.

Fairbank was a large square house of white stone, standing a little way back from the road. In front, two curved carriage drives crossed a snow-covered lawn. They led down to two large iron gates at the entrance. On the right stood a small group of trees. From there, a narrow path ran between two neat hedges, from the road to the kitchen door. Tradesmen used this entrance. On the left, a lane led to the stables. It was outside the grounds, a public road, although few people used it.

Holmes left us at the door and slowly walked all round the house. He crossed the front, followed the tradesmen’s path, and went round through the back garden to the stable lane. He stayed away so long that Mr. Holder and I entered the dining-room. We waited beside the fire for his return.

We were sitting silently when the door opened and a young lady entered. She was a little taller than average and slim, with dark hair and eyes. Her eyes seemed even darker against her completely pale skin. I do not think I have ever seen such deathly paleness in a woman’s face. Her lips had no colour either, but her eyes were red from crying. She moved silently into the room. Her grief struck me even more strongly than the banker’s had that morning. It was especially striking because she clearly had a strong character and great control over herself. Ignoring my presence, she went straight to her uncle. She passed her hand over his head with a sweet, gentle touch.

“You have given orders for Arthur to be set free, haven’t you, dad?” she asked.

“No, no, my girl. We must examine this matter to the very bottom.”

“But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know what a woman’s instincts are like. I know that he has done no harm. You will be sorry that you acted so harshly.”

“Then why is he silent, if he is innocent?”

“Who knows? Perhaps because he was so angry that you suspected him.”

“How could I not suspect him? I actually saw him with the coronet in his hand.”

“Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at it. Oh, please, please believe me that he is innocent. Let the matter drop and say no more. It is so dreadful to think of our dear Arthur in prison!”

“I shall never let it drop until the gems are found—never, Mary! Your love for Arthur stops you from seeing the awful results for me. I am not trying to keep the matter quiet. In fact, I have brought a gentleman down from London to investigate it more deeply.”

“This gentleman?” she asked, turning round to face me.

“No, his friend. He wanted us to leave him alone. He is round in the stable lane now.”

“The stable lane?” She raised her dark eyebrows. “What can he hope to find there? Ah! I suppose this is he. I hope, sir, that you will succeed in proving the truth. I feel sure that my cousin Arthur is innocent of this crime.”

“I fully share your opinion,” Holmes answered. “And like you, I hope that we may prove it.” He went back to the mat to knock the snow from his shoes. “I believe I have the honour of speaking to Miss Mary Holder. May I ask you a question or two?”

“Please do, sir, if it may help to clear up this horrible business.”

“You heard nothing yourself last night?”

“Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak loudly. I heard that, and I came down.”

“You shut the windows and doors the night before. Did you fasten all the windows?”

“Yes.”

“Were they all fastened this morning?”

“Yes.”

“You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think you told your uncle last night that she had been out to see him?”

“Yes. And she was the girl who served us in the drawing-room. She may have heard my uncle’s remarks about the coronet.”

“I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell her sweetheart. And you think that the two of them may have planned the robbery.”

“But what is the use of all these vague theories?” the banker cried impatiently. “I have told you that I saw Arthur with the coronet in his hands!”

“Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that. About this girl, Miss Holder. I suppose you saw her return by the kitchen door?”

“Yes. I went to see if the door was fastened for the night, and I met her slipping in. I saw the man too, in the half-darkness.”

“Do you know him?”

“Oh, yes! He is the greengrocer who brings our vegetables to the house. His name is Francis Prosper.”

“He stood to the left of the door,” said Holmes. “That is to say, farther up the path than he needed to go to reach the door?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And he is a man with a wooden leg?”

Something like fear jumped into the young lady’s expressive black eyes. “Why, you are like a magician,” she said. “How do you know that?” She smiled, but there was no answering smile on Holmes’s thin, eager face.

“I should be very glad to go upstairs now,” he said. “I shall probably want to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps I had better look at the lower windows before I go up.”

He walked quickly round from one window to the next. He stopped only at the large one which looked from the hall onto the stable lane. He opened this one and examined the sill very carefully with his powerful magnifying lens. “Now we shall go upstairs,” he said at last.

The banker’s dressing-room was a small, plainly furnished room. It had a grey carpet, a large bureau and a long mirror. Holmes went to the bureau first and looked hard at the lock.

“Which key was used to open it?” he asked.

“The one my son himself mentioned—the key to the storage cupboard.”

“Have you got it here?”

“That is it, on the dressing-table.”

Sherlock Holmes picked it up and opened the bureau.

“It is a silent lock,” he said. “No wonder it did not wake you. I suppose this case contains the coronet. We must have a look at it.” He opened the case, took out the crown and laid it on the table. It was a magnificent example of the jeweller’s art. The thirty-six stones were the finest that I have ever seen. At one side of the coronet there was a cracked edge. A corner holding three gems had been torn away there.

“Now, Mr. Holder,” said Holmes, “here is the corner that matches the one which has been so unfortunately lost. Would you please break it off?”

The banker stepped back in horror. “I would not dream of trying,” he said.

“Then I will.” Holmes suddenly used all his strength on it, but without result. “I feel it bend a little,” he said. “I am exceptionally strong in the fingers. But even so, it would take all my strength to break it. An ordinary man could not do it. Now, what do you think would happen if I did break it, Mr. Holder? There would be a noise like a pistol shot. Are you telling me that all this happened a few yards from your bed, and you heard nothing?”

“I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me.”

“But perhaps it will grow lighter as we go on. What do you think, Miss Holder?”

“I admit that I still share my uncle’s confusion.”

“Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you saw him?”

“He wore nothing except his trousers and shirt.”

“Thank you. We have certainly had extraordinary luck during this investigation. It will be entirely our own fault if we do not clear the matter up. With your permission, Mr. Holder, I shall now continue my investigations outside.”

He went alone, at his own request. He explained that any unnecessary footprints might make his task more difficult. He worked for an hour or more. At last he returned with his feet heavy with snow. His face showed his thoughts as little as ever.

“I think I have now seen everything there is to see, Mr. Holder,” he said. “I can serve you best by returning to my rooms.”

“But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?”

“I cannot tell.”

The banker twisted his hands together. “I shall never see them again!” he cried. “And my son? Do you give me hope?”

“My opinion has not changed at all.”

“Then, for God’s sake, what was this dark business that happened in my house last night?”

“Call on me at my Baker Street rooms tomorrow morning, between nine and ten. Then I shall be happy to do what I can to make it clearer. I understand that you give me complete freedom to act for you. The only condition is that I get back the gems. And you place no limit on the money I may spend.”

“I would give my fortune to have them back.”

“Very good. I shall look into the matter between now and then. Goodbye. It is just possible that I may have to come here again before evening.”

It was obvious to me that my companion had now made up his mind about the case. But I could not even dimly imagine what his conclusions were. Several times on our journey home I tried to find out his opinion. But he always slid away to some other subject. At last I gave up in despair.

It was not yet three o’clock when we were back in our rooms. He hurried to his bedroom. A few minutes later he came down again, dressed as a common loafer. His collar was turned up, and he wore a shiny, shabby coat, a red cravat and worn boots. He looked exactly like a man of that class.

“I think this should do,” he said, glancing into the mirror above the fireplace. “I only wish you could come with me, Watson. But I fear that it won’t do. I may be on the right trail in this matter. Or I may be chasing a false light that leads nowhere. But I shall soon know which it is. I hope to be back in a few hours.”

He cut a slice of beef from the joint of meat on the sideboard. He put it between two pieces of bread and pushed this rough meal into his pocket. Then he set off on his expedition.

I had just finished my tea when he returned. He was clearly in excellent spirits, and he was swinging an old elastic-sided boot in his hand. He threw it into a corner and helped himself to a cup of tea.

“I have only stopped in as I passed,” he said. “I am going straight on.”

“Where to?”

“Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be some time before I get back. Don’t wait up for me in case I am late.”

“How are you getting on?”

“Oh, so-so. Nothing to complain of. I have been out to Streatham since I last saw you, but I did not call at the house. It is a very sweet little problem. I would not have missed it for a great deal. However, I must not sit here chatting. I must get these disreputable clothes off and return to my highly respectable self.”

I could see from his manner that he was more satisfied than his words suggested. His eyes were shining, and there was even a touch of colour in his pale, yellowish cheeks. He hurried upstairs. A few minutes later I heard the slam of the hall door. It told me that he had gone out once more on the hunt that he enjoyed so much.

I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so I went to my room. He often stayed away for days and nights when he was following a fresh trail. So his lateness did not surprise me. I do not know at what hour he came in. But when I came down to breakfast in the morning, there he was. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and the newspaper in the other. He looked as fresh and neat as possible.

“Please excuse me for starting without you, Watson,” he said. “But you remember that our client has a rather early appointment this morning.”

“Why, it is after nine now,” I answered. “I would not be surprised if that were he. I thought I heard the bell.”

It was indeed our friend the banker. I was shocked by the change in him. His face was naturally broad and heavy, but now it was thin and sunken. His hair seemed to me at least a little whiter. He came in so tired and slow that it was even more painful to see than his wildness the morning before. He dropped heavily into the armchair which I pushed forward for him.

“I do not know what I have done to deserve such hard trials,” he said. “Only two days ago I was a happy and rich man, without a care in the world. Now I face a lonely old age without honour. One sorrow follows close behind another. My niece, Mary, has deserted me.”

“Deserted you?”

“Yes. This morning her bed had not been slept in. Her room was empty, and a note for me lay on the hall table. Last night I said something to her in sorrow, not in anger. I said that if she had married my boy, all might have been well with him. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to say so. She refers to that remark in this note:

“‘MY DEAREST UNCLE,—I feel that I have brought trouble upon you. If I had acted differently, this terrible misfortune might never have happened. With this thought in my mind, I can never again be happy under your roof. I feel that I must leave you for ever. Do not worry about my future, for that is provided for. And above all, do not search for me. It will be useless work, and it will do me harm. In life or in death, I am always your loving

“‘MARY.’

“What could she mean by that note, Mr. Holmes? Do you think it means suicide?”

“No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the best possible solution. I hope, Mr. Holder, that you are coming to the end of your troubles.”

“Ha! You say so! You have heard something, Mr. Holmes. You have learned something! Where are the gems?”

“Would you think £1,000 each too high a price for them?”

“I would pay ten thousand each.”

“That would not be necessary. Three thousand will cover the matter. And there is a little reward, I think. Have you got your cheque-book? Here is a pen. Better write it for £4,000.”

With a dazed face, the banker wrote the cheque. Holmes walked over to his desk. He took out a small triangular piece of gold with three gems in it, and threw it down on the table.

With a cry of joy, our client seized it.

“You have it!” he gasped. “I am saved! I am saved!”

His joy was as passionate as his grief had been. He held his recovered gems tightly against his chest.

“There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder,” said Sherlock Holmes, rather sternly.

“Owe!” He picked up a pen. “Name the sum, and I will pay it.”

“No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble apology to that noble boy, your son. He has behaved in this matter as I would be proud to see my own son behave, if I ever happen to have one.”

“Then it was not Arthur who took them?”

“I told you yesterday, and I repeat today, that it was not.”

“You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at once and tell him that the truth is known.”

“He knows it already. When I had cleared it all up, I went to see him. He would not tell me the story, so I told it to him. Then he had to admit that I was right. He added the very few details that were not yet quite clear to me. But your news this morning may make him speak.”

“For Heaven’s sake, then, tell me what this extraordinary mystery is!”

“I will. And I will show you the steps by which I reached the answer. But first let me say the thing that is hardest for me to say and for you to hear. There has been a secret understanding between Sir George Burnwell and your niece Mary. They have now run away together.”

“My Mary? Impossible!”

“Unfortunately it is more than possible. It is certain. Neither you nor your son knew this man’s true character when you welcomed him into your family. He is one of the most dangerous men in England. He is a ruined gambler, a completely desperate villain, a man without heart or conscience. Your niece knew nothing of such men. He whispered his promises of love to her, as he had done to a hundred women before her. And she proudly believed that she alone had touched his heart. The devil knows best what he said. But at least she became his tool. She was in the habit of seeing him nearly every evening.”

“I cannot, and I will not, believe it!” cried the banker. His face was grey as ash.

“Then I will tell you what happened in your house last night. Your niece thought that you had gone to your room. Then she slipped downstairs. She talked to her lover through the window that looks onto the stable lane. He had stood there so long that his footprints had pressed right through the snow. She told him about the coronet. The news set his wicked greed for gold on fire, and he bent her to his will. I have no doubt that she loved you. But there are women in whom the love of a lover puts out all other loves. I think she must have been one of them. She had hardly listened to his instructions when she saw you coming downstairs. So she closed the window quickly. Then she told you about one of the servants’ secret adventure with her wooden-legged lover. That story was all perfectly true.

“Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his talk with you. But he slept badly because he was worried about his club debts. In the middle of the night he heard soft footsteps pass his door. So he got up and looked out. He was surprised to see his cousin walking very secretly along the passage. She disappeared into your dressing-room. Frozen with astonishment, the boy pulled on some clothes. He waited there in the dark to see what would come of this strange business. Soon she came out of the room again. In the light of the passage lamp, your son saw that she was carrying the precious coronet in her hands. She went down the stairs. Shaking with horror, he ran along and slipped behind the curtain near your door. From there he could see what happened in the hall below. He saw her secretly open the window and hand the coronet out to someone in the darkness. Then she closed the window again and hurried back to her room. She passed quite close to the place where he stood hidden behind the curtain.

“While she was there, he could do nothing without terribly exposing the woman he loved. But the moment she was gone, he realised what a crushing misfortune this would be for you. He saw how important it was to set it right. He rushed down just as he was, in his bare feet. He opened the window, jumped out into the snow and ran down the lane. There he could see a dark figure in the moonlight. Sir George Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur caught him. There was a struggle between them. Your boy pulled at one side of the coronet, and his opponent pulled at the other. During the fight, your son hit Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then something suddenly snapped. Your son found that he had the coronet in his hands. He rushed back, closed the window and went up to your room. He had just noticed that the coronet had been twisted in the struggle. He was trying to straighten it when you appeared.”

“Is it possible?” gasped the banker.

“Then you made him angry by calling him names. And this was at a moment when he felt that he had earned your warmest thanks. He could not explain the true situation without betraying her. Certainly she deserved very little kindness from him. But he took the more noble view and kept her secret.”

“And that was why she screamed and fainted when she saw the coronet,” cried Mr. Holder. “Oh, my God! What a blind fool I have been! And he asked to be allowed to go out for five minutes! The dear boy wanted to see if the missing piece was at the place of the struggle. How cruelly I have misjudged him!”

“When I arrived at the house,” Holmes continued, “I immediately went very carefully round it. I wanted to see if there were any marks in the snow that might help me. I knew that no snow had fallen since the evening before. I also knew that there had been a hard frost, which would preserve the prints. I went along the tradesmen’s path, but found it all trodden down. Nothing could be made out there. Just beyond it, however, on the far side of the kitchen door, a woman had stood and talked with a man. On one side his prints were round, which showed that he had a wooden leg. I could even tell that the two of them had been disturbed. The woman had run back quickly to the door, because her prints were deep at the toe and light at the heel. But Wooden-leg had waited a little, and then he had gone away. I thought at the time that this might be the maid and her sweetheart. You had already told me about them, and my questions showed that this was so. I went round the garden. I saw nothing there except random tracks, which I took to be the police’s. But when I got into the stable lane, a very long and complicated story was written in the snow in front of me.

“There was a double line of tracks of a man in boots. And there was a second double line which, to my delight, belonged to a man with bare feet. From what you had told me, I was at once sure that the second man was your son. The first man had walked both ways. But the other had run fast. In places his footprints were on top of the boot prints, so clearly he had passed after the other man. I followed them and found that they led to the hall window. There Boots had worn away all the snow while he was waiting. Then I walked to the other end, which was a hundred yards or more down the lane. I saw where Boots had turned round. I saw where the snow was broken up as if there had been a struggle. And finally I saw where a few drops of blood had fallen, which showed me that I was not mistaken. Boots had then run down the lane. Another little mark of blood showed that it was he who had been hurt. At the other end he came to the main road. There I found that the pavement had been cleared, so that was the end of that clue.

“But when I entered the house, I examined the sill and frame of the hall window with my lens, as you remember. I could see at once that someone had gone out through it. I could make out the shape of an instep, where a wet foot had been placed on the way back in. Now I was beginning to form an opinion about what had happened. A man had waited outside the window. Someone had brought him the gems. Your son had watched this happen. He had chased the thief and struggled with him. Each of them had pulled at the coronet. Together their strength had caused damage which neither of them could have done alone. Your son had returned with the prize, but had left a piece in his opponent’s hand. So far everything was clear to me. The question now was this: who was the man, and who had brought him the coronet?

“It is an old rule of mine. When you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth, however improbable. Now, I knew that you had not brought it down. So only your niece and the maids remained. But if it were the maids, why would your son let himself be accused instead of them? There could be no possible reason. But he loved his cousin. That was an excellent reason for him to keep her secret, especially as it was a shameful one. Then I remembered that you had seen her at that window. I remembered how she had fainted when she saw the coronet again. At that point my guess became a certainty.

“And who could her partner in the crime be? A lover, clearly. Who else could be more important to her than the love and gratitude that she must feel for you? I knew that you went out little. I knew that your circle of friends was very small. But Sir George Burnwell was among them. I had heard of him before, as a man with a bad reputation among women. It must have been he who wore those boots and kept the missing gems. He knew that Arthur had discovered him. Even so, he might still believe that he was safe. The boy could not say a word without bringing shame on his own family.

“Well, your own good sense will tell you what I did next. I went to Sir George’s house, dressed as a loafer. I managed to make friends with his valet. I learned that his master had cut his head the night before. Finally, for six shillings, I made everything certain. I bought a pair of his old shoes that he had thrown away. I took them down to Streatham and saw that they fitted the tracks exactly.”

“I saw a badly dressed tramp in the lane yesterday evening,” said Mr. Holder.

“Exactly. It was I. I found that I had my man, so I came home and changed my clothes. Then I had a delicate part to play. I saw that we must avoid a prosecution, to prevent a scandal. And I knew that such a clever villain would see that our hands were tied. I went and saw him. At first, of course, he denied everything. But I told him every detail of what had happened. Then he tried to frighten me, and he took down a life-preserver from the wall. But I knew my man, and I put a pistol to his head before he could strike. After that he became a little more reasonable. I told him that we would pay him a price for the stones he had—£1,000 each. That brought out the first signs of sorrow that he had shown. ‘Why, dash it all!’ he said. ‘I’ve let them go at six hundred for the three!’ I promised him that there would be no prosecution. In return, I soon managed to get the address of the receiver who had them. I went off to the receiver. After a lot of bargaining, I got our stones at £1,000 each. Then I visited your son and told him that all was well. At last I got to bed at about two o’clock, after what I may call a really hard day’s work.”

“A day which has saved England from a great public scandal,” said the banker, standing up. “Sir, I cannot find words to thank you. But you will not find me ungrateful for what you have done. Your skill is even greater than everything I have heard about it. And now I must hurry to my dear boy and apologise to him for the wrong I have done him. As for what you tell me about poor Mary, it goes to my very heart. Not even your skill can tell me where she is now.”

“I think we may safely say,” replied Holmes, “that she is wherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain that, whatever her sins are, they will soon receive more than enough punishment.”

### Glossary

- **gaiters**: coverings worn over the ankles and lower legs.
- **security**: valuable property kept to protect someone who lends money.
- **morocco**: a soft, fine kind of leather.
- **coronet**: a small crown worn by an important person.
- **beryls**: valuable stones used in jewellery.
- **bureau**: a writing desk or cabinet with drawers.
- **farthing**: an old British coin worth a quarter of a penny.
- **custody**: the state of being held by the police.
- **sweetheart**: a boyfriend or girlfriend.
- **greengrocer**: a person who sells fruit and vegetables.
- **sill**: the flat shelf at the bottom of a window.
- **loafer**: a lazy man with no work who stands around in the streets.
- **cravat**: a wide piece of cloth worn round a man’s neck.
- **elastic-sided boot**: a boot with stretchy material at the sides instead of laces.
- **instep**: the curved top and middle part of the foot.
- **valet**: a man’s personal servant who looks after his clothes.
- **prosecution**: taking someone to court for a crime.
- **life-preserver**: a short, heavy stick used as a weapon.
- **receiver**: a person who knowingly buys stolen goods.

## The Adventure of the Copper Beeches

Sherlock Holmes threw aside the advertisement pages of The Daily Telegraph.

“A man who loves an art for itself often finds his greatest pleasure in its smallest examples,” he said. “I am pleased to see that you understand this, Watson. You have kindly written these short accounts of our cases. Sometimes, I must say, you have added a little to them. But you have not chiefly chosen my famous cases and exciting trials. Instead, you have chosen events which might seem unimportant. These have allowed me to show my special skills. I mean drawing conclusions from facts and joining separate facts through clear reasoning.”

“And yet,” I said, smiling, “people have accused my accounts of being too exciting. I cannot feel completely innocent.”

“Perhaps your mistake has been to put colour and life into every statement,” he observed. “You should simply record the strict steps of reasoning from cause to result. That is really the only remarkable thing about these matters.”

As he spoke, he picked up a glowing coal with the fire tongs. He used it to light his long cherry-wood pipe. He usually chose this instead of his clay pipe when he wanted an argument, rather than quiet thought.

“I think I have given your work all the credit it deserves,” I answered rather coldly.

My friend’s pride in himself annoyed me. More than once, I had noticed this strong feature of his unusual character.

“No, it is not selfishness or pride,” he said.

As usual, he answered my thoughts rather than my words.

“I ask for full credit for my art because it is separate from me. It is something beyond myself. Crime is common. Logic is rare. So you should give more attention to the logic than the crime. You have turned what should be a course of lessons into a collection of stories.”

It was a cold morning in early spring. After breakfast, we sat on opposite sides of a cheerful fire in our old Baker Street room. Thick fog rolled between the rows of dull brown houses. Across the street, the windows looked like dark, shapeless marks through the heavy yellow clouds.

Our gas lamps were lit. Their light fell on the white tablecloth and the shining china and metal. The breakfast table had not been cleared. Holmes had been silent all morning. He had searched the advertisement pages in one newspaper after another. At last, he seemed to abandon his search. In a bad temper, he began explaining the faults in my writing.

For a while, he smoked his long pipe and stared into the fire. Then he spoke again.

“At the same time, the charge of making things too exciting is hardly fair. Several cases you have kindly chosen do not concern crimes under the law at all. There was the small matter in which I tried to help the King of Bohemia. There was Miss Mary Sutherland’s strange experience, and the problem of the man with the twisted lip. The affair of the noble bachelor also lay outside the law. But by avoiding exciting crimes, you may have chosen matters that are too unimportant.”

“The results may have been unimportant,” I answered. “But I believe the methods were new and interesting.”

“Oh, my dear fellow! What does the public care about the finer points of examining facts and drawing conclusions? Most people notice so little. They could hardly recognize a cloth worker by his tooth, or a printer by his left thumb. Still, if your subjects are unimportant, I cannot blame you. The days of great cases are past. Men have lost all their energy and new ideas. At least, criminals have. My own business seems to be becoming an agency for finding lost pencils. I also give advice to young ladies from boarding-schools. But I think I have finally reached the lowest point. This morning’s note must mark it. Read it!”

He threw a crumpled letter across to me. It had been written at Montague Place the previous evening.

“DEAR MR. HOLMES,—I am very anxious to ask your advice about a position offered to me as a governess. Should I accept it or not? I shall call at half-past ten tomorrow, if that is convenient for you. Yours faithfully,

“VIOLET HUNTER.”

“Do you know the young lady?” I asked.

“No.”

“It is half-past ten now.”

“Yes, and I have no doubt that she is ringing the bell.”

“It may prove more interesting than you expect. Remember the blue carbuncle affair. At first, it seemed nothing more than a strange little request. But it became a serious investigation. This case may do the same.”

“Well, let us hope so. We shall soon have an answer. Unless I am greatly mistaken, here is the lady herself.”

As he spoke, the door opened, and a young lady entered. Her clothes were plain but neat. She had a bright, lively face, covered with little brown spots like a plover’s egg. Her quick, confident manner suggested a woman who had needed to earn her own living.

“I hope you will excuse my troubling you,” she said, as Holmes rose to greet her. “But I have had a very strange experience. I have no parents or relatives of any kind to advise me. I thought you might kindly tell me what to do.”

“Please sit down, Miss Hunter. I shall gladly do anything I can to help.”

I could see that Holmes liked his new client’s manner and speech. He studied her carefully. Then he settled down to listen, with his eyelids lowered and his fingertips together.

“I worked as a governess for five years,” she began. “I was with the family of Colonel Spence Munro. But two months ago, the colonel received a post at Halifax, in Nova Scotia. He took his children to America, so I lost my position. I placed advertisements and answered others, but without success. At last, my small savings began to disappear. I could not think what to do.

“There is a well-known agency for governesses in the West End called Westaway’s. I visited about once a week to ask about suitable positions. Westaway founded the business, but Miss Stoper actually runs it. She sits in a little office. The ladies looking for work wait in another room. They go in one at a time. She looks through her record books to see whether she has a suitable place.

“Last week, I was shown into her office as usual. But Miss Stoper was not alone. A very fat man sat beside her. He had a smiling face and a great heavy chin. It hung in fold after fold over his throat. He wore glasses and watched each lady very closely. When I entered, he jumped in his chair. He turned quickly to Miss Stoper.

“‘That will do,’ he said. ‘I could not ask for anything better. Excellent! Excellent!’

“He seemed delighted and rubbed his hands together in a most friendly way. He looked so comfortable and pleasant that it was a pleasure to see him.

“‘You are looking for a position, miss?’ he asked.

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘As a governess?’

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘And what pay do you ask?’

“‘In my last position with Colonel Spence Munro, I received £4 a month.’

“‘Oh, dear, dear! That is shameful treatment of a worker!’ he cried.

“He threw his fat hands into the air, as if he were terribly angry.

“‘How could anyone offer such miserable pay to a lady with your attractions and skills?’

“‘My skills may be fewer than you imagine, sir,’ I said. ‘A little French, a little German, music, and drawing—’

“‘No, no!’ he cried. ‘That is not the question at all. Do you have the appearance and manners of a lady? That is the whole matter. Without them, you cannot raise a child who may someday play an important part in this country’s history. But if you have them, how could a gentleman offer you less than a hundred pounds? Your pay with me, madam, would begin at £100 a year.’

“You can imagine, Mr. Holmes, how this sounded to me. I had almost no money. The offer seemed almost too good to be true. Perhaps the gentleman saw my doubtful expression. He opened his pocket-book and took out a banknote.

“‘I also have a custom,’ he said, smiling most pleasantly. ‘I pay my young ladies half their wages before they begin. That allows them to meet any small expenses for their journey and their clothes.’

“His smile made his eyes into two shining narrow lines among the white folds of his face. I thought I had never met such a charming, thoughtful man. I already owed money to shopkeepers, so an advance would be very useful. Yet there was something unnatural about the whole business. I wanted to know more before agreeing.

“‘May I ask where you live, sir?’ I said.

“‘Hampshire. A charming place in the country. The Copper Beeches, five miles beyond Winchester. It is lovely country, my dear young lady, with the dearest old country-house.’

“‘And what would my duties be, sir? I should like to know.’

“‘One child. One dear little fellow, full of energy, just six years old. Oh, you should see him killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack! Smack! Smack! Three dead before you could blink!’

“He leaned back in his chair and laughed until his eyes almost disappeared again. The child’s choice of amusement surprised me a little. But his father’s laughter made me think he might be joking.

“‘Then my only duty would be to look after one child?’ I asked.

“‘No, no, not your only duty, my dear young lady,’ he cried. ‘Your good sense will surely tell you to obey any small requests from my wife. Naturally, they would always be requests that a lady could properly obey. You see no difficulty there?’

“‘I should be glad to make myself useful.’

“‘Exactly. Now, take clothes, for example. We have little strange wishes, you know, but we are kind-hearted. Suppose we asked you to wear a dress we gave you. You would not object to pleasing us?’

“‘No,’ I said, very surprised by his words.

“‘Or suppose we asked you to sit here, or sit there. That would not upset you?’

“‘Oh, no.’

“‘Or to cut your hair quite short before coming to us?’

“I could hardly believe my ears. As you can see, Mr. Holmes, I have a great deal of hair. It is an unusual shade of chestnut. People have admired its beauty. I could not imagine cutting it off so carelessly.

“‘I am afraid that is quite impossible,’ I said.

“He had been watching me eagerly with his small eyes. As I spoke, I saw his face darken.

“‘I am afraid it is quite necessary,’ he said. ‘It is a little wish of my wife’s. Ladies’ wishes must be considered, madam, you know. So you will not cut your hair?’

“‘No, sir, I really could not,’ I answered firmly.

“‘Ah, very well. That settles the matter. What a pity! You would have suited us very well in other ways. In that case, Miss Stoper, I had better see a few more of your young ladies.’

“All this time, the manager had been busy with her papers. She had not spoken to either of us. Now she looked at me with great annoyance. I could not help suspecting that my refusal had cost her a large commission.

“‘Do you want your name kept in our books?’ she asked.

“‘Yes, please, Miss Stoper.’

“‘Really, that seems rather useless when you refuse excellent offers like this,’ she said sharply. ‘You can hardly expect us to work hard to find another such opportunity. Good day, Miss Hunter.’

“She struck a gong on the table, and the young page showed me out.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, I returned to my rooms. There was almost nothing in my cupboard, and two or three bills lay on the table. I began to wonder whether I had been very foolish. These people had strange wishes and expected obedience in extraordinary matters. But at least they were willing to pay for their strange behaviour. Very few governesses in England earn £100 a year. Besides, what use was my hair to me? Short hair improves many people’s appearance. Perhaps I would be one of them.

“The next day, I began to think I had made a mistake. By the following day, I was certain. I had almost swallowed my pride enough to return to the agency. I meant to ask whether the position was still open. Then I received a letter from the gentleman himself. I have it here, and I will read it to you.

“‘The Copper Beeches, near Winchester.

“‘DEAR MISS HUNTER,—Miss Stoper has kindly given me your address. I am writing to ask whether you have changed your decision. My wife is very anxious for you to come. My description of you has pleased her greatly. We are willing to pay £30 every three months, or £120 a year. This will make up for any small trouble caused by our unusual wishes.

“‘After all, they are not very demanding. My wife likes a particular shade of bright electric blue. She would like you to wear a dress that colour indoors during the morning. However, you need not buy one. We have one belonging to my dear daughter Alice, who is now in Philadelphia. I think it would fit you very well.

“‘Sitting here or there, or amusing yourself in some way we suggest, should cause you no trouble. Your hair is certainly a pity. I noticed its beauty during our short meeting. But I am afraid I cannot change my decision about it. I only hope the higher pay will make up for its loss. Your duties with the child will be very light.

“‘Do try to come. I shall meet you at Winchester with the dog-cart. Let me know which train you will take. Yours faithfully,

“‘JEPHRO RUCASTLE.’

“That is the letter I have just received, Mr. Holmes. I have decided to accept. But before taking the final step, I wanted you to consider the whole matter.”

“Well, Miss Hunter, if you have decided, that settles the question,” said Holmes, smiling.

“But you would not advise me to refuse?”

“I must admit, I should not like a sister of mine to seek this position.”

“What does it all mean, Mr. Holmes?”

“Ah, I have no facts to guide me. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have formed an opinion yourself?”

“I can only see one possible explanation. Mr. Rucastle seemed very kind and good-natured. Could his wife be mad? Perhaps he wants to keep it secret because he fears she might be sent to an asylum. He may agree to all her wishes to prevent a violent attack.”

“That is possible. In fact, with what we know, it is the most likely explanation. But whatever the truth, it does not sound like a pleasant home for a young lady.”

“But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!”

“Yes, of course, the pay is good. Too good. That is what worries me. Why offer you £120 a year when they could choose anyone they wanted for £40? There must be a powerful reason.”

“I thought that knowing the circumstances would help you understand if I needed help later. I would feel much stronger knowing you supported me.”

“You can certainly leave here feeling that. Your little problem promises to be my most interesting one for several months. Some parts of it are quite new. If you find yourself uncertain or in danger—”

“Danger! What danger do you expect?”

Holmes shook his head seriously.

“If we could clearly describe it, it would no longer be dangerous,” he said. “But at any hour, day or night, a telegram will bring me to help you.”

“That is enough.”

She rose quickly from her chair. All the worry had left her face.

“Now I shall go to Hampshire without fear. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle immediately. I shall cut off my poor hair tonight and leave for Winchester tomorrow.”

She thanked Holmes warmly, wished us both good night, and hurried away.

We heard her quick, firm steps on the stairs.

“At least she seems very capable of looking after herself,” I said.

“And she will need to be,” Holmes answered seriously. “I shall be very surprised if we do not hear from her within a few days.”

Before long, my friend’s prediction came true. Two weeks passed. During them, I often found myself thinking about her. I wondered what strange, hidden corner of human life this lonely woman had entered. The unusual pay, strange conditions, and light duties all suggested something abnormal. But I could not tell whether it was a harmless fancy or a plot. Was the man generous and good, or a villain? I had no way to decide.

I often noticed Holmes sitting with a troubled forehead and a distant look for half an hour at a time. But whenever I mentioned the matter, he waved it away.

“Facts! Facts! Facts!” he cried impatiently. “I cannot make bricks without clay.”

Yet he always ended by muttering that no sister of his should ever have accepted such a position.

The telegram finally arrived late one night. I was thinking about bed. Holmes was preparing for one of his frequent nights of chemical research. Often, I left him bent over a glass vessel and a test-tube at night. At breakfast, I would find him in exactly the same position.

He opened the yellow envelope. After glancing at the message, he threw it across to me.

“Look up the trains in Bradshaw,” he said, and returned to his chemicals.

The message was short and urgent.

“Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday tomorrow. Do come! I do not know what to do.

“HUNTER.”

“Will you come with me?” Holmes asked, looking up.

“I should like to.”

“Look it up, then.”

“There is a train at half-past nine,” I said, studying my Bradshaw. “It is due at Winchester at 11:30.”

“That will suit us very well. Perhaps I should leave my study of acetones until later. We may need to be at our best tomorrow morning.”

By eleven the following day, we were well on our way to the old English capital. Holmes had read the morning newspapers throughout the journey. But after we crossed into Hampshire, he threw them down and admired the scenery.

It was a perfect spring day. Small, soft white clouds drifted from west to east across a pale blue sky. The sun shone brightly. Yet a pleasant sharpness in the air made us feel full of energy. Across the countryside, little red and grey farmhouse roofs appeared among the light green new leaves. The view stretched as far as the rolling hills around Aldershot.

“Are they not fresh and beautiful?” I cried.

I felt all the delight of a man newly free from Baker Street’s fogs. But Holmes shook his head seriously.

“Do you know, Watson, my kind of mind has a particular disadvantage? I have to look at everything through my own special subject. You see those scattered houses and admire their beauty. I see how lonely they are. I think how easily people could commit crimes there without punishment.”

“Good heavens!” I cried. “Who would connect crime with those lovely old farmhouses?”

“They always fill me with a certain horror. My experience has led me to a belief, Watson. London’s worst and dirtiest streets have no more dreadful record of evil than the smiling, beautiful countryside.”

“You horrify me!”

“But the reason is obvious. In towns, the opinions of neighbours can achieve what the law cannot. Even in the worst street, a tortured child’s scream will awaken pity and anger. So will the sound of a drunken man’s blow. And the whole system of justice is close at hand. A single complaint can put it to work. A crime can quickly lead to a courtroom.

“But look at these lonely houses, each among its own fields. Mostly, poor people live there with little education or knowledge of the law. Think what terrible cruelty may continue in such places. Hidden evil may go on year after year, without anyone knowing. If this lady had gone to live in Winchester, I should never have feared for her. The five miles of countryside create the danger. Still, clearly she is not personally threatened.”

“No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us, she can escape.”

“Exactly. She has her freedom.”

“What can be wrong, then? Can you suggest no explanation?”

“I have thought of seven separate explanations. Each would explain all the facts we know. But only fresh information can show us which is correct. No doubt that information is waiting for us. Well, there is the cathedral tower. Soon we shall hear everything Miss Hunter has to tell us.”

The Black Swan is a respected inn in the High Street, not far from the station. We found the young lady waiting there. She had hired a sitting-room, and lunch was ready on the table.

“I am so pleased you have come,” she said with feeling. “It is very kind of you both. I really do not know what to do. Your advice will be more valuable than I can say.”

“Please tell us what has happened.”

“I will, and I must be quick. I promised Mr. Rucastle to return before three. He allowed me to come into town this morning. But he had no idea why I wanted to come.”

“Let us hear everything in its proper order.”

Holmes stretched his long, thin legs towards the fire and settled down to listen.

“First, I should say that Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle have not actually treated me badly. It is only fair to tell you that. But I cannot understand them, and they make me uneasy.”

“What do you not understand?”

“The reasons for their behaviour. But I shall tell you everything exactly as it happened. When I arrived, Mr. Rucastle met me here. He drove me to the Copper Beeches in his dog-cart. As he said, its surroundings are beautiful. But the house itself is not. It is a large, square building with whitewashed walls. Damp and bad weather have left stains and lines all over them.

“Land surrounds it, with woods on three sides. On the fourth side, a field slopes down towards the Southampton high road. The road curves past about a hundred yards from the front door. The land in front belongs to the house. But all the surrounding woods are part of Lord Southerton’s private hunting grounds. A group of copper beeches stands immediately outside the hall door. They have given the house its name.

“My employer was as friendly as ever during the drive. That evening, he introduced me to his wife and child. Our idea in your Baker Street rooms was wrong, Mr. Holmes. Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. She is a quiet woman with a pale face, much younger than her husband. I think she is no more than thirty, while he must be at least forty-five.

“From their conversation, I understand that they have been married about seven years. He was a widower. The daughter who has gone to Philadelphia was his only child by his first wife. Mr. Rucastle spoke to me privately about her departure. He said she had taken an unreasonable dislike to her stepmother. The daughter cannot have been younger than twenty. I can imagine that life with her father’s young wife must have felt uncomfortable.

“Mrs. Rucastle’s character seemed as lacking in colour as her face. She made neither a good nor a bad impression on me. She seemed to have no importance of her own. But she clearly loved both her husband and her little son deeply. Her light grey eyes moved continually between them. She noticed their smallest needs and tried to meet them before they could ask.

“He was kind to her too, in his rough, noisy way. On the whole, they seemed a happy couple. Yet this woman had some secret sorrow. She often became lost in thought, with the saddest expression. More than once, I have found her crying. Sometimes I thought her child’s character troubled her.

“I have never met such a spoiled, bad-tempered little creature. He is small for his age, with a head much too large for his body. He seems to spend his whole life between violent fits of anger and dark, silent bad moods. His only pleasure seems to be hurting creatures weaker than himself. He is remarkably clever at planning traps for mice, small birds, and insects. But I would rather not speak about him, Mr. Holmes. He really has little connection with my story.”

“I welcome every detail,” my friend said. “It does not matter whether you think it is connected or not.”

“I shall try not to leave out anything important. One unpleasant thing about the house struck me immediately. It was the servants’ appearance and behaviour. There are only two, a man and his wife. The man’s name is Toller. He is rough and rude, with grey in his hair and whiskers. He always smells of drink. Twice since I arrived, he has been completely drunk. Yet Mr. Rucastle seemed not to notice.

“His wife is very tall and strong, with a sour face. She is as silent as Mrs. Rucastle, and much less pleasant. They are a most unpleasant couple. Fortunately, I spend most of my time in the nursery and my own room. These rooms are beside each other in one corner of the building.

“For two days after my arrival at the Copper Beeches, my life was very quiet. On the third day, Mrs. Rucastle came down just after breakfast and whispered something to her husband.

“‘Oh, yes,’ he said, turning to me. ‘We are very grateful to you, Miss Hunter, for agreeing to our little wishes and cutting your hair. I promise you that it has not spoiled your appearance in the very smallest way. Now we shall see how the electric-blue dress suits you. You will find it laid out on the bed in your room. If you would be so kind as to put it on, we should both be extremely grateful.’

“The dress which I found waiting for me was of a strange shade of blue. It was of excellent material, a sort of beige. But it clearly showed signs that it had been worn before. It could not have fitted better if I had been measured for it. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were delighted with the way it looked. Their delight seemed much too strong.

“They were waiting for me in the drawing-room. This is a very large room which stretches along the whole front of the house. It has three long windows which reach down to the floor. A chair had been placed close to the central window, with its back towards it. They asked me to sit in this chair. Then Mr. Rucastle walked up and down on the other side of the room. He began to tell me a series of the funniest stories that I have ever heard. You cannot imagine how comical he was. I laughed until I was quite tired. Mrs. Rucastle, however, clearly has no sense of humour. She never even smiled. She sat with her hands in her lap and a sad, anxious look on her face. After an hour or so, Mr. Rucastle suddenly remarked that it was time to begin the duties of the day. He said that I might change my dress and go to little Edward in the nursery.

“Two days later, the same performance took place in exactly the same way. Again I changed my dress, again I sat in the window, and again I laughed very heartily. My employer knew an enormous number of funny stories, and he told them better than anyone. Then he handed me a novel with a yellow cover. He moved my chair a little sideways, so that my own shadow would not fall on the page. Then he asked me to read aloud to him. I read for about ten minutes, starting in the middle of a chapter. Then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he ordered me to stop and change my dress.

“You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious I became. What could this extraordinary performance possibly mean? I noticed that they were always very careful to turn my face away from the window. So I was filled with a desire to see what was happening behind my back. At first it seemed impossible, but I soon thought of a way. My hand-mirror had been broken. A happy idea came to me, and I hid a piece of the glass in my handkerchief.

“The next time, in the middle of my laughter, I put my handkerchief up to my eyes. With a little care, I was able to see everything behind me. I admit that I was disappointed. There was nothing. At least, that was my first impression. But when I looked a second time, I saw a man standing in the Southampton Road. He was a small man with a beard, in a grey suit. He seemed to be looking in my direction. The road is an important highway, and there are usually people on it. But this man was leaning against the railings around our field, and he was looking up very seriously.

“I lowered my handkerchief and glanced at Mrs. Rucastle. Her eyes were fixed on me with a most searching look. She said nothing. But I am sure that she had guessed what I was doing. She knew that I had a mirror in my hand and had seen what was behind me. She stood up at once.

“‘Jephro,’ she said, ‘there is a rude fellow on the road there who is staring up at Miss Hunter.’

“‘No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?’ he asked.

“‘No, I know nobody in this area.’

“‘Dear me! How very rude! Please turn round and make a sign to him to go away.’

“‘Surely it would be better to take no notice of him.’

“‘No, no. Then he would always be hanging about here. Please turn round and wave him away, like that.’

“I did as I was told. At the same moment, Mrs. Rucastle pulled down the blind. That was a week ago. Since then I have not sat in the window again, or worn the blue dress, or seen the man in the road.”

“Please continue,” said Holmes. “Your story promises to be a most interesting one.”

“I am afraid you will find it rather disconnected. There may be little connection between the different events that I describe. On my very first day at the Copper Beeches, Mr. Rucastle took me to a small outbuilding near the kitchen door. As we came near it, I heard the sharp rattle of a chain. I also heard a sound like a large animal moving about.

“‘Look in here!’ said Mr. Rucastle. He showed me a narrow opening between two boards. ‘Isn’t he a beauty?’

“I looked through. I saw two glowing eyes, and the unclear shape of something lying curled up in the darkness.

“‘Don’t be frightened,’ said my employer. He laughed at the way I had jumped. ‘It’s only Carlo, my mastiff. I call him mine, but really old Toller, my groom, is the only man who can control him. We feed him once a day, and not much even then. So he is always fierce and eager. Toller lets him loose every night. And God help any stranger he gets his teeth into! For goodness’ sake, never step outside the house at night for any reason. It would cost you your life.’

“The warning was a serious one. Two nights later, I happened to look out of my bedroom window at about two o’clock in the morning. It was a beautiful moonlit night. The lawn in front of the house was silver, and almost as bright as day. I was standing there, lost in the peaceful beauty of the scene. Then I noticed that something was moving in the shadow of the copper beeches. As it came out into the moonlight, I saw what it was. It was a giant dog, as large as a calf. It was a yellowish-brown colour, with loose hanging cheeks, a black nose and mouth, and huge bones that stood out. It walked slowly across the lawn and disappeared into the shadow on the other side. That dreadful guard sent a chill to my heart. I do not think that any burglar could have frightened me so much.

“And now I have a very strange experience to tell you. As you know, I had cut off my hair in London. I had put it in a great coil at the bottom of my trunk. One evening, after the child was in bed, I began to amuse myself by examining the furniture of my room. I also began to rearrange my own little things. There was an old chest of drawers in the room. The two upper drawers were empty and open, and the lower one was locked. I had filled the first two with my linen. I still had a lot to put away, so naturally I was annoyed that I could not use the third drawer.

“I thought that perhaps it had been locked by mistake. So I took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. The very first key fitted perfectly, and I pulled the drawer open. There was only one thing in it. I am sure that you would never guess what it was. It was my coil of hair.

“I picked it up and examined it. It was the same unusual colour, and the same thickness. But then I realised that this was impossible. How could my hair have been locked in the drawer? With shaking hands I opened my trunk and turned out everything in it. From the bottom I took out my own hair. I laid the two coils of hair together. I promise you that they were exactly the same. Wasn’t it extraordinary? However hard I thought about it, I could not understand what it meant. I put the strange hair back in the drawer. I said nothing about it to the Rucastles. I felt that I had done wrong by opening a drawer which they had locked.

“As you may have noticed, Mr. Holmes, I naturally observe things carefully. Soon I had a fairly good plan of the whole house in my head. But there was one wing which seemed to be empty. A door led into these rooms. It was opposite the door to the Tollers’ rooms, and it was always locked.

“One day, however, as I was going up the stairs, I met Mr. Rucastle coming out through this door. His keys were in his hand. And there was a look on his face that made him a very different person from the round, cheerful man I knew. His cheeks were red, and his forehead was all lined with anger. The veins stood out at the sides of his head because of his strong feeling. He locked the door and hurried past me without a word or a look.

“This made me curious. So when I went out for a walk in the grounds with the child, I went round to the side where I could see the windows of this part of the house. There were four windows in a row. Three of them were simply dirty, but the fourth had its shutters closed. They clearly were all empty rooms. I walked up and down, glancing at them now and then. Then Mr. Rucastle came out to me, looking as merry and cheerful as ever.

“‘Ah!’ he said. ‘You must not think me rude because I passed you without a word, my dear young lady. My mind was busy with business matters.’

“I told him that I was not offended. ‘By the way,’ I said, ‘you seem to have quite a set of spare rooms up there. And one of them has the shutters closed.’

“He looked surprised. It seemed to me that my remark had given him a little shock.

“‘Photography is one of my hobbies,’ he said. ‘I have made my dark room up there. But dear me! What an observant young lady we have found! Who would have believed it? Who would ever have believed it?’

“He spoke in a joking voice. But there was no joke in his eyes as he looked at me. I saw suspicion and annoyance there, but no joke.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, I now understood that there was something about those rooms which I was not supposed to know. From that moment, I burned with the desire to go through them. It was not just curiosity, although I have my share of that. It was more a feeling of duty. I felt that some good might come from my getting into this place. People talk of a woman’s instinct. Perhaps it was a woman’s instinct that gave me that feeling. In any case, the feeling was there. I watched carefully for any chance to go through the forbidden door.

“The chance came only yesterday. I should tell you that Toller and his wife also have things to do in these empty rooms, as well as Mr. Rucastle. Once I saw Toller carrying a large black linen bag through the door. Recently he has been drinking heavily. Yesterday evening he was very drunk. When I came upstairs, the key was in the door. I have no doubt at all that he had left it there. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were both downstairs, and the child was with them. So I had an excellent opportunity. I turned the key gently in the lock, opened the door and slipped through.

“In front of me was a little passage. It had no paper on the walls and no carpet on the floor. At the far end it turned at a right angle. Round this corner were three doors in a line. The first and the third were open. Each led into an empty room, dusty and cheerless. One room had two windows, and the other had one. The windows were so thick with dirt that the evening light shone only faintly through them.

“The middle door was closed. Across the outside of it, someone had fastened one of the wide bars of an iron bed. At one end the bar was padlocked to a ring in the wall. At the other end it was tied with strong cord. The door itself was locked as well, and the key was not there. This blocked door clearly matched the window with the closed shutters outside. And yet I could see by the faint light under the door that the room was not dark. Clearly there was a skylight which let in light from above.

“I stood in the passage, staring at the sinister door. I wondered what secret it might hide. Suddenly I heard footsteps inside the room. I saw a shadow pass backwards and forwards across the narrow line of dim light under the door. At this sight a mad, senseless terror rose up in me, Mr. Holmes. My nerves were already strained too far, and they suddenly failed me. I turned and ran. I ran as if some dreadful hand were behind me, grabbing at the skirt of my dress. I rushed down the passage and through the door. And I ran straight into the arms of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting outside.

“‘So,’ he said, smiling, ‘it was you, then. I thought it must be, when I saw the door open.’

“‘Oh, I am so frightened!’ I said, breathing hard.

“‘My dear young lady! My dear young lady!’ You cannot imagine how gentle and soothing his manner was. ‘And what has frightened you, my dear young lady?’

“But his voice was just a little too sweet. He did it too much. I was very much on my guard against him.

“‘I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,’ I answered. ‘But it is so lonely and strange in this dim light that I was frightened. So I ran out again. Oh, it is so dreadfully silent in there!’

“‘Only that?’ he said, looking at me sharply.

“‘Why, what did you think?’ I asked.

“‘Why do you think I lock this door?’

“‘I really do not know.’

“‘It is to keep out people who have no business there. Do you see?’ He was still smiling in the friendliest way.

“‘I am sure that if I had known—’

“‘Well, then, you know now. And if you ever step over that doorway again—’ Here, in an instant, his smile hardened into a grin of rage. He glared down at me with the face of a devil. ‘—I’ll throw you to the mastiff.’

“I was so terrified that I do not know what I did. I suppose I must have rushed past him into my room. I remember nothing until I found myself lying on my bed, shaking all over. Then I thought of you, Mr. Holmes. I could not live there any longer without some advice. I was frightened of the house, of the man, of the woman, of the servants, even of the child. They were all horrible to me. If only I could bring you down, all would be well.

“Of course, I could have run away from the house. But my curiosity was almost as strong as my fears. I soon made up my mind. I would send you a telegram. I put on my hat and cloak and went down to the office. It is about half a mile from the house. Then I returned, feeling much calmer. As I came near the door, a horrible doubt came into my mind. Perhaps the dog was loose! But I remembered that Toller had drunk himself senseless that evening. And I knew that he was the only person in the household who had any control over the savage creature. He was also the only one who would dare to set it free. I slipped in safely. I lay awake half the night, full of joy at the thought of seeing you.

“I had no difficulty in getting permission to come into Winchester this morning. But I must be back before three o’clock. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle are going on a visit and will be away all evening, so I must look after the child. Now I have told you all my adventures, Mr. Holmes. I should be very glad if you could tell me what it all means. And above all, please tell me what I should do.”

Holmes and I had listened to this extraordinary story as if under a spell. Now my friend stood up and walked up and down the room. His hands were in his pockets, and his face was extremely serious.

“Is Toller still drunk?” he asked.

“Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do nothing with him.”

“That is good. And the Rucastles are going out tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?”

“Yes, the wine-cellar.”

“It seems to me that you have acted like a very brave and sensible girl all through this matter, Miss Hunter. Do you think you could do one more difficult thing? I would not ask it of you if I did not think you a quite exceptional woman.”

“I will try. What is it?”

“My friend and I will be at the Copper Beeches by seven o’clock. The Rucastles will be gone by that time. And Toller, we hope, will be unable to do anything. That leaves only Mrs. Toller, who might raise the alarm. Could you send her into the cellar on some errand, and then lock her in? That would make things very much easier.”

“I will do it.”

“Excellent! Then we shall look thoroughly into the matter. Of course, there is only one possible explanation. You have been brought there to pretend to be somebody else. And the real person is imprisoned in this room. That is obvious. As to who this prisoner is, I have no doubt. It is the daughter, Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember rightly. She was said to have gone to America. No doubt you were chosen because you are like her in height, figure and the colour of your hair. Her hair had been cut off, very possibly during some illness she has had. So, of course, yours had to be sacrificed too. By a strange chance, you found her hair.

“The man in the road was certainly some friend of hers—possibly the man she is engaged to marry. You wore the girl’s dress and you looked so like her. So no doubt he was convinced by your laughter, whenever he saw you. And afterwards he was convinced by your gesture. He believed that Miss Rucastle was perfectly happy and no longer wanted his attentions. The dog is let loose at night to stop him from trying to communicate with her. So much is fairly clear. The most serious point in the case is the child’s character.”

“What on earth has that got to do with it?” I cried.

“My dear Watson, as a doctor you are always learning about a child’s tendencies by studying the parents. Don’t you see that the opposite is equally true? I have often gained my first real understanding of parents’ characters by studying their children. This child is abnormally cruel, simply for the sake of cruelty. He may get this from his smiling father, as I suspect, or from his mother. Either way, it means danger for the poor girl who is in their power.”

“I am sure you are right, Mr. Holmes,” cried our client. “A thousand things come back to me which make me certain that you have guessed correctly. Oh, let us not lose a moment in bringing help to this poor creature.”

“We must be careful, for we are dealing with a very cunning man. We can do nothing until seven o’clock. At that hour we shall be with you, and it will not be long before we solve the mystery.”

We kept our promise. It was just seven o’clock when we reached the Copper Beeches. We had left our trap at a public-house by the road. The group of trees had dark leaves which shone like polished metal in the light of the setting sun. They would have been enough to mark the house, even if Miss Hunter had not been standing smiling on the doorstep.

“Have you managed it?” asked Holmes.

A loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs. “That is Mrs. Toller in the cellar,” she said. “Her husband is lying on the kitchen rug, snoring. Here are his keys. They are copies of Mr. Rucastle’s keys.”

“You have done well indeed!” cried Holmes with enthusiasm. “Now lead the way, and we shall soon see the end of this black business.”

We went up the stairs, unlocked the door and followed a passage. Then we found ourselves in front of the blocked door that Miss Hunter had described. Holmes cut the cord and removed the bar that lay across the door. Then he tried the different keys in the lock, but without success. No sound came from inside. At the silence, Holmes’s face darkened.

“I hope that we are not too late,” he said. “I think, Miss Hunter, that we had better go in without you. Now, Watson, put your shoulder to it, and we shall see whether we can get in.”

It was an old, weak door, and it gave way at once under our combined strength. Together we rushed into the room. It was empty. There was no furniture except a little straw bed, a small table and a basket full of linen. The skylight above was open, and the prisoner was gone.

“Some wicked trick has been played here,” said Holmes. “This fine gentleman has guessed Miss Hunter’s intentions. He has carried his victim off.”

“But how?”

“Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed it.” He pulled himself up onto the roof. “Ah, yes,” he cried. “Here’s the end of a long, light ladder against the edge of the roof. That is how he did it.”

“But that is impossible,” said Miss Hunter. “The ladder was not there when the Rucastles went away.”

“He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a clever and dangerous man. I would not be very surprised if that were he whose step I can hear now on the stairs. I think, Watson, that you had better have your pistol ready.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when a man appeared at the door of the room. He was a very fat, heavy man, with a heavy stick in his hand. When Miss Hunter saw him, she screamed and pressed herself back against the wall. But Sherlock Holmes jumped forward and faced him.

“You villain!” he said. “Where’s your daughter?”

The fat man looked round, and then up at the open skylight.

“It is for me to ask you that!” he screamed. “You thieves! Spies and thieves! I have caught you, have I? You are in my power. I’ll make you pay for this!” He turned and ran noisily down the stairs as fast as he could go.

“He’s gone for the dog!” cried Miss Hunter.

“I have my revolver,” I said.

“Better close the front door,” cried Holmes, and we all rushed down the stairs together.

We had hardly reached the hall when we heard the deep howling of a hound. Then came a scream of agony, with a horrible sound of tearing and shaking which was dreadful to hear. An elderly man with a red face and shaking arms and legs came stumbling out of a side door.

“My God!” he cried. “Someone has let the dog loose. It hasn’t been fed for two days. Quick, quick, or it’ll be too late!”

Holmes and I rushed out and round the corner of the house, with Toller hurrying behind us. There was the huge, starving beast. Its black mouth was buried in Rucastle’s throat, while he twisted and screamed on the ground. I ran up and blew its brains out. It fell over, but its sharp white teeth were still fixed in the great folds of his neck. With much effort we separated them. We carried him into the house. He was alive but terribly torn. We laid him on the drawing-room sofa. I sent Toller, who was now sober, to tell his wife the news. Then I did what I could to relieve the man’s pain. We were all gathered round him when the door opened. A tall, thin woman came into the room.

“Mrs. Toller!” cried Miss Hunter.

“Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back, before he went up to you. Ah, miss, it’s a pity you didn’t let me know what you were planning. I would have told you that you were wasting your trouble.”

“Ha!” said Holmes, looking at her sharply. “It is clear that Mrs. Toller knows more about this matter than anyone else.”

“Yes, sir, I do. And I am quite ready to tell what I know.”

“Then please sit down and let us hear it. I must admit that there are several points on which I am still in the dark.”

“I will soon make it clear to you,” she said. “And I’d have done it before now, if I could ha’ got out of the cellar. If this ends up in the police court, you’ll remember that I was the one who was your friend. And you’ll remember that I was Miss Alice’s friend too.

“She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn’t, not from the time her father married again. She was sort of looked down on, and she had no say in anything. But it never got really bad for her until she met Mr. Fowler at a friend’s house. As far as I could learn, Miss Alice had money of her own, left to her in a will. But she was so quiet and patient, she was, that she never said a word about it. She just left everything in Mr. Rucastle’s hands. He knew he was safe with her.

“But then there was a chance of a husband coming along. A husband would ask for everything the law would give him. So her father thought it was time to put a stop to it. He wanted her to sign a paper, so that he could use her money whether she married or not. When she wouldn’t do it, he kept on worrying her until she got brain-fever. For six weeks she was close to death. At last she got better. But she was worn to a shadow, and her beautiful hair was cut off. That didn’t make no difference to her young man, though. He stayed as faithful to her as any man could be.”

“Ah,” said Holmes. “I think that what you have kindly told us makes the matter fairly clear. I can work out all the rest myself. I suppose Mr. Rucastle then began to keep her a prisoner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And he brought Miss Hunter down from London to get rid of Mr. Fowler, who was so unpleasantly determined.”

“That was it, sir.”

“But Mr. Fowler did not give up easily, as a good seaman should not. He kept watch around the house. Then he met you. And by certain arguments, made of coins or of something else, he convinced you that you both wanted the same thing.”

“Mr. Fowler was a very kindly-spoken gentleman, and generous with his money,” said Mrs. Toller calmly.

“And in this way he made sure that your husband had plenty to drink. And he made sure that a ladder was ready as soon as your master had gone out.”

“You have it, sir, just as it happened.”

“I am sure that we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller,” said Holmes. “You have certainly cleared up everything which puzzled us. And here come the country surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle. So I think, Watson, that we had better take Miss Hunter back to Winchester. It seems to me that our locus standi here is now rather a doubtful one.”

And so the mystery of the sinister house with the copper beeches in front of the door was solved. Mr. Rucastle survived, but he was always a broken man. He was kept alive only by the care of his devoted wife. They still live with their old servants. The servants probably know so much about Rucastle’s past life that he finds it difficult to send them away.

Mr. Fowler and Miss Rucastle were married by special licence in Southampton, the day after they ran away. He now holds a government position on the island of Mauritius.

As for Miss Violet Hunter, my friend Holmes showed no further interest in her once she had stopped being the centre of one of his problems. This rather disappointed me. She is now the head of a private school at Walsall. I believe that she has been very successful there.

### Glossary

- **governess**: a woman paid to teach and care for children in their home.
- **logic**: careful reasoning that connects facts and ideas.
- **commission**: money an agency receives for arranging a job or sale.
- **chestnut**: a warm reddish-brown colour.
- **asylum**: an old kind of hospital for people with serious mental illness.
- **telegram**: a short message sent quickly through an electrical system.
- **dog-cart**: a small horse-drawn carriage.
- **copper beeches**: beech trees with reddish-brown leaves.
- **beige**: here, a kind of soft cloth made of wool.
- **mastiff**: a very large, strong dog.
- **groom**: a servant who looks after horses.
- **trunk**: a large, strong box for carrying clothes on a journey.
- **skylight**: a window in a roof.
- **hound**: a dog, especially a large hunting dog.
- **brain-fever**: an old name for a serious illness with a high fever.
- **locus standi**: a Latin phrase meaning the legal right to be somewhere or to take part in a matter.
- **special licence**: official permission to marry quickly, without the usual waiting time.